Tag: creative writing

Deadly Sin #3

Pride, as defined by the poets dictionary.

Definition: Taxidermy of the soul, taking what is dead and setting it up as a trophy to be admired above all other living things.

Other definitions include: To paint a thick coat of most beautiful paint over what is clearly rotten wood, then boasting about your masterpiece.

Preferring night lights to star light, simply because they do what you tell them to.

To be so puffed up with air, you actually believe you’re strong until somebody comes along and pops you.

To take every offense so personally as though all ill intent was always aimed at you.

To have an inability to gaze into any surface not a mirror.

Antonyms include: Humility, empathy, caring for others, generosity.

Pride only seeks to convince itself it dwells above that which is common, deserving more while earning less. Such a heart can never know a higher power, such a heart can never admit need.

Ice Cream

Ice Cream ain’t got nothing

On the sweetness and smoothness

Of her skin on my fingers.

Vinegar ain’t got nothing

On the sting in her venom

Lying in wait, beneath a tongue

Usually so sweet.

Sheets of egyptian cotton

Ain’t got nothing,

On the comfort she brings me.

Any other woman

Ain’t got nothing,

On the love I have for her.

Burned too many times

In a flame of her own blood

Heart now singed at edges

But tender at the center.

Medium rare ain’t got nothing

On her perfection gained by fire.

– Vagabond Prophet

Deadly Sin #2


Wrath, as defined by the poets dictionary.

Definition: What happens when mortals confuse themselves as Gods and allow themselves rage undiluted by servitude to a sovereign.

Other definitions include: Red pumping so violently that it lashes out with unkind words and unkind hands.

Tempestuous resolve to cause suffering and destruction.

Antonyms include: Kindness, Peace, Justice, righteous indignation.

Wrath only seeks to tip the scales and in that plunging down land with heavy fists on whatever it may.

– Vagabond Prophet

I have wept for losses kept, begrudgingly unlatched from this breast more appropriately called “slumber”. I’m no tractor I’m no horse I don’t have enough torque to pull this baggage. Leave them behind like expired spices, no longer seasoning or giving flavour, only turning more to dust with each passing year.

Vagabond Prophet

– Another sprint, hope somebody enjoys it.

Remnant

Oh son with limber ligaments,

Elastic mind and sinew,

Let what remains of your youth

Stretch much further than mine has,

Let your vigour for adventure

Weather many winters.

Let your glittering eyes

Shine through every storm.

Spend your days in innocence

Picking flowers for your mother

And learn nothing of

The treachery of lechery.

Clothe yourself in all things joyful

And arm yourself with skills uncommon

Building bridges to others

Not walls to keep them out.

The flame that burns so brightly

If reduced to embers can survive,

Being blown into action days later

By desperate measures

From desperate lungs.

My lungs.

I’ll be your bellows

To forge within you

Strength I only heard of in age.

You’ll be better than me,

An anchor, a muster point

A lighthouse.

For those surviving the blight

Of those spectres in the night

And for all of them you’ll point

To the rising son.

– Vagabond Prophet

Thanks @josy57 for the prompt “what remains of your youth”

Deprived

Not enough hours in the day

So I carve into the night

With shrewd ambition

And blades waved blindly,

Forgetting its importance.

So many words in my brain

Rushing to get out

I see a splash and can’t tell

If it’s a jumping fish

Or just my foot at the other end

Of the bath.

Things in my mind stumble out

With little to no coaxing

Found strolling in cursive.

I’ve got battlecries pouring out fingers

And when the muse courses through

I’m it’s slave.

Take my sleep,

Let me eat not but toast

Allow me no reprieve

From the onslaught.

I can’t go back to drought

Not again.

Protect me from the rivers streams

Becoming desert floors,

I can’t bare to see the current

Turn to dust.

– Vagabond Prophet

Virgin Forests


Through virgin forests

And unplucked gems

Twisted vines

Thoughts do stem.

Stroll through winding trails

And I’m nearly planted

By the weight of glory

Pressing me into the earth.

Almost sprouting roots

And taking up residence

In the innocence of things green.

Step back, run home

Think about this maybe forever,

Famous last words.

In my comfort zone,

Where nothing satisfies

And nothing is better than me

Lenses only blur

And spinning the reel

Only lengthens distance between

Me and dreams of late.

Where my appetite can consume,

Crunching through anything

To enjoy a fleeting taste

Of something not even real.

Next time I’ll do it

I will spread roots deep

Shoot my everything

Into the richness of the soil

The only true kingdom on earth.

Keep my ideals high

So I can’t taint or splinter

Keep my foundation low

So I can stand upon it.

Finally find somewhere

For my teeth to be defeated

Turned to dust by a truth

So much harder than themselves.

– Vagabond Prophet

 Thank you @josy57 for the prompt “Virgin Forests”

Chattering

Sails flick while chattering

To the wind deciding

How to best throw itself

Into its arms.

Port rocks to starboard

And back again

While I’m throwing my insides

Over the rail into the sea.

Mainsail catches and off we go

Pushed along by nothing

Except the breath of the sea

My stomach as a sacrifice.

The water decides most things

And today to swell and fall

Bucking like a horse.

It’s just the risk you take

When you let her be herself.

– Vagabond Prophet

Deadly Sin #1

Lust: To be enamoured with rust.

The way that the seasons stand

Upon the shoulders of those

That came before.

In the end always toppling into winter,

As anything found in death

Must to death return.

Vagabond Prophet