Prohibited Pain by Fran Sutton

You, yes you, the object of my dreams, you are my world. I feel the embers of a furnace burn within me as I think of the future we have. I watch you through the gates, tempting me, catching my eye and shyly smiling, a look of total trust on your face.

Finally, the day has come for action. I conceal myself in a shrub and wait. Sure enough, here you come, the light framing your gentle features, your skirt lifting slightly as it catches the breeze. You trot over to me and tug at my dress hem, grinning as though you know my secret. But you do know, of course you do, because you felt the connection too.

I get out of the cab, holding the limp body in my arms, tears running down my face as blue uniformed figures swarm out of the back of an opened truck, their gold badges glinting in the cloudless sky. They surround me and pause, hand on hips as they survey the scene they are confronted with. The man in charge steps forward, demanding something that won’t be given. I cling onto my precious cargo, knowing that letting go will bring my whole world crashing down around me.

The man asks me again, and through my blurred vision I see that some of his longer moustache hairs are creeping over his upper lip. It must tickle when he talks.

All at once, the men around me spring into action. I hear a bang, and drop to my knees, the world around me spinning as my grip loosens and the dead weight begins to fall. You topple to the floor and I can only watch as the men gather you up carelessly, sling you over a sturdy shoulder and carry you off, far away from me.

I try to scream but my voice has stopped working – the noise that bubbles in my throat is a low groan of agony as I realise the red puddle on the floor is getting bigger, and is coming from me.

Portrait of Dew Drops by Michael Laniyan

For the avaricious, none and to the meek

A few, distant whispers reasons bleak

In San Francisco fetters of tender dreams

Too late for the bringer’s dues!

 

Cry, not for Delta but the trodden in its droves

Weep Assyria, thirsty dust your beads await

With ancient hallowed dew, the dust fed by a

Wise one, whose compassion none persists!

 

Seep big apple seep, thy impishness anguish call

Thy aged sister, oceans rift her ancient bell call

Her heaps, thy embrace it’s wholly moist tamed

Save the well-heeled, in his clench thy destiny delivered!

 

Dust, and sea both silent bystanders, of thy surplus feats

Sails mindfully gathers wind, whither goes’’ thou with thy loot

If thy most precious, entrapped thou in wheels of drain

Unworthy of beasts nor souls, whither goes’’ thou oh master of craft!

 

Who, in thy defence heed, when thy calamity beckons

Who, in the mist of thy well-heeled, the fury of oceans endures

When the cry and wrath of dewdrops, on the sails of time erupt

When in thy season of rein, none wouldst thy tears consider! 

 

The bringer’s ink dries, thy gains only, enshrined in her portrait of thee

Where wouldst thou solace find, when thy judge was thine entrapped

Did thou the bringer’s charm consider, when time made thou master o’er all

Now thy vicious image unveiled in the ink of thy tortured wordsmith!

 

Adorned in droplets of sorrowful seasons, who wouldst thy portrait redress

The scribbler trapped in limbo, for in colourful souls gained thou thy gold  

Thy deceit unveiled in vivid text for all to behold, a snarl emerged

The mountains thy request oblige not, master of barter whither thou run!

 

Treasures profits not beyond, though good words and deeds dwarf’s gold

Shines of silver pales to a lost writer’s timeless scribbles of suffered passion

Chance recall, void of malice or vengeful pursuits, dried ink under the heavens

Orange Sun, arriviste, thou bead in vain, thy image set in portrait of pebble! 

 

Brow of coarse beads, echoes a tortured existence, cold pleading murmurs

Silhouettes deprived of form trail thee Amschel, their wailing pierce thy distress

Dense clouds shield not thy gaudy portrait of torment, unveiled to a lack of rays

From sun nor moon, drab images of warm intents condemn thy led past!  

 

Were it a dream thy willed an end, greyness abounds in thy sea of wail

Madness tilts Amschel’s consciousness, impotent, shackled to eternal thirst

Similar were thy scribbler’s torments, when he in deranged words scribbled

Portraits from a distant world, so valiant in thy timeless grey abyss!

 

Woe mirrors in thy image, thou forgot time belongs to a master scribbler

Who authors all fate, as is with the wealthy so it is with the pauper

In ink their paths are chosen, but to both a blank canvass is accorded

In sheer silence the scribbler observes all, why then oh master of craft!

 

Will, thou traded a portrait of timeless bliss for a season of vapouring silver

Will thy dusty treasure the master scribbler entice, as late for the bringer.

So, it is for a portrait on a dried canvass as thy bringer enters in to his bliss

Save the master scribbler upon thy portrait gaze with dewdrops of tender ink!

I Never Knew - Anisha Dupree Year 2

I Never Knew

Skipping home from school with a gummy grin and a heavy heart

He would say ‘You’re wasted on this world’
I would say ‘I know’

With food in my hair and smoke in our lungs
He would say ‘Well you’ve looked worse’
I would say ‘I know’

With pinkies wrapped around pinkies his face stained with purple kisses
He would say ‘I hate it here’
I would say ‘I know’

With green grass between our lips and hope in our hands
He would say ‘One day we’ll be okay’
I would say ‘I know’

With sunshine in my pocket and madness on our minds
He would say ‘You’re out of control’
I would say ‘I know’

With my broken bones and shard decorated arms
He would say ‘You need help’
I would say ‘I know’

With numbness in my heart and his shadowed eyes
He would say ‘You’re scaring me’
I would say ‘I know’

With his crimson knuckles and our lust for blood

He would say ‘I need the rush’
I would say ‘I know’

With cherry stained cheeks and lightning in our veins
He would say ‘We are nothing’
I would say ‘I know'

With a haggard body and lighting in his veins
He would say ‘I’m tired of this world’
I would say ‘I know’

Staring into the flames dressed for death.

I would say ‘You were wasted on this world’

He would’ve said

‘I know.’ 

'Eulogy' by Jordan Wedderburn

Her love is not confined by any means.

Her beauty’s not dependant on any brands.
In a time when all would seem obscene
Here’s a woman severed from the ideals of man.
Forged beneath the screams of birth
Whispers of death prowled.
Counting the days it’d quench it’s thirst.
Then her heart slept, her fates bound.
Dark desires belittled us all, not you I reckon.
You was different. You lived a life with no regrets.
Making memories in seconds
that’d take a life time to forget.
I pray your spirit ascends well.
“Here lies a beautiful woman in an ugly world”.

Star by Fleuranelle Duwhaz

Holy night oh star so bright

Come cover and guide me as you do every night.

Your image like a moonlit candle

Your perseverance, a taste of your ambition

And your mind an open novel of tales.

You guide and you glide,

So let me come with you in the sky tonight on this heavenly night.

Your embers draw me and tell me to come closer

But how close can I get to you before you say no,

Before you become too dangerous and I have to go back to looking at you from this oh so constricting window.

The refractions of light almost like warning bars to tell me that I can only go so far.

Oh heavenly star, let me join you in the sky tonight.

Let me let you cover me with your glowing warmth.

Caress my skin as the night passes, and once again I’ll admire your last wave

So when I wake I can look forward to seeing you again.

Let me yearn for your presence so I can continue to dream about you, resting up there on this heavenly night.

This star, my star that shines so bright.

Danse Macabre by Monika Ewa Piotras

It will all vanish one day,

stone cold bricks, buildings, roofs,

he used to look at

for hours

letting pinching air into his room.

In the middle of the night

after drowning his sorrows under the crying shower,

open window, stars trembling, stiff bones, cloud in his lungs.

Moths and mosquitos paying a visit

none of them invited

having a feast by the cigarette smoke.

Wet hair, red eyes, runny nose, tears dry.

Builders long gone

their creation is here to stay

up till the first hurricane.

Slowly it’s not a race.

Not.

Staying here for hundred years,

cement running in its veins.

Scratches on the surface, too deep to be covered

watered by the rain

new ones will bloom while

old, once young and strong, columns break.

Rotten inside, weak foundation, with no one to fix it.

Falling with no sound but built accompanied with screaming.

It wasn’t enough,

his back pressed against the radiator

watching the most painful game

trying to hide the shame of losing with ivy.

Long needle won’t fix the scars.

Time claiming what’s his,

with every breath he takes, collapsing lungs

like Italian Pompeii taken away into ashes and dust.

Buildings destroyed within Vesuvius blow,

bones weaker than bricks, disappeared, turned into Herculaneum’s shadow.

Feeling like Zeus, though his powers non-existent,

his floor built on others ossuary,

sleeping all tight during the longest night.

Retracing the touch, making it last

knowing so well – no one can bring it back.

Dancing in the moonlight, the loneliest dance of all,

among others like a hostage, caught up with his ball and chain,

still playing the game.

Making a gallery of unfamiliar faces of people he knows,

nailing new pictures to the wall.

Does one live if it doesn’t hurt?

While waiting for someone with hours passing by,

lost enough time hating the sunshine.

Again.

Trying to find a new place he can call home,

the other long gone,

falling under the spell casted by time.

How they keep on breathing?

Dancing among the dead,

cold hearts mad of bricks still beating all alone.

They will be all gone in the end.

Chimneys can’t stop.

Choking on a cigarette smoke.

But it’s okay if he is breathing just fine.

Raised from the ground only to stop existing one day,

undergoing the test of time

like buildings collapsing

turning into ashes

we will all vanish,

vanish,

vanitas.