White Raven

Cawing

Perched in the rafters

Keen eyes watching

Always watching

After all you’re the messenger of the All Father

At least to some

You’re just a trouble maker

Warmonger

Uncomfortable with any truth that is not yours.
Harbinger of death

Omen of ill fortune

You soar the skies

Harassing the kites

Harrying the eagles even

Mob justice at its finest

When you steal kills

And tell stories of a hunt you never made.
You preen golden feathers from your plumage

Dancing in scarlet blood

When you proclaim judgement on carrion

Preaching injustice and prejudice

Sowing discord and reaping chaos

Carry on!

Douse yourself with dust.
Mock the jays

Rob the cocks

Stab the robins

Swallow the sparrows

Clean up with the bustards and buzzards

Unwanted one

Not fit for anything but gossip.
You see nothing good

Except for you

At least your brethren do not hide themselves in their inky blackness

Your magpie cousins love the shiny things

But you?

You stand out in full colour

You’re an apostate

Conspicuous in the harangue of your self proclaimed enlightenment.
Your duty to religion will be the death of you

It snows not here

And while you glide the thermals for the latest gossip

Some trigger happy kid will shoot you out of the sky with a sling

His daddy will stuff you and put you in a display case for quick cash

You’re your own ill omen

Life is the harbinger of your doom

False prophet

Freak of nature!

Be consumed by your own lies

Oh one more thing

Next time be born black.

 

image courtesy @archillects on twitter
© sena frost ’17

anamnesis

i.

My eyes flick open

In the darkness

I lay there

Listening to the sounds

The guttural whine of stomachs emptying

The grindstone whirs

Muscled into

Revolutions per minute

Gyrating to

Steady kinetic energy

Centrifuging

From the thoughts

Of

The makers

 

ii.

the day sparks into being

being alive

maybe it’s just a dream

I wield an ax

Still in the dark

No, it’s not all dark

There’s some sun

Sifting through the bars of the too small window

But just enough

To know that

I see

I’m alive

 

 

iii.

The handle is rough in my hands

Hewn clumsily

yet skillfully balanced

I swing

Feel the muscles ripple

In response to

Synapses crackling

Terabytes of data

Shooting in an instance

A single arc of

Motion

The doors clank open

 

iv.

I hear them first

As I shuffle in the semi darkness

Right hand firmly planted on the wall

It pulsates

From the stamping of feet

The slice of metal on metal

Climbs above the din

Grunts

The scratch of well-balanced gaits

Locked in a dance in the sands

Chop

Then a roar

 

v.

I am fettered

The cool metal clinks around my waist

My left leg bound

To a ball

My hands

My hands are free

But only just

Chains snake from my forearms

To my ax handle

I can move

In a clumsy man’s shuffle

 

vi.

Blinded

The searing pain

Sets my pores ablaze

The sun

White

My wrists smoulder

As

My chains burn

Etching themselves into my skin

My eyelids flicker

 

vii.

He strikes first

Instinctively I parry

Then dig my heels in

There is a whoosh

As he swings

Too wide

I duck and jab

Into his solar plexus

A heavy grunt

Then there is sand in my eyes

I hear his feet shift

The ground shakes

From the stomping

I am fettered

He swings

Too wide again

I dance away

And swing

An arc curving upwards

I slice

Through skin and bone and sinew

Warm blood kisses my feet

Then there is the roar

 

viii.

The greater good is a necessary evil

It forces men to think outside themselves

For the ultimate pride

We are but playthings

Discarded when we are broken

Cut down in the bloom of youth

Or old and frail and degenerate

If they try to linger

Maybe one day we will know God

Perhaps not

The cool water washes it away

Everything

Leaving not a scar

Of the day

 

ix.

I am unbound

And a brand

White hot

Is held to my cheek

I scream

Not that it matters

A chuck of spit crowns my head

Accompanied by

A flurry of rotten vegetables

And old man’s urine

I see their eyes

Little pools of judgement

And a sadness

Burning behind

Everything

They are sunken in belief

Of everything but themselves

The curses

Smiting my ears

If only they worked

 

x.

The pain!

It cuts through my back

The whip cracks

Agony!

Oh pain

Sweet unceasing pain

After a while

I feel nothing

Smell nothing

Taste nothing

But the coppery tang of blood in my mouth

I see red

As I am jolted to my feet

Everything fades away

White noise

Nothing matters

It breaks you down

Every time you wake

The ultimate savage

Rendering equality as myth

Life

I am weary

Broken

I am alone

A recollection

Of what was

My eyes shut close

Into darkness

 

©_sena_frost ‘17

 

Old-Man Logan-Wolverine, X-Men. Marvel Comics

image courtesy google.com

 

 

What are you doing here?

Our purpose is to be at the top of of the food chain,
Few natural enemies,
An excuse to live vain.
Our purpose is to think far and deep,
Pondering over circumstances we were never meant to create,
Tossing and turning over due to lack of sleep.
Our purpose is to create,
Whether order and life,
Or chaos and destruction.
In this mêlée we create gods,
Fodder for our imagination,
Fanciful stories and tales barely believable.
We proclaim stones as magical,
And call bones supernatural.
We deny the gifts of our bodies,
For habits which put us in harm’s way.
We will die.
End of story.
What is our purpose?
Don’t tell me a realm no one alive has ever seen,
For hearsay is not admissible.
Why do we live,
Build our bodies,
Live long,
So in the end our names end up being all that’s left.
Why do we worry about a green earth,
When it wipes itself clean every now and then?
Why are we obsessed with immortality
But ignore the finite happiness each day brings.
Make love
Not war.
And as far as I am concerned no rule is iron clad.
My life is in my hands,
It’s what I will make of it.
At the same time its supposedly not mine own.
What is our purpose?
I suppose we will find out when the torture ends.
Why try so hard to be relevant
When what you must do is live?
There are no heroes or villains,
Who determines right or wrong,
When what matters is survival.
What is the Word,
Because nirvana exists
In the spheres of our minds.
So our purpose,
Our reason for living,
Is to die.

© Sena Frost 2015