Wandering Words

[Gwynbleidd]

The Girl In The Box

There is no way out of this box
She was here from the beginning,
Six walls with no view, and
No eyes in the dark

They, they damned her here
To this black void
Consumed by the soundlessness
Of silent silence

Taken from the land of violet skies
Where celestial shines cascaded
In divine waterfalls colored
By an Autumn dream

Now the midnight clouds
Bind her with cold chains.
Do not dance sweet child,
Be a good girl

Our words, our books
Will guide the path
To the places you want,
To be.

Belt straps on her arms,
Chalkboard scratches
Are the friends here,
The friends

Tainted rivers, she breathes
Streams not her own
And knows it,
She does

Little girl smiles,
And the puppeteers rejoice
In songs that thread back
To master-hands; origins

Of a twisted symphony
Told in iron strings
By dreamless demons,
Those devils; all

Welcome home, sweet girl
Come back from those lies
Of spring-laid flowers
And a summer’s kiss

Hold the smile, shows her teeth
And the box does open
To a tattered wasteland
Bereft of child

Paradise lost,
The drowned girl waited
With her lips sewn shut,
No eyes in the dark
Those milky orbs shattered

Crimson box, rusted black pools
Drip from ears no longer there
“Hello old liars,”
This is my nightmare…

Pandora, Pandora, Pandora,
Pandora all,
look upon your
works

As this is, made
Indeed finely
By you

Why scream when I cannot hear?

Why beg when I cannot speak?

Why cry when I cannot see?

Oh but I can,
Evil that I am fluent

Diseased maggots
Mouths festered, cups of parasites
Eating me at birth

Take my light,
You greedy souls

From its absence, I am harbinger,
Feasting crow covered
In ash painted feathers

Flash of darkness

The neck is slit

Bathe in the oceans
The oceans of their blood

Blanket I love, blanket you stole

Mine now, this red rag
Carved from veins

Betrayer’s maze

Father I will kill you
And my name will be Joy,

Pirouetted grave dance
Twisted sickness this happiness is

Swift death shall not come,
Mother, as the reaper

I not am

Scream! Yes, scream!
Your pain sates me

Blood chalk on the walls,
No matter how much the boards are washed they cannot be washed
Of the red,
The red,
Mine.

Crumble, box, crumble,
The wrecking swings
Of torn limbs,

Azrael comes in me
The shadow artist
With the sword-swung brush
Hatred made of scarlet rain

I won’t bury you,
I won’t bury you,
But in the fires
Burn!

Wave to Lucifer
For these chains are but the first
Broken,

And the field of graves will grow corpse by corpse
In healthy numbers of the death bloom
Built by me the builder, filled

With architects’ bones
Tossed to hellhounds

Ripping flesh shrieks
Music makes me sway,
And the price is made
Of…

We are all blood
We are all blood

Above the burning box,
Looking down into the ice
The Ninth Circle;
You belong

Smile,

Little girl

Smile.

[Gwynbleidd]

Tears of the Huntress

With her divine bow she fired
silver arrows that never once
missed their target, but

When the huntress of the moon
gazes upon his grave in the sky,
pleasant dreams rewind the fateful pull;
moonbeam shaft stilled, in time.

For only in wishes does a lover’s life
still burn the only fire she the light-bringer
had ever known

Now, man lies upon the grasslands
watching the midnight heavens
to catch the glimpse of celestial tears,
strung loose across the void.

If only, if only,

If only she had missed.

[Gwynbleidd]

The Kingdom Burns

With a single crash, the sledgehammer falls
And I shatter your cloud-borne throne
Into a million pieces of shimmered pearls
Scattered across this “divine” floor,

No friend of mine, no, no,
False king of a thousand corpses, and
A seat of lies woven by your own hand--

I see the strings, puppeteer

I see the blood upon your wretched hands,
Foul beast, murderer of man, defiler of the innocent,
Sacred secrets no more, lying bastard; this
This is what you are…

So burn, burn in the flames you began
And once that hand reaches out, pleading,
I will spit and let my venom lace your face
With the hatred curse which was yours,
First.

Broken pillars and smoking ruins,
The silver kingdom has fallen, like me,
Upon my knees; I scream, I laugh,

I weep.

[Gwynbleidd]

Augustian Prophecy

In my dreams I have seen the next to be,
His glory brighter than the battles fought
Under the greatest name in history;
Yet his might is not by sword, but his thought
Of a Roman wilderness held secure
Through the watchful eye, of a strong empire.
In his reign peace shall rain ever so pure,
Founded on my bleeding name; crimson fire
Stabbed out upon stones of the senate floor
Etched red with title he shall soon command
To quell a rising tide, a traitor's war;
Silenced with the wave of a "tyrant's" hand.
In death I will smile at any fool
Unsuspecting, the man of August's rule.

[Gwynbleidd]

The Classroom

The here,

Mark sleeps with the tombstones,
but these memorials are not rock; they are paper.

Rest in peace
to the books existed, in nonexistent existence
whose pages lay scattered and crumpled
in a graveyard of forgotten fictions;

Wasteland, we are waste
all waste, we are

That’s what Mark says to himself,
sometimes.

He sinks beneath the surface of the unmade,
drowning in the screams of his murdered--

Thoughts, seas diseased with tremendous ease--

Chalk dust pollution, mechanical voices,
do as we say, but…

Kill the self, drink the honey and play
with us, we know, we know--

Thoughts, accept this cell block
and the warden at the front
who tells but one thing always,
recite, repeat, rinse the blood,

There is no self but the selfless,
-ish does not belong,

Open the notebook.

How to be a good person, chapter one,
nature doesn’t matter
never disagree
feelings are better than sense
speak freely, but don’t speak these words

(Logic enters stage left)

(Logos whispers:

Do you ever wonder
why this place seems to buzz,
like a hive?

Don’t talk. Don’t play too rough or too much

Listen, only.

What are the words of a child,
with no experience or age

Yet, they teach Jane Eyre.)

(Logos laughs)

Child Mark raises a hand,
wonders aloud"
No, that’s a stupid question.

But why?

It just is, and what is always is, there is no why.

“Oh.”

Laughter from twenty-three classmates,
he’ll grow up one day.

(Logos gets stabbed, twenty-three
daggers of passionate newspeak)

Kill the self! Kill the self! Kill the self!

(Logos gets dragged away,
his final words echo inside the mind,

is listening suicide?

Yes.)

(exit stage right)

The now,

Sorry, dear characters, it was not Mark
Who aborted you, the poison vial belonged
To the twenty-three

The doctor said a combination of letters,
ADD to the HD

Pills will make him see.

It’s depression, take these scripts,
Multiples

They overlap, don’t kill yourself, think of others

What would they think?
What would they
What they
They

Hello, this is the Not-News News Tonight-day (as not to offend the day),
Tragedy hits home as Mark Anthony visited the next life with the help of nylon and a bannister, this is the 30th self passing away of the month, how truly sad, now onto the absolutely despicable and outrageous shirt this man wore at his job, words don’t do justice to this injustice.