Featured poem, "For M"

I might continue this trend, of featuring brilliance as time allows. This poem is not by me, but I am so very proud of her I must share it. - CC

by Christina Vincent

You leave me at a loss for words, which,

for me,

is bad business. You see,

words are all I know. Words

are how I know you. Still,

the memory of fire and solid darkness

leaves me shaking. Shivering.

So cold. You burn

so very cold.

Glowing as gold in a vault underground,

buried deep,

deep below

our feet, where

the sun cannot shine, and

the wind cannot

touch. Movement,

still and resonating. Your movement is

sound,

the toll of a bell to call the gods, the

thrum of a dying heart as it bleeds

onto the parched grave dust beneath.

What sorts of trees grow in

blood-soaked graveyard soil? What sort of

fruit would those trees bear?

A pomegranate, so

thick and juicy red, the seeds to settle

in the pit of one’s stomach to anchor

to Persephone, and you can

never go back again. A muse,

a demon, a lover sweet and deadly, a monster

of such exquisite beauty, wrapped in

shimmering gilded robes of poetry and caresses.

One bite, one slit, one

cut

and everything is blackness. Everything is stars,

and everything sinks into arms

like stone.

A precious, feral gift. A dreaming

of a time not of this world

spoken in a language long dead

with tongues that know dialects

we’ve never heard.

We used to throw ourselves on slabs of rock and beg

for a taste of your voice, for your sweetened

devil’s breath in our ear

with whispers,

soft whispers

that tempt madness from dark corners.

A precious thing

as thick as blood

and slick as ice

that burns and bites like hellfire swathed

in empty darkness where nightmares whisper.

A muse.

Vampire.

Demon.

Incubus.

Fuel another fevered dream

and let these tiny shivering hands

offer up another piece

of that twisted silver dreamscape

that holds stories together.