10-13-2006, 08:19 PM
I'm trying to get back into writing poetry and was digging up some old stuff for inspiration (motivation?). I hope they are not too disturbing to post here. Some of my stuff is a lot worse. Please let me know what you think. Thanks. 
Field of Death
this place is a wasteland
for angels with glass wings
decrepit and shattered - demon angels
that fly through fields of death
this place is a haven of horrors
a grave of tired souls
where skin is a sacred illusion
and the life inside is left unknown
this place is a junkyard for dead minds
that crush their angel babies with their fists
it's just a craving they have
they've no tears of their own to shed
published in Outer Darkness, 1997
---
Sphere
Mixing midnight oils on a darkened canvas
an artist professed his view of the world.
He birthed a sea
and found Earth's children had drowned.
Firewater had scalded their skin
and left them fleshless on the ocean floor.
Dead before they got here.
He created a setting sun through crimson tears.
A dreamless day gone by.
As banal as days forgotten.
The morning found his images as dust.
And he an illusionist
inspired by the night to work magic
on a world that left him feeling
nothing at all.
published in Not One of Us, 1997
Field of Death
this place is a wasteland
for angels with glass wings
decrepit and shattered - demon angels
that fly through fields of death
this place is a haven of horrors
a grave of tired souls
where skin is a sacred illusion
and the life inside is left unknown
this place is a junkyard for dead minds
that crush their angel babies with their fists
it's just a craving they have
they've no tears of their own to shed
published in Outer Darkness, 1997
---
Sphere
Mixing midnight oils on a darkened canvas
an artist professed his view of the world.
He birthed a sea
and found Earth's children had drowned.
Firewater had scalded their skin
and left them fleshless on the ocean floor.
Dead before they got here.
He created a setting sun through crimson tears.
A dreamless day gone by.
As banal as days forgotten.
The morning found his images as dust.
And he an illusionist
inspired by the night to work magic
on a world that left him feeling
nothing at all.
published in Not One of Us, 1997
