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Emily Bybee: Hard Edges/What Is Left


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.


 

#EmilyBybee #newpoetry

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The image of Quasimodo is by French artist Louis Steinheil, which appeared in  the 1844 edition of Victor Hugo's "Notre-Dame de Paris" published by Perrotin of Paris.

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