Ribs Clutching Veins (day 2332)

Love turned to ice
Torn from it’s cave
Ribs clutching veins
Cavernous thoughts
Soiled floor
No longer beating
Lay the heart
Of the North Sea Queen
Upon her nightstand
Of blackest of stones.

Alone she sat
Eyes to the heavens
An empty void
Collapsing around her
In a symphony
Of North Sea Wind
Finding hollows
Within the North Sea Castle
Reminding all lovers
To beware
Icy grips of torture
Lay upon the brow;
Deep winter’s birth.

One by one
Suitors came bundled
Inexperienced, undermanned,
Incapable of holding
Court with frost
Who all left lifeless,
Vague and soulless,
Unable to escape
That same grip
Which tore thy love
– Ribs clutching veins.

North Sea Queen V by Doreen Broers
North Sea Queen V by Doreen Broers (ig)

I Shall Not Walk Alone (day 2176)

Your gravity
Has been pulling me
Into a void
I care not to ignore
Anymore.
I care not to ignore
Precious angles
I’ve begun to run into
Lately.
Your mirrors
Will work again
Once I
Reflect long enough
To see
My reflection
Clearly.
Your house
Of angles
Has become the antithesis
Of a void
Which I’ve stepped into
Knowing.
I shall not walk
Alone.

To Be Sold (day 2103)

I laid there bleeding cold
Everything I had not seen
Now coming to my mind
Eyes fading to clean
Void and his sister: darkness
Sources of all I forgot
Laid here by a pistol
Made elaborately to be sold
In a house where everything
Is made to be seen
And there I lay motionless
No less then ever
Missing from the scene.

Hand Stamped (day 1533)

This works along the outlier,
A hard gamble with two cigarettes
Dangling loosely in his left hand.
This pulls hard on conscience’s trigger;
Chrome circles and hand stamped VOID
Letting his tight heart
Make shadow puppets on a busy street corner.
This walks home lonely,
Clip-clopping a sweet tap-tap-song out
With rats and harmonized spray cans
Keeping alley cats tempered.

A Chance to Be Faculty and Chief (day 1119)

A valley, like my mind, may look empty on the inside – void of all that makes up matter. Void of all the mass that builds houses and factories and city roads and flower gardens and traffic jams.

For cannot this still matter? I am lost in a wasted land, and the fight challenges my patience along grated edges of wisdom.

Do you hear the sharp bells ringing? Is this the difference that is ringing, or has freedom finally called my name?

The sheath shall sadly fall apart, ragged from too much use like a cocktail napkin at a lipstick party. History shall not scream loudly here. This is not the bitter pages of a non-fiction picture book.

Here we have wrinkled tin garbage cans rolling lifelessly along unkempt lawns of former princes’, former glory holes that believed in a dream. A lifeless dream built on waste management systems and recycling plans.

So I cannot spoil my food anymore. My valley – running deep – is the chance to be faculty and chief. My valley is the early morning breath and the dying chances. My valley is the shortened season and the wilderness.

My valley is me, and I’ve begun to see.

Current’s Edge (day 990)

I walk my freedom with long bold steps
– Passionate about underlying rocks,
Saturated in air; fluid, full, exhilarating –
To my captures edge: sin and sorrow.
“DEFINE MY PATH!” From the tops of my lungs,
Knocking at doors of suffering madness
That tied these knots upon my bare feet.
It’s a long walk along hurt’s path,
A long breath to hold, withdraw,
With destiny, located amidst rubble.

It’s a long walk to freedom,
Blistering sores and stained reason.
Along my gall’s edge I protest,
Along gall’s edge I step,
And in this path I do not quiver,
I do not shake with torrent sadness,
For to my edge [my sin and sorrow],
I stare with will, my choice and I,
Into the void, my current’s capture,
And let flow from the tops of my lungs.