“My Symphony of Angelical Pain” by Benyin.

Then, was enslaved in your sheathin a bosom of appearing angelic roars;hosting daringly with perfectlygroomed verses, ofyour patterns of inflictionsUnfold me; mold me!I am available for yourdesiring wraths.Untame me, hold me,I am yearning whollyto see your demogorgonsSuspended in waves I shook my petalsbrightly fair to raid your waging pedalsConsole my hungerto behold in your slumberConsole… Read More “My Symphony of Angelical Pain” by Benyin.

Memory.

Memory elides into the eyes there (let it die) in the sloth of dreams, it is a protest against the ice shadow of what the fuck were we thinking under the frail permanence of memory, this stir dislocated into cracked lilacs red born as species, the earth moves the rock. The ocean shivers each broken… Read More Memory.

Skeletons.

illustrated in millenniums where our scars fall, while silence deranges sanctity in the deep spines and limbs of animals I can almost remember; the landscape fire sleeps lingering in a land from god, watching often on the shore as we become held to the distant sacrifice  of the memory; as the ocean is pierced with… Read More Skeletons.

Awake (Draft).

In an age                         of watching…             through a mind suffice                         in icy tombs; What word through our own,             to have finally sought                         the black star             that was the world we lived                         sleepless. And, awake.                         Drifting… Silence bare                                     on the dark mid-sea.                                                 The peony masking light… Read More Awake (Draft).

The last mask of winter.

The fields             sluiced with rain                                     on the leafing             of memory, On each rock and scree             living in the Appalachian breeze. The mind of frost             crusted in the corbeil             undressing in the air. Where is our consciousness?             The bluster of stone streaked in corrupt minds             on the last… Read More The last mask of winter.

They had gone.

“where the dead walked and the living were made of cardboard.”—Ezra Pound. The apparition paradise projects onto streets like death, into the turn of the mountain Forward on its side where ice fell and mingled leaf-like into the ocean In pure rhythm like a God in kinship with free tamed with the ice-cold Be it… Read More They had gone.

Hidden.

Hidden in senses, we, alone, are disenchanted in the sleep blue mist, as an expanse of ghosts and dreams never had. Leave behind our minds, the dispensation of a white trance in the universe; leave behind the resinous trees secreting mist where no space is left. The shadows of our mind, displaced in amber, consumed… Read More Hidden.

Eternal.

A feather lifts into the asters, Made known to the wind Teeming with a protestation Of what awaits to be quelled Eternally in this infinity, This sacrifice that slips from the dark, Settles into a river barely seen. Permeating from frosty caresses Sliding off the rock, And back into the cool, The bare of winter,… Read More Eternal.

Early dark.

In the early dark, Intermingled stirs shake and shake Between the round uncertainty in the uprooted flesh, It is mid-winter where there are blue peacocks, And ringing dunes that carry onto the bearers of ice In our face like waves, receded with flickers That are evasive in our bones with ferity Void of discovering dreaming,… Read More Early dark.

Condemn

Originally posted on Poems & Equality:
Word count: 145 Warning: A lot of sadness Silence. Silence is golden, Silence is precious, Silence keeps me safe. My mind is a void, An overflowing, overthinking Boisterous void which comforts me, Consoles me, builds me up and Breaks me down, exploits my fears, Beats me within an inch…