Author: Lucy

"Poetess of darkness"–dVerse community; guitarist; pet hoarder. My work, credited under my pseudonym Ellie Onka, has appeared in Visual Verse Anthology, VariantLit Magazine, Free Verse Revolution, the Scarlet Leaf Review, and a podcast called "Poetic Slice of Life" among others. Poets such as Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, Lenoard Cohen, and E.E. Cummings are my main sources of poetic inspiration. I hope to one day have them rolling in the grave at my poetry. At least, I could only hope to evoke such strong reaction.

Through the River.

As when the shores collapsed,
Through the depth in the given shores of vague death,
I’d see it go beyond the moons that tided red,
With their rims of eminence through the plated stars
And that sobering wind that drew to the shallow, strange waters

A Candle Lit.

With an alone eden from the moor beside
The kisses of the shines of that muttering moon,
And gently, proceeded by hysteria, was a moment
To expire of ghostly dreams beyond the moans of tolling winds

As I Lay Before You.

I’ve laid before you, darkness all I’ve mapped, all alone,
Those little taps, and the enlightenment of voice from birth
Intrigue the remembrance of once I had,
And all I held, and all I’ve left and sought,
And loved, I’ve loved! The cruelty of son,
Told that the son branched take on this

As I’ve Forgotten Between the Wind.

Like soil with collective stems of a crooked rock
That brushed your fingers, all dampened,
That a mother would tell you to wash up,
Hurry on; but as I’ve remembered,
An olden, washed face, only ashen in lengths,
As I’ve forgotten time in between tonight,
And the best the day had hummed
The song of the copious endorphin springs

Must I Un-Wish?

The son of lands, and lands amazed,
That sheer a composition, in the fair hands,
Of Mendelssohn that grown from the stems,
And tendrils, furtive maelstrom in sound,
And bearing without a formal syntax


My dear! Enwrapped around,
Senses displayed—I had thought the reality,
The drought and rings of nymphs,
And I, and I so foolishly pestered,
Thatched by those dead, those pranced,
At the sight of the endless bloom,
And I have remained in my quiet room.