Consumptor

Purge me of hunger
Not for bread
But for flesh

It gnaws       turns
tears      the screws
bites      ever tighter
twists     and tighter still
I want it gone!
No more         the flesh
Nevermore        as ash
It fades                  the cursed parasite
throbs and pulses and swells
like an abscess of desire
The hunger grows, devours
engorged upon itself till
it bursts and drains its human pus
into the mouth of Hell.
To Sheol it beckons me
a king and his son battled this beast and came to dun;
his name was David, son of Jesse
and his son was Solomon, Bathsheba’s son.
But they cast themselves upon Your mercy
They were spared the fire, though not the pain
and ascended they on high to rest
in Your Maker’s Hands.
Make it tremble, make it burn
Reduce it to ash
Put the flesh to the sword
and from the Consumptor’s gory pyre
arise the spirit saved to light.

It’s a Poem What Don’t Have a Name

I’m only black and white.
Not strong in stride,
I’ve never known pride,
Only love undebriding.

I was there for the castles,
I was there for the night’s hassle,
Of you trying to sleep, but secretly dreaming,
While all the world carried on snoring.

You used to talk to me, that sweet “pillow talk,”
Of course we never called it that then, mom’dve balked,
(And it would have been weird, like stalking)
But now you don’t. It’s like your mouth’s plugged with caulk.

You once told me of dragons and knights,
The brave and the meek, fighting through the night.
Or the maid and her lion, leading the other unto dawn’s crest.
I sleep now under a silent thrum, held against your chest,
A subject of your tight, nervous arm, the grind of broken teeth,
and the whine of a more broken heart, alone on the heath.

Now the night stories I hear are dark and cruel,
It’s not dragons and knights, but tyrants and traitors,
And the maid is held in chains, dragged on by twin masters.
Regret and pain, loneliness, covered in white plaster,
Undone in sleep, unraveled in dreams.

I loved you once and I love you still, warm against you,
Though now you never name me,
Only murmur incessant, shuddering in the cold.
I know my time has passed, for you seek others to love,
Others taller, others fairer, sweet like a dove.
You’ll find for yourself who to trust, and who needs a shove.
For it’s not just me that’s waiting patiently in bed,
But all childhood’s songs and hopes not dead,
Only dreaming inside your head.

-Rylie

Inspired by this prompt from the Poet’s Billow

Poetry! Well… Maybe?

This was something I wrote as a culture piece in a indeterminately nearish future grunge sci-fi universe for an obligate carnivore species of seven foot tall metal-scaled horned neo-fascist space viking colonists of a recently deceased empire driven to extermination by a) hubris, b) civil war, c) crapshoot unpredictable sentient robotic war machines, and d) EATING PEOPLE FOR PETTY AMUSEMENT. And their texture.

Continue reading Poetry! Well… Maybe?