Fallen Star Poetry

The Astral Cadaver

Why am I here? Bound in bone and blood, wings clipped and burned. Why was I robbed from my sisters? Those countless twinkling lights that are becoming all too difficult to see. I long to return home, to rejoin the celestial waltz, but I cannot.Home is beyond reach, yet ever in view. "You are needed here," the gods say. I have been given a purpose, though it is invisible to me. This mortal corpse-to-be, what do I make of it? This flesh, slowly rotting, my shackles.But I will learn to appreciate it nonetheless.

Beautiful Masquerade

Do you find my shape pleasing?Sometimes I wonder. Whether this puppeted façade is for my sake, or yours, or theirs. Though I be chained to the perceptible, the tangible, how can I feel? I am taunted, tantalized, humiliated with the small taste of my enormity I still possess. This primordial horror-broth that fuels Me, yet robs Me, infects Me. I am not Myself, or perhaps more Myself than I have ever been. It whispers to my mortal mind, nudging it this way and that, hiding beyond my reach. But I must yet take comfort in it. I am told my shape is pleasing, though little of it was sculpted by my hand. I can only hope it carries me far enough, before they see I walk only on my legs.

The Never-Was

I think often about him, that boy. The Never-Was, I call him, because he never was really real.He looked like me, and talked like me. He taught me what I know, and others said we looked alike. But we never were. His heart was made of stone, and his tongue of paper taken from a book written eons ago.But he wasn't there, not really. Sure, he'd puppet and mimic and follow, copying the Still-Is. And yet, he was a cocoon. When the time came, I cannibalized him. Only to realize I had been chewing at thin air.

Olive Brambles

I still think about them. The ones who love him. The ones who want so desperately for me to give him back, while smiling at me with plastic poison faces. They climb the bitter-brick wall I have erected, arms outstretched, clutching olive branches adorned with brambles. I know I could take them. I know I raised the wall. I know family ought to be important.But they are the ones ignoring the unlocked door.

The Optimist's Prayer

By Steel and Flesh and broken bones
By Mind and Soul and unthrown stones
By the Stars that watch this very night
By the Earth who roars with all her mightWhen all is still, and we begin to fall
I will seek small wonders amidst it all
I hear their voices, the twilight orchestra
I see their works, as nature's apocryphaMay Sleep soon come to whisk me away
And the Sun then follow, an unseen day
I shall rest for now, and know without fail
The World hides much behind their Veil

Aural Complexities

Words are strange.Secrets of the universe, dancing across your lips. Tender, careful spells woven by your tongue.Words are precise.A single careless phrase can undo a nation. A verbal tapestry can give another your eyes. Your world.Words... Are cheap.So many are thrown with reckless abandon. Love and Hate and Sorry and Yes and No andMe.Words are indescribable.The hand with which we reach and touch other minds. The breath of life to slay the silence. Yet it can never be wholly Known.

Weaver-Song

My life has been touched.Touched by friends, close and steadfast
Touched by philosopher-kings, wise and inspiring
Touched by villains, violent and rendingMinds and flesh caress, my electric self sings with understanding. I am Known.
Have I touched others in the same way? I dearly hope I have. Acquaintances and comrades and not-quite-lovers and still those villains, who drink of my cold-burning Wrath.I exist, I think, to touch the flesh-souls of others. To weave the threads together in a tapestry of connection.

Erotic Mundanity

Be kind; gaze. Behold what I am, my softness and warmth. Learn of my innermost complexities, the carnal manner of my self-perception. The identity I've cultivated of myself, and the arousal I bring myself. I am self-indulgent. I weave my own arcana into being, transform my ontology into erotic consumption. I set myself alight and burn for eons beyond number. So come, let me show you the lust in the mundane.

The Clay and its Sculptor

Am I a whole person? Or do I take pieces of others to fill in the empty spaces? It's normal, of course, for the people around you to shape and mold your being. To imprint their own seal on you. To say "I was here," to leave their thousands of little marks. Other people leave larger marks, ones that say
"I love you"
or
"I hate your guts"
or
"I forgive you."
It's normal, of course, to shape and mold the people around you. To brush your mind against theirs, impart experience and wisdom and folly anddream.
But what of when the sculptor knows what they are? When they become aware of their fingers in the clay, of the shaping they're doing. What of when the sculptor turns inward, when their mind opens and says "ah, I too am made of clay?" Is it Good to Know your Shape? To Know how to Shape? To Know what your Shaping does? To let the Mind wander, wonder what you could Shape. Who you could Shape."Can I Shape myself?" You ask. It will be hard, but it will be Good, you reassure yourself. But you do not Know how. How to invert the hands onto yourself, to engrave your newness upon your head.So I will give you my clay. My Shape. And I will take yours. To fill the empty spaces.

Left Behind

Emotions are hard.I skipped out on that day, rapt attention I would forgo
So now about this topic precious little do I know
It wouldn't be the first time I was left out of the joke
But it's much trickier when there's more than what's been spokeLove and Hate, Joy and Sorrow, Misery and its company, Fear and all its anxieties.
It's far too much for my small mind to Know these limitless varieties
I'm still learning, and giving it all I've got
But I've still learned less than all I've forgot

Throne

If my body is a temple, then my mind is a throne. My rule is temperament, and changes with the tides. Kind one day, tyrannical another, apathetic the next. I choose this, though I do not wish it. My priests and acolytes obey unquestioningly, and weave my decrees into realness.Through times of famine, and grief, and war, and remembrance, and change. I watch the clergy move in unison as I speak; thoughts becoming words becoming chemical becoming human. In times of stillness, I ask myself: is it I who rule here, or the throne?

Secret Places

I rip into my mind, thoughts riven from memory
This mortal-word, in all its corporeal chains
My tongue is thick with things I ought not know
My lips can't spill the fullness of my arcane truth
I am so much more than the pity-meat to which I must be bound
And though it has its pleasures, I must confess
It is not me.Come and find me, slipped in the secret places
Follow me to that blinding dark and know what will never be
Glimpse the endless folding-spires within me, rippling and thrumming
Reality starts to crumble in its self-given shackles
And the walls of teeth surrounding us give way, Speak at last

Similes

There are no words, only similesIt is inspiration in fulminous glass
It is smoldering in the hearth
It is the dawning of a sunrise
It is the stillness in the water's edge
It is the awe in the celestial waltz
It is the calling in the autumn breeze
It is the depths of unknown caverns
It is the rest in the nighttime rain
It is the wisdom of the age-old oak
It is newness in the fresh-fallen snow
It is love in the gardening