The Sound of sirens

The world is round, the world is round.
Grip a hold, secure yourself.
Flowers bloom in these bones.
A bedding of chalk and soul.
Humming on this planet.
Ringing in the ears.
A silence of absence.
You, no longer in the atmosphere.
Broken, that miracle was not enough.
Heaving as we go, waiting for the buildings to crumble.
For the moon to fall.
Surely, this is the apocalypse.
This noise, this pain.
Must be the end of the world?
Cut out the plants from my skin.
The decay from my eyes.
That taste of death from a last kiss.
And set alight to this terrain.
Where sirens only indicate another wave of chaos.
As I crawl through my current calamity.

12/03/2023 by Mark Ryan Categories: death, fire, flowersTags: art, atmosphere, chaos, crawl, death, decay, end, flames, flowers, loss, plants, poem, Poetry, sadness, world 3 Comments

Oblivion

Everything arranged, just fades away.
Washed by a black sea.
The shiver into nothingness.
While eyes above watch.
Grief picks its place.
Planting rotten flowers that scratch the eyes.
I Move away from everything I knew.
Death coming in with the tide.
Staining my ankles and heart.
Taking what is most precious out with its salty inhale.
Sorrow settles in.
Showing up, now hope has lost its way.

21/02/2023 by Mark Ryan Categories: death, sadness, seaTags: black, death, grief, grieg, grieving, ocean, poem, Poetry, sad, sadness, sea, sorrow, tide 15 Comments

Recapture

The silent soul who wades this world.
With brittle bones and sad inclinations.
Arrives at a place in a memory.
Strung up with words that bind.
Does he fall deeper into the despair of an age?
Of that turning sun that snatches all that lay in his hands?
Or does he shift, arch his back to the march of time.
Following from the front, the best laid plans?
A flag in hand, and a mouth shut.
Marching to a funeral beat.
A soldier in a war of change.
Corrupting from within.

17/10/202219/09/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: age, sad, warTags: age, death, despair, fight, following, fool, guns, hope, poem, Poetry, sadness, solider, sun, time, war, world 1 Comment

Bestowed

Your voice, it calls me higher.
Cracking this concrete world which tethers us.
The challenge in arriving, with a heart still heaving.
Shaken to the core, for the love you try to give.
You turned away and I was lost again.
A return settles in my soul.
With eyes that learned to love once more.
And hands that try to heal.
Don’t speak to me yet, for I may shatter.
Listening to such sweet benediction.
From lips I wish to meet.
To taste again love’s magic.
These expecting steps, lead me further.
As I clumsily tumble into now.
You say you want me.
But the moon begins to weep.
As you begin to wash away my sadness.
Kissing the scars, some made by you, in low starlight.
Skin to skin.
Drenched now in honey, sticky within.
Sweet sparkles.
With strung up stars waiting to explode.
Disintegrating now into brilliant lights of diamonds.

22/06/202209/05/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: kissing, love, starsTags: art, benediction, heal, healing, honey, kiss, kissing, love, loving, magic, moon, poem, Poetry, sadness, shatter, soul, starlight, stars, time 2 Comments

Weep then sleep

They say, the world almost drowned.
The day she wept.
Those salty tears.
So sacred and immaculate.
That the ground began to crack.
Like the conscience of god.
Crumbling into sadness.
For she was so young.
So lost in the dream of idealism.
Now forever lost in her own madness.

03/06/202202/06/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: crying, flood, godTags: art, crazy, crying, god, gods, madness, poem, Poetry, rhyme, sad, sadness, sea, sleep, weep 5 Comments

Arrêter de tomber

Lies, they kept her from heaven.
A raging ghost of self-contempt.
Is it fake when inside there is truth?
For in the dark, all can see her tears.
Slipping into the cracks of hell.
Crying out to change.
/
Fall
Into
Heaven/Hell

11/05/202201/05/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: heaven, hell, holyTags: art, change, creative, despair, devil, fake, ghosts, girl, heaven, hell, lost, medusa, poem, Poetry, sad, sadness, tears, truth Leave a comment

Gravitate to grief

Listen to this episode.

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Watching the clouds roll over the sky outside my window, I can’t but think the world is changing to fit my mood. My consciousness seeping out of this skin and manifesting my universe. If only I were that powerful. An alchemic touch to turn the things that are as cold as stone and black as coal, to a wondrous gold.

I touch the place, where my heart used to be. Wondering where this chasm came from. Wondering why it was taken. This wondering keeps me from other things; making copious cups of tea, looking at pictures of you; dancing that kitchen knife across my wrists. (Bury me where you find me)

Nothing has begun to matter. The phone has rung insistently on and off all day. Souls looking for connection. Checking in on me, to see if I’m okay; to check if I haven’t done anything silly. To save me from myself. Silly was always my nature.

I watch the clouds more as they roll on and war with one another. I used to look for things in the cloud patterns. Their bursting explosions that would turn into animals or faces. I don’t see anything there now that I wish to see. Now I only want to tear my eyes out. To stop viewing a world I wish to have no part of. A world without you, is not something I want to be within. It tore my heart out that day. The departure day I have come to know it. Wednesday…. why not?

My skin aches and my head is heavy. I feel gravity’s pull now more than ever. The sad disposition is not my usual sensibility. Hope could always be found by the turning of a page, the rolling of a new day, and beyond the heartache. But someone has drained the colour from my life and washed it with a headache grey. Placed it on repeat.

I pretend to be asleep when they come over. The ones whose phone calls failed to find an audience. Their good intentions on the other side of yesterday grow faint. Like a voice in the distance calling me back. They mean well, and I love them. They have gone through the same, the similar. The maddening familiar. I smile and nod as they place the flowers and rearrange the plates. Not noticing that all the flowers will be scorched now. They do not see that I am breaking away. This recalibration to a life I was apathetic to before, is really me crumbling into something else. Something so selfishly encompassing even God will not forgive.

Sleep. I need this.

You. I want that.

I smash my inner skull open and dive into memories of you. The smell of your collar bone and the way you used to wear me out. A side glance as you cheat at scrabble. Everything there is central. So certain like the rain. This skull begins to crust over, covering those memories with the sickening smell of death. Like being trapped in a tiny kitchen and burning the toast. These memories catch fire and smoulder, choking me and making my eyes water.

They come around again, touching me while I dream and sweeping away the reflections of myself.

Piece by piece they pick me up. I put myself back together. Banging once more on the doors of heaven but turned away. Shivering out the cold of my core. Watching as the bruises heal and the days fade into years. I will not be the ghost that haunts this space. I will not be the body on your hands that weighs you down. I will be the scar on the surface of life, with empty eyes; replaced with tiny pebbles. Taken from the river of remorse.

MORE FABLES HERE

25/04/202125/04/2021 by Mark Ryan Categories: death, fiction, griefTags: death, dream, dreams, eyes, grief, sad, sadness, sleep, story 6 Comments

Sirens

Like a ship lost at sea.
Suffering in circumstance.
Battling the waves.
The tempest explodes and soaks each bone.
Weighted already by lack and distrust.
Yet in the surf the song swells.
A calling, rippling over the wounds.
Run away, if you were to listen closely.
But the beauty forgoes all sense of reason.
What was really meant for you and I?
Seems fallen from the perfect sky.
And dances now in the sea, for we; crying into ecstasy.
They touch us deep, and lick the skin.
An immodest turn that welcomes the watchers.
Hungry eyes devour each weakness.
Humility is placed in dirty pockets.
Like an apple, in the mouth of the fallen.
These sirens call, with whispers and smoke.
Consuming the threads of morals, which catch in their throats.
They will have their way, and destroy all before them.
Collapsing in a sweet undoing.
As we fall to the bottom of the sea.
And they retreat, to shadows and forest of opportunity.
Silence there, and nothing more.

10/05/202009/05/2020 by Mark Ryan Categories: PoetryTags: art, love, luring, lust, ocean, poem, Poetry, regret, sadness, sea, sex, sing, sires, sky, smoke, song, weakness 3 Comments

Underneath the soul

Deep within, you try to touch me.
Pushing aside all the tinsel and tarnish.
A wipe of a tear, and a telescope in.
Putting your hand on my skin.
Forcing me to crack, to burst wide open.
Making way for the river of brutal buried emotion.

29/11/201929/11/2019 by Mark Ryan Categories: kiss, love, Poetry, soulTags: art, body, emotions, kiss, love, loving, poem, Poetry, relationship, river burst, sadness, skin, tinsel, touch 16 Comments