Mary

When I imagine you, My empathy makes a monster of your misery, One I’ve studied often in my dreams And more frequently discovered in reality. I wonder when it breathed, When spark and spleandor clashed that evening, And you saw what it had seen How it found you in your sleep.

The Creature Who Spoke A Damned Tongue

Deadly trickles of anticipated dread

Are familiar enough to her to seem distant

But presently and always keeping her comfort

Likes years of experience following pivotal decisions.

Dusty and dark as her place of dwelling

Were the unfurnished caverns of her intimacy.

Too long empty is as vulnerable as untouched

With the burden and ferocity of memory.

Language unused atrophies like a muscle,

Remaining unseen negates the power of recognition,

The faces of a friend, family member, or companion

Turn feral as forgotten dogs to such a creature’s intuition.

There, in her lair, were the worlds where she dwelt,

Distinct and unapproachable, like light too bright to see,

Away in a darkness unbroken by trouble or fright

Her life, locked so preciously away, ever outward seeped.

Damn every fragment of those unresting feelings

That scissored her apart from every body where’s peace,

The creature of anxiety speaking tongues of the mad

Sleeping separately and sound in dysfunctional dreams.

I Like To Play Deeply

I fall asleep to voiceless thoughts

And wake up to morbid day-dreams.

Out drips excretions from serrated prose,

The monologs of lifeless playthings.

Like playing dress up in foggy streets

Where every few feet has potential to be anything

And I can be whatever I believe

Until the sun erases my possabilities.

It eats me away with every dull moment,

Goading me back into my imagination.

Creative spirals of disparate mumblings,

The umbilical straps of my safe haven.

Eventually I’ll wake up to freer days

And slumber securely in a psychic Hell

When all my debts have been repaid

And I don’t slip away so well.

Happy New Year, Everyone.

There’s no denying it’s been hard. There are many faces I’ve missed and harsh realities to swallow. Still, it means a lot to share these scraps of prose with everyone who comes along. I hope you’re comfortable and secure tonight, and that we’ll have even more to share in 2021!

If You Go Into The Cold

At 6 P.M, Christmas night,

When there’s no shadow on the frozen ground,

It’s better to stay inside with coffee and cream

Than to risk being seen out of doors in this town.

The weather alone is enough to have caution,

The first things we find are often their winter clothes

Followed, not far away, by whatever else they wore,

And finally, the body, often half buried in snow.

It happens every year, but we couldn’t tell you why,

Only that it’s irrelevant where one’s supposed to be,

It’s 20 below freezing just an hour after dusk

And there are hours more waiting before anything can be seen.

They stagger, it seems, to the woods from the roads,

The thickets leave cuts, which make them easy to find

Following the broken twigs stained with blood

To the places where the victims inevitably lay

An old tree, bent and rotting, where we find them reposed,

Or by the bridge, in the stream, where their skins turn pale blue.

Sometimes they seem to drop somewhere randomly,

And only rarely are there signs a struggle ensued.

What we mean, is you’re welcome to stay if you must,

We’re aloud to be festive, if we don’t leave our homes,

But Winter is the master of the elements tonight

And if you care to see another year, you’ll stay out of the cold.

Radient Ideation

Allow me to indulge my radient ideation,

A spectacle of bittersweet sunbeams breaking through gray skies,

Eeking their way into my ugliest days

Like transcended smiles projected from the purest celestial lights.

They reach me bedecked in wilting blue flowers,

Exposed to the heavens in a gown of silk white,

Seduced into a dream that lasts for an eternity

Between the fragility of a body and the soft sting of twilight.

It’s wearying to be deranged for the sake of beautiful things,

And as they dull, to come to know, that madness still remains.

A song I knew grew up to be a different kind of tune,

It plays the notes that made me up and broke away from me.

Intoning prose for my own health prolongs the point of breaking,

And sharing them from mind to mind is life that’s worth the saving,

To make a scene of who I’ve been to stimulate your feelings

Is all I need to brighten up this dream I can’t stop dreaming.

Burn me with the autumn leaves, with cardamom and honey,

Leave a house to my mother on the shores of a lake that’s crystal clear and foggy.

Find me there in ashes, free from poverty and wealth,

Dead to all the world, but not dead to herself.

Why It Eats Them

If it exists

It can be eaten.

A body that needs and a mind that percieves

Never ceases to breed new cravings,

From bitter seeds to fields of weeds

And entire populations.

For pleasure and the fear of death

A war for peace against distress

And harvests passed through mouths and chests

To pacify those needings.

Where emptiness meets the scent of flesh,

The freshness of unspoiled aeons,

The yawning consciousness of ever-dark

Yearns endlessly for freedom.

Its shadow veils the infinite stars,

Collapses galaxies and consumes their dust,

And for everything it cannot have

It holds a knawing, grating lust.

The dry and brittle bones of worlds

Stripped of their luscious, inebriating fruit

Fall from looking out with awe

To pits of their self too deep to see through.

A space-less shape beyond these dimensions,

A mind with too much trouble unseen,

The common core of all creation,

A child with candy on Halloween.

I Love October

Dark chocolate, melted,

Mixed with coffee and cream.

Grey skies, cold wind,

And blankets of orange leaves.

Jazzy lo-fi with my morning tea,

Earth & spice in the air I breathe

Death of summer, sweet relief

Apple cider and marshmallow treats

Afternoon walks in long dark sleeves

Reaquaintences with the old silver screen

Gothic novels and scary dreams

A celebration for all macabre things.

October is the month I like to savor;

Its bitterness, sweetness, strength, and mystery.

It reminds me what makes me feel alive,

Being sensitive enough to take pleasure in little things.

It’s like kisses under a thick comforter

And shivers from a well placed touch,

A chill that sweeps over your entire body.

A gentle shock that opens you to your reality.

Dear October, I love you,

Sincerely, Sanya Elswyth Walma

Frankenstein’s Angel

Detatched features,

Faces, fingers, scalps, and skin

By silver knives and blunted hammers

Stripped from many and made whole again.

The Human Ideal and depraved’s obsession,

Perfection in a women’s form,

Assembled with passion, ardor, and precision

From stolen bodily possessions and one pair of volunteered eyes.

Her mother blinded, her father fanatic,

The night dreary when she came alive,

The mind of a girl with the body of an angel,

A gift to the world, the artist’s nightmare and scientist’s prize.

By design, incomparable to any other being,

At sight, overwhelming one’s sensitivities to shape and light,

And having glimsed her, any obscurrance of her face induced pain

In the heart so profound whole crowds were made to cry.

Musicians and poets wrote nothing more but about her,

Some despaired knowing what they could never have or be,

Multitudes gathered daily to witness and adore her,

All the while laying cash and other gifts at her maker’s feet.

The living embodyment of faultless beauty

Drew wealth and satiation into her father’s hands,

Admired by all the world for merely existing,

Her mother, whose eyes she had, became her only friend.

The crowds, left outside constantly yearning,

Grew more restless, depressed, and frenzied every day,

Bewitched every moment she allowed them her presence,

Dead to all pleasure while she was away.

In time, sight alone wasn’t enough to ease their torment,

And an unprecedented emptiness stole their collective minds,

Demands to be loved by the being that was perfect

Grew from callous whispers to a full-blown battle cry,

But the angel, who was a girl, hardly loved a soul,

The consuming gaze of strangers seperated her from all

But the mother, being blind, who saw her without desiring

And the father who idealized her as art’s true and final form.

The final levy broke, and the people flooded their home,

Cornering her in the attic where she’d only recently been born,

The crowd shouted unanimously for the love that they deserved,

With guns, torches, and hungry eyes prepared to take by force.

There is no way to love anyone by choice, the angel knew,

But when so many want your life there’s little you can do,

Ascending down the letter, every voice was silenced,

Scalpel in her hand, she did what was required.

She slid the steel past her cornea and cut the optic nerve,

One after the other and offered them to her observers,

“My mother’s eyes are the only gift I ever truly loved,

Take them and know I’ve given you all I have.”

Torches were dropped, legs fell away as if broken,

A stifled cry echoed loudly and gave way to screams unrestrained,

Many shots were fired into the temples of their holders,

And many more gave in, weeping into the devouring flames.

The house erupted, the blinded angel bleeding, motionless,

Suffocating, sweltering, and without thought of escape.

A pair of arms found her, above them all the most devoted,

The eyeless mother, holding tight as the world fell away.

Ode To Dystopia

Idealism and romance raised me to care,

But authority raised me to be compliant and indifferent.

What forces us to conform and behave

Breaks our hearts and deadens our empathetic sentiments.

When you choose to live for love,

You’re at odds with all those who will take whatever you can give.

The Ideas you cherish like equality and justice

Only matter to them as weapons to be selectively implemented.

We take an unequal share of the world’s pain.

You can carry it as your own or you can choose to inflict it.

But the totality of human suffering

Rarely moves individuals as much as all the pursuit of satisfaction.

To us, who’re ruled by those who don’t love one another,

You’re more an idea or a number than anything like what we’d call “a life.”

You can’t lie when you’re reduced to an integer,

But you can’t assert yourself as anything worth cherishing either.