I recognise that the quality of writing somewhat dissipates toward the end of the story/poem/whatever the fuck it is, but this is just a draft... I would like to have an objective perspective of what fits and what doesn’t- if it seems to end in a hurry, etc.
I have a terrible habit of ending poems in a rush and having them turn-out like shit.
So read... and obliterate with criticism... because that’s what I love... and that’s how I learn.
Thanks in advance, I know it's long... but please read it!
His fingertips are spider’s legs
Spinning webs, cast silver
Beneath the moonlight in his eye,
That he stole from the night-time,
Unpinned from a
Satin lapel
People hidden in the dark,
Faultless and exquisite
But he possesses the light, to
Cast a shadow
And impose a cruel silhouette.
He slithered through the cracks
In her windows,
And illuminated her pining tears in the light
He liquefied his lust, to sweet elixir,
And petrified her heart
With one intoxicating taste
Two bodies intertwined
A desperate imposition,
A unity of flesh,
That swore morality.
Her desperate lips
Adorned his body,
And her frantic heart bled with promise.
He licked her septic wounds
and delighted in the taste of his
inflicted consequence,
his ego inflating with each breath of desperation,
each unreciprocated, fixated glare
of immortal love.
The moon dragged its weary,
Unblinking eye across the night,
And he held the aperture in long-exposure,
To capture the magnitude of his success
In a single, eternally spanning white strip,
That painted the skyline.
A dusty, ashen light perforated
His skin,
And he dissipated in its humane glow,
So that his post-mortem pallor could remain
His secret, shared only with the night.
And there she awoke,
Empty-handed,
On a morning that silently screamed.
Her hands still bearing phantom warmth.
The evening’s kiss stained blue,
across her lips.
But no remorse engulfed her,
Albeit, a dismal sense of ecstasy
Flowed through her decrepit veins-
Delighting that his hands had returned to her skin,
Once more...
She pleaded with each night that would ensue-
For another eve of empty bliss,
And his imposing clutch,
That reeked of a decay,
That her yearning heart,
Would forever choose to disregard.
I have a terrible habit of ending poems in a rush and having them turn-out like shit.
So read... and obliterate with criticism... because that’s what I love... and that’s how I learn.
Thanks in advance, I know it's long... but please read it!
His fingertips are spider’s legs
Spinning webs, cast silver
Beneath the moonlight in his eye,
That he stole from the night-time,
Unpinned from a
Satin lapel
People hidden in the dark,
Faultless and exquisite
But he possesses the light, to
Cast a shadow
And impose a cruel silhouette.
He slithered through the cracks
In her windows,
And illuminated her pining tears in the light
He liquefied his lust, to sweet elixir,
And petrified her heart
With one intoxicating taste
Two bodies intertwined
A desperate imposition,
A unity of flesh,
That swore morality.
Her desperate lips
Adorned his body,
And her frantic heart bled with promise.
He licked her septic wounds
and delighted in the taste of his
inflicted consequence,
his ego inflating with each breath of desperation,
each unreciprocated, fixated glare
of immortal love.
The moon dragged its weary,
Unblinking eye across the night,
And he held the aperture in long-exposure,
To capture the magnitude of his success
In a single, eternally spanning white strip,
That painted the skyline.
A dusty, ashen light perforated
His skin,
And he dissipated in its humane glow,
So that his post-mortem pallor could remain
His secret, shared only with the night.
And there she awoke,
Empty-handed,
On a morning that silently screamed.
Her hands still bearing phantom warmth.
The evening’s kiss stained blue,
across her lips.
But no remorse engulfed her,
Albeit, a dismal sense of ecstasy
Flowed through her decrepit veins-
Delighting that his hands had returned to her skin,
Once more...
She pleaded with each night that would ensue-
For another eve of empty bliss,
And his imposing clutch,
That reeked of a decay,
That her yearning heart,
Would forever choose to disregard.