Under darkening skies

That world collapsed, utterly and completely late in his afternoon.
The pulse had stuttered, and the creatures in his mind silenced.
He’d finally reached a point of no return.
A cataclysmic undoing began deep inside his history.
Memories and actions unthreaded, while the skin began to fray.
Tiny tiptoes of bitterness and bittersweetness.
Both at odds and as one with the machine of fate.
He positioned himself by the near chaotic escape.
Leaning on the universe one final time.
Smiling, he watched those he hated pass by with ink spilling from their soul.
Unphased and unfettered by his sudden disappearance.
The loved ones paused, only for a moment, noticing a slight change.
Like a feather landing on an upturned hand.
And then gone, swept away by the breath of god.
His spirit now honey, raised upwards.
He lost his religion, the tethers and the trials.
And with this new found lowness, he rose; abound.
A million shards of light, to blind the worlds unblinking eye.

11/05/202311/05/2023 by Mark Ryan Categories: death, ending, godTags: art, death, end, ending, god, hate, loved, low, poem, Poetry, rapture, skies, skin, words, writing 7 Comments

Justified defender

Always uncertain, lulled by the sense of apologetic adjusting.
Words percolate in my mouth.
Hissing and firing unreasons in my mind.
Benign to you.
Inflammatory to me.
My sensibilities caught once more in a straightjacket.
Why do I struggle to speak what’s inside.
When I know you’ll love me still.
These thoughts, born still from being transcendental.
Cared and caring of your own thin skin.
But with your over-functioning and unrelenting.
I risk receiving hands washed clean and silence.
Placing you pedestalled, I swallow once more these contusions.
For fear of reprisal.
Of objectivity.
Of abandonment.

07/05/2023 by Mark Ryan Categories: abadnonment, mad, wordsTags: abadnonment, art, compromise, defending, dialogue, mad, maddening, poem, Poetry, speak, straighjacket, talk, words, writing 10 Comments

The Smoking nun

God’s grace, bathed in divine light.
Casting gold over cracking skin and fallen vows.
The vessel inside, so empty at the beginning.
Now overflows like a cup of human kindness.
What troubles does she have at the seat of the saints?
What ails her heart that cannot be soothed?
Sweet words from Jesus must mend the wound.
She smiles at a knowing, a celestial secret.
Whispered to her in the musky wooden rooms of god.
All this is but temporal.
All pain is marginal.
Your being is relative to the consciousness you invoke.
So why does she smoke?

14/12/202226/05/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: god, religion, smokeTags: art, divine, god, healing, heaven, human, jesus, kindness, life, meaning, nun, poem, Poetry, words, wound 6 Comments

Operating as an individual being of consciousness

He came to this world, alone. Hoping to find all that he ever wanted.
His eyes were dusted, by moon flecks and divine difference.
The blood that coursed within, seemed shared at first. Red, like the mottled sickly streams he had seen elsewhere. Those rivers of regret he had touched with his fingers. Sticking his hand into their hearts.
Wanting to be their reason not to, or one that forced them on.
He crowned himself, and wore a smile that betrayed the sadness within.
Oh how they came, flooding his eyes like a tsunami unleashed from desperation. Some waved him by, eager to remain on their little universe of self. Not ready to let anyone inside to wreak havoc.
All this crumbled of course, as the crown melted in the light. And the skin was seen to be what it was, paper thin and reading words of yesterday.
So he tried to leave, but they would not let him. They ground his bones into finer feelings and swallowed them in great gushes of fear. He tasted of wine and tomorrow. In the aftertaste of a paradise, clinging to their mouths and minds.
He could’ve stayed there, slipping slowly into the bloodstream. But he knew, as he’d always known, that he would need to leave.
And the wooden stones that now bear his name, in a likeness painted in heady pastel colours, his spirit lingers.
But his soul has long since gone.
Returned, like we all must, to where it belongs.

01/03/202201/03/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: blood, moon, tomorrowTags: art, blood, bloodstream, divine, dust, ending, hurried, hurt, moon, poem, Poetry, red, space, time, tomorrow, universe, words 2 Comments

Eyes wet and open

Timid and quivering.
Frightened once more by the darkness.
The cave of self looms and lures.
Hissing out in words spoken from lips.
Those once thought as delicate and kissed.
Cracks appear, and the light vanishes.
Heaving of stone, that misplaced affection.
An internal echo of loneliness.
What threatens was the dismantling of love.
Held behind glass to taunt and tempt.
But never touch.
I love you, though I see the dagger.
And I fear nothing of the after.
Only the fact I shall be there alone.

26/02/202226/02/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: death, hurt, kissTags: art, death, eyes, forever, hurt, kiss, lips, love, pain, poem, Poetry, tears, words 6 Comments