Image: Unsplash, downloaded (https://unsplash.com/photos/qFsz2rkDW1o) 22.06.2022.
Song of the Undead
Quiet shuffles echo in the halls
Groans and moans penetrate the air
Accompanying the heavy footfall
Awakening the deadly monster
Filled with despair.
Shuffle groans, shuffle moan,
Lumbering and slumbering
Pain enrages, avoids engagin’
The pain of the undead
Is never ceasing
Eyes dewy and crimson
Staring out of the mirror abyss
Eternal damnation in this prison
A lair that smelling of cannabis
Emerging from the dark caver
To repeat the cycle again.
Shuffle groans, shuffle moan,
Lumbering and slumbering
Pain enrages, avoids engagin’
The pain of the undead
Is never ceasing
An illness with no end.
The song of the undead.
Soap Suds
Ejected forcefuly
soapy water spews
from the vast chasm
between my nose and chin
Spitting out my sins
like poison in my throat
Choking and gaging
Quickly regretting
Getting out of bed.
Bloodshot eyes
from exposure
situation feels dire
losing my composure
Dad always said
you can’t catch any
flies if you never
shut the trap.
Once again
the trouble I’m in
because my mouth
lacked closure.
Cigarettes
The fire burns
In the belly of the dragon
Deep breathes
Inhale the smoke
Gulping down the fire
Devouring the flame
Golden crumbs
Of embers rest
Between my lips
Licking the morsels off
Disregarding what is left
The smoke.
California Hard Edge
Burnt orange sky
Suspended in motion
Lost and free fallin’
Feelin’ queasy
More than uneasy
So, I’m leanin’
Into the feelin’
Remindin’ that I am
Still breathing
Even if for no reason
to witness the changin’
seasons of this rock
gossan from travelin’
The great expansion
Around and around
The burning ball
We call the sun.
Florescent Memories
We sit in the old Caterpillar parking lot
Our cigarettes burn through the summer air
Like an old noir film, we sit there,
Beneath the flickering florescent lights.
Talking about life and death
no meaning behind the words—
hanging on to our breath.
They slip through our teeth
like the smoke of the cigarettes.
Your hand rests on my faded jeans
The same as it always does
Wearing a permanent handprint
into the fabric—so not to forget
The memories of the nights spent
in the old Caterpillar parking lot.
About the Author: Emily Bybee is an emerging poet and author. She is passionate about the power of art in all forms and its unequivocal ability to help discuss important topics, heal from trauma, and bring people closer to each other, and the world around us. Her work often centers around vulnerable moments while using elements various styles and techniques to weave her own fairytales.
Comments