Category: Poems

Ascetic Priest

Alas, all of man is but a sick herd, / Slavers, master, it is no matter, / An illness of sorts has thus been incurred.

Sonnet #1: Our Own Élan Vital

Her kiss leaves blood for me to fore’er taste; / (Drowning within one’s insecurities.)

Childlike Truth

You think I’m pretty, innocent, and sweet / Yet innocence and sweet is not what I’ve seen.

Beautiful Speech

Your body flies on a carriage of wind / To land aloft upon the ears of humanity / The question is always does it fit the trend? / Alas, tyranny of the majority is the calamity.

Spilled Blood

There's no use crying over spilled blood / she hums, scrubbing