Featured Poet - Brenda Mox

GONE TO WASTE

A ghost in human form,

soulless,

prowls the world searching,

his face a mask of concentration,

fumbling his way to chaos.

Self-possession gone to waste.

With words spat as if slime

whenever a tremor of mock emotion

crept into his voice,

he put pride back into avarice

with the knowledge

of his capacity to cause pain.

Such was his favorite domain.

With a cavernous yet insatiable

male voracity,

he carried out small missions

of larceny,

never caring to forgo the heresies

of his prurient delight

in madness and death.

With an indulgent wink

he plods along, stumbling

while dodging the headstones.

The fatal errors 

of a life gone to waste.

AH, AGE

Ah age, you slowly creeping thing

who comes to steal from me the spring

of youth and blossom from my cheek,

determined to leave me old and weak.

The onslaught is insidious,

draining from me what is the best

and making me feel ridiculous

in the light of earth’s aging test.

Yet the fight in me is not gone,

the hopes and love still linger on.

In my heart there plays a song

waiting with potential to be born.



BURNED COLD

In bitterness burned cold indignation,

inwardly hard and separate.

An anger of entangled wind

to blow cerebral stones away.

Powerful was that inward resistance

pale with anger,

hard as a hammer stroke,

as light of inner battles glowed.

From peculiarly withered coldness rose

steam of boredom, anger, discontent.

It awakened sleeping dogs’ curious cold rage

of old voracious anger, unspent.

ANONYMITY

Bone chilled and melancholic

flattened out and burrowed 

inside herself,

she succumbs to 

her sunken mood.

Peering into corners

of her life,

fast becoming

a museum of squalor filled anonymity,

her hand covers her 

terrified mouth.

Raised to feel, not to speak

no cushioned guardrail

of love’s abundance

to will her from this brink.

She succumbs.