. : Cutting Ties : .

Cursed with indecision

my mind plays tricks on me;

I feel your gaze ascend with mine

as we look to the heavens for an answer.

“Do you know the weight of Michael’s sword?”

A question I cannot fathom

beyond the cobalt flames

that pierce my vision.

Screams resound

as though my ancestors are crying out

“Take hold of your destiny,

be who you are meant to be.”

“Do you know the touch of the angels?”

But there is no touch,

only a presence…

that within I feel contained

is the essence of light and dark –

And in these,

do I believe.

– Savannah

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. :Machinima: .

They say that I am a machine

working for the corporate regime.

I stare back through plexiglass

waiting for my chance to pass

through the haze of oil

into the toil of humanity

and out the open door.

 

They say that I am a machine

working for the corporate regime.

I perfect the parts they feed me

shining and polishing perfectly

and down the line they go.

I watch in awe as they are carried away

and out the open door.

 

They say that I am a machine

working for the corporate regime.

But I long to walk among them

and out the open door.

 

– Savannah

 

To the Reader:

I recently began working in a factory. Something about seeing the robotic arms move parts from one line to another makes me wonder what would happen if the machines themselves were sentient. How would they feel? What would they think about or dream of? How sad it would be, to remain fixed to the floor – unable to wander. 

 

. : War : .

 

Growling,

teeth bared,

I hear their voices;

The hatred echoing through

the empty pages.

The scattered flyers

reminiscent of the stand

we took against indecency.

But was that really our cause?

Posters and banners of white,

crosses red with blood.

I feel the gripping sensation,

of an era long past.

But still you claim your peace.

 

Meanwhile the histories

slip between your fingers –

another noose to hang the sheep.

 

History is doomed,

and set on repeat.

 

– Savannah

. : Two : .

 

Numbered

plastic faces

with their social masks –

I saw the crack in your facade

beneath fluorescent lighting

in the church

you no longer attend.

“God as my witness! God as my witness!”

You are witless,

screaming at an empty heaven,

beneath an empty sky.

And the book in your hands,

is Man’s greatest lie.

 

But still you pray for me.

 

– Savannah

. :One: .

 

Shadows peek over the distant horizon

Creeping into my veins

like the ice beneath my feet.

You are marble

cut and statuesque.

Will they tear you down?

Like the histories before?

 

But still

I touch the planes of your face,

in my dreams

beneath silken sheets

of my own design

crafted with the finest pixels

in a different reality.

Three demensional

until

I snap

and you are just lines on a page.

 

– Savannah

.: Wreckage :.

Under the Cheshire’s grin,

we danced,

reveling in Her light,

like children

basking in their mother’s smile.

Can you find me?

Hide and seek in the misty trees,

pretending we were spirits,

of the forest and Her people.

Cheshire’s grin,

glowing in your eyes,

like His mischief,

but I saw in them a sadness unmatched

when you found me

and withdrew to hide once more.

Nothing given, nothing gained,

but still I know,

somewhere among the trees,

or beneath the waves,

beneath the docks.

I will find you –

dense as sea foam

and lost as the ship you inhabited.

 

– Savannah

.:Aurora Borealis:.

 

We were made of starlight,

and we danced with the monsters in the middle of the night,

catching fireflies and praying for the afterlife,

“Is there anything after this life, tonight?”

The question bleeds from your eyes…

Just keep me warm,

my heart in your open arms

the rest of me in the morgue

rotting in the ground with the rest of my world…

“Sing me to sleep?”

Is just a joke that we made, 

tongue in cheek

because we know there’s no rest for the rest of our lives

yeah, we’ll get it with time

“Please don’t close your eyes.”

There’s much more left to see

there’s much more to me

at least for tonight…

We were made of starlight,

and we danced with the monsters in the middle of the night,

don’t you dare close your eyes 

even hell is a sight to behold,

and I’ve been told

even we’ll hold the key eventually

but for tonight, by my side,

you’ll dance with the monsters and turn off the lights.

Man or machine

at last you’ll see me in technicolor

and I’ll no longer have to wander the world,

searching for the same light that I saw in your eyes

tonight…

 

– Savannah

An aside, Dear Reader:

I hear this as more of a song than a poem, quite a few words and lines are repeated because with repetition comes emphasis. Can you find the story within the story? Many of my longer works are inspired by events in my life…the people, and places. But there are a select few that feel more like an ode to whatever Muse haunts me…and in those moments, I remember that artists of every kind are more in touch with the world around them. We see the world in ultra-technicolor, or grey and dismal. Which inspires you?

Never give up on your dreams. Everyone has someone that believes in them. And  believe in you.

 

 

 

 

. :Bitter Heart: .

 

“Reclaiming

your passion.

As though, to say,

it was stolen from you?”

 

A moment passes between us,

and you brush my hair away from my eyes

casually,

fingertips lingering briefly

against my naked ear.

Your smile is warm enough,

but behind it,

hidden,

in the darkest corner,

I see discontent.

When did we pass

between the atmosphere of companionship,

to the weighted minutes

in counting each other’s heartbeats?

When did a breath become a heavy sigh,

and behind my tight-lipped smile,

sit a row of pointed teeth

prepared to gnash?

 

There is an anger about you.”

Don’t worry…

I feel it, too.

 

– Savannah

 

 

. :Not Everything is as it Seems: .

 

 

I fantasize about

the death behind your eyes.

The tiny wisps

of screaming madness.

I cling to them,

like a martyr

to her sadness.

 

I watch you struggle

with your broken pieces

The inner demons

fighting for control.

I hear the slithering of their underbellies

in the sandy desert.

The mocking laughter behind the closed door.

The infinitesimal screaming

from the deafened child

waiting for his mother,

crying out in the darkness.

 

I see these things,

and touch your shoulder.

A brush of fingers.

I can do no more.

 

– Savannah

 

. :Disquieted: .

 

Smoke drifts lazily

from the end of your cigarette

in a casual upward spiral.

Behind us,

the clock ticks the minutes past

and a hunk of ash falls from the incense

into a gilded tray.

Your fingers brush through my hair

pausing only briefly

when the music stops,

filled by the dissonant whispers of a silenced record.

Your brows furrow

in what appears to be confusion

as though you’re slowly coming back to reality

from the distant tenderness you attempted to express.

I light another cigarette for you

and reset the record.

In return, I am rewarded

with the gentlility

of your fingers against my cheek.

And then you’re gone again.

 

– Savannah