the last of days

We seek the darkness
thunderstorm funerals
muddy American flags
and trains off their tracks
I loved the picture of you out in the water
the wind made your hair wild
Nothing lasts…
I caught a blue glass-eyed wink
and a toothless grin
through the slow rising twirl of cigarette smoke and green flesh
I could smell the decay on your brain
It was a rainy day
when they put you in the ground.
Everything is open wounds now
and a bland thanksgiving dinner sucked through a straw
We forgot somehow, how to laugh
Could have been the slow drip of morphine
or the simple way our bones cracked.
Death dragged his heavy feet
as real life licked me
like a sandpaper tongue
Reminded me I am just the nameless meat
between the lion’s teeth
and we all die alone.
In black in white she sat
her legs demurely crossed
with her crooked cat eyed glasses
Tell me about your chaos lady,
the bloody slashes across your face
your dead baby sister
at the bottom of the outhouse.
It’s no wonder 
in the end we all go mad.
Would it be ok if I took this gloom
and weaved it into some hideous mask?
I will hide behind it for the rest of my days. 
H.M. Nolan 2015

~Sunset~

Weekly writing challenge May 11

Why?
Why does sunset come so early
Creeping stealthily, but occurring rapidly
Denying the beauty of a life yet to live
All becoming harsh shades of silver and grey
How to beat back the sweeping of night
Fight the snuffing of all light
Courage, hope and faith
That’s all that’s left
For a soul bereft

©Paris Poems 2015

Empty Seats.

Mocking Bird Down

mv-an-anatomie-in-four-quarters-dancer-empty-theatre-seats-climb_1000

The cold crept in, like dry ice on my own
private stage. The performance of a life time,
to be danced in the dark, with only empty chairs;
frayed and a dull worn out burgundy,
all numbered. Lights off, and just the
beat of a half remembered tune in my mind.

No grace in this face. Just heavy and jilted
movements. No perfect lines in this spine.
I ache when I move, but this is my own version
of a less than eloquent love story, and to me,
It feels more like an effort to breathe.
The numbered empty seats will not mock.

I don’t need nor want applause for my awkward
bended knees, or my outstretched hands, or for
the insecurities I fail to hide in my silly costumes.
All I care for is the freedom to twirl in time
to the one line of an old unnamed song…

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