The Shade

I lurk within the folds of your cerebellum,
Links to memories,
Inked on vellum.
I stand between you and the dark,
Value of the hue,
Right on the mark.
You shadow my all my moves,
I’m ingrained into you.
The fine spider webbed cracks of your lost loves.
I lurk within the folds of your cerebellum,
Links to memories,
Inked on vellum.
I stand between you and the dark,
Value of the hue,
Right on the mark.
I imbibe only that which makes me stronger,
Thus your attempts to find yourself,
Will only lead you into myself.
Who am I?
I am,
The darkest sun,
The brightest night,
Violets and reds and oranges,
Of a dying day.
I lurk within the folds of your cerebellum,
Links to memories,
Inked on vellum.
I stand between you and the dark,
Value of the hue,
Right on the mark.
Call it what you want,
But pray do tell me.
Are you what you want to be?

© Sena Frost 2015


Crow’s Caw

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Eking out an existence on the mountain of ice,
Casting lots,
Time splintering with the throw of dice,
Recollecting a life lost,
Blinded Snow.
Here I am nothing,
My shadow shrinks away from the frosty spittle of my enemies.
It appears that even former vagabonds will stand up,
Rising against the bastard of Winterfell.
I suppose even the sword in the night must gleam sometimes,
Ghost trails behind me,
On the ghost trails,
Made by nightwalkers.
Even up here this crow soars alone.
I hear of rutting dragons,
Ruby flames,
And filial evil.
I learn of love,
In caverns of stalactites and stalagmites.
By the godswood of my fathers,
I can still feel her tongue smites.
I hear her whisper,
“You know nothing”

© Sena Frost 2015

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They say the first to go in your memory are faces,
Hers blotted by caustic water.
It is remarkable how they go.
First a rain drop,
Then the deluge.
He could remember the sound of her voice tugging at his ears,
Angry and whining,
The mosquito that never feeds.
The dry cackle of her laughter.
He remembered the days of grass,
They used to tumble about,
Rolling and giggling,
When their limbs were mere buds,
Wrestling away over many a doll,
Yes they were best buds.
Yet he could not recall her face,
Ravaged by caustic water.
He searched relentlessly,
Scanning the dark,
Albeit fruitlessly,
For he had nought but a penlight,
A point of light,
Sifting through a haystack of night.
Giving up he went up to the crest of the hill,
Overlooking the sprawl of the town,
He found her waiting for him.
Hair billowing like a forgotten flag,
She who was all that remained of a glorious past,
Standing among the grass,
A museum,
Yet he could not recall her face,
Ravaged by caustic water.
“I remember you!”
They both exclaimed.
They tumbled about,
Rolling and giggling,
Tearing after each other,
Reminiscing on when they were best of buds.
Before they grew up,
And life soured their taste buds.
Presently a horn blew,
They turned with cocked ears,
The familiar rattle of the tracks below,
The three eyed centipede crawling into the twilight.
“Do you remember where it goes?”
She asked.
“Of course. It goes into where-”
And she kissed him,
Drowning out the sound of his voice.
All around them,
Fireflies glowed,
Spots of amber.
Ethereal and hazy.
He still could not recall her face,
Which had been ravaged by caustic water.

© Sena Frost 2015

I Remember

I remember,
The slinky feel of your fingers between mine,
The warmth of your crushed breasts against my chest (actually my midriff but that’s fine:-)).
The flowery presence of your perfume,
The breathy warmth of your whispers.
The kinky freshness of your uncombed hair (I can’t help but dig in sometimes!),
Erotically alive with a mind of its own.

I remember,
The warm constriction of your arms when you hug me from behind,
The chime of your voice ringing merrily away (I hate it when you just can’t stop talking!),
The Cheshire smile waving away,
The taste of your mouth during our long convoluted kisses,
Creamy and fruity,
Like the exotic tang of the mango.
Your figure waiflike,
Slender and pleasing to the eye,
Hour glass figure leaning against a pear (I know I know you do squats),
Eyes eternally wistful,
Blurred by your lashes overlapping.

I remember,
The tautness of your nipple,
The claws of desire trailing down my back,
The barely audible wanton gasps,
When we make love (yes!),
Biting your lips,
The tremor at the height of your ecstasy,
Giddy highs of our love intertwined in rising plumes of passions,
The sinfully sweet pleasure (because I become you looking at me from upside down).

I remember,
How you bend and break,
Snappy and churlish,
Explosive and expletive (euphemism for bitchy actually).
The fragility of your human façade going up in a conflagration.
It’s okay,
I understand.
We can’t be perfect everyday,
And that’s the beauty of it.

I read somewhere,
That the best substitute for love is memory,
So if I choke up on my words,
Or become too weird to comprehend,
Just know that,
I remember…

© Sena Frost 2015

The Witch

They milled about her,
Bees around their queen,
Jostling in their eagerness,
To catch a glimpse of her.
Stepping on toes,
And wrangling among themselves for a ringside view.
They danced around her,
Hurling abuse,
The mud of their lips,
Eyes glinting with the fear of the unknown,
The ground reverberating,
To the thrum of their heartbeats.
They tore her garments off,
And drank in her nubile body.
She was a thing of beauty,
Breasts cupped between her arms,
Luscious and dark nippled,
Full of life; melons.
She watched them,
A peacock’s pride in her stance,
Listening to the irate cries,
Rising in crescendo to each sway of her hips,
Eyes undulating with the rub of her buttocks,
Squinting at the hairy patch hidden between her legs,
Dainty step.
She stood with arms akimbo,
And her dark nippled breasts wobbled to a stop.
A smug smile played on her lips,
As they worked themselves into a frenzy,
Of envy and greed.
She cackled shrilly,
And went willingly into the fire

© Sena Frost 2015