The Apothecary of my Soul

I hide in the
apothecary of my soul.
there are shadows,
and they glisten
in the vibrant
marrow colored emptiness
that is the place
which is not my
soul, and is not my heart,
but which surrounds both in their
stead

My friends are the
fireflies, who
find their way in this
endless waterhole
through the gashes of
society.
the caves are lit by
their merriment,
as they tumble in
frustration to the bellowing
depths

Slowly, I rise to the cause
of justice in this humanitarian
melting pot of
crime and of law
and of programs that
capture both and radiate their
incentives.
around me are the components of
everything that could be
good and that could be
bad and that could
take from me the emptiness in which
my soul and heart reside and
become one
in and out of
my muscle tissue

These are the things that
melt in the bliss of
insanity, this whirling mass
that sinks deep into
my veins and corrupts my
hypocrisy for all to
see.
if I,
alone, could just
separate the numbers without
setting off this moon lit
rapture,
without brooding all thoughts
into one insurmountable burst,
raining skies
and mountains on
the vast,
pastoral homeland of our
fathers,

things would be nice,
wouldn’t they?

Hush, child-

Hush, child- hear
the aches of the gypsies
lingering in hearts that lay waste to the
moon

The ice has swept
from lily blossoms, holding strong
the wheels that
turn as the stars in the painted
skies of autumn light.
it sways in the
eyes of the songbird
and the tears of an angel
stooping low to brush
the soil with its lips of heavenly
afterglow,

How can this faded world be so brave?
the sun shines far too bright
to be seen

the incandescent fingernails
strum remorselessly on these
strings of
dragons’ heart, sounding
stricken pine and sullen oak,
they tell of the chaos of
song, this sick, fluorescent happenstance,
that graces the earth, then
flutters to the
gaping space-

an eternity is vast, though
freedom is locked,
captured in chains,
and in vine,
the fruit of such rising
to the biting cold of a
winter’s day,
finding its home in the endless chaos of
life and of
death and of
marital arguments

This winter is a coat,
a glaze
over us, the world, and it whispers
of predicament in its
wake, and ecstasy in its
wane.
shall we stand, or
shall we fall?
cries the minister,
as he reaches for the door
of his magisterial honor
and falls short,
since he has thus been
chained himself into the earth and sun
and cold and moon and vines
of
reality

A Word on Snow

Delicate frays of drunken wool,
Engulf my fear in dewy bliss,
Thick molasses dangles free,
Suffocating winter's kiss,

Airy flares of sugared ice,
Flurried wisps of evening's wake,
Cake and brood and linger still,
Blessing yet each single flake

Song of Autumn

I walk on streets of endless rose,
My footsteps drenched in light,
The ghosts of passing lovers,
Sing their songs throughout the night,
And they dance with me in aromatic fright,

On a field of wheat and amber,
Does the sun begin to fall,
Yes, the sweet molasses trickles,
To the tune of rain’s withdrawal,
They sing to me, I sing to one and all,

Horses, auburn, warm the bones,
Of scarlet’s blossoms in their stead,
As they ponder at the beauty,
Of these things so newly dead,
My fingertips immerse within their bed,

The leaves of crimson morning,
Dance like gypsies on the sea,
Finally drifting to the shallows
As they kiss good night their tree,
I seep into the jasper lazily,

For they know that nothing matters,
And that nothing’s to be said,
While the ancient, painted fingertips,
Release a faded red,
And to my lips do lovers like these wed,

To myself, I start to wonder,
In such chaos lies a gleam,
Still a glisten of remembrance,
Of a long, forbidden dream,
Things are never really what they seem,

Shall the world resume its turning,
Once the battles have been won?
Shall the death of one day’s yearning,
Bring such splendor to our sun?
Am I, within this thought, the only one?

For we are dust in winds of matter,
We are ink on worlds of white,
Watching horses by the river,
Doomed to kiss ourselves goodnight,
Taking on the winter’s blinding sight,

Growing into false formation,
Like a golden, bitter wine,
We are leaves of generation,
Drifting off from time to time,
Finding nothing quite as beautiful as crime

First Post/Introduction

Hi, everyone-

Poetry, for me, is one of the highest forms of self expression. And, if you know me, you know I have alot to say. So I'll be posting anything decent I write up here- please tell me what you think.

Thanks,
Elliah