I clothe myself in Arcanity
My specialty is words
That sheer veil of profundity
A darkened, brooding mystery
Arguments on semantics
Devolve into circularity
On alarming regularity
Layers of profanity ruffle and
Lace uncannily riles timed
Departures of my perfectly
Formed cantos
Followed by lengthy
Gesticulating pleas
The impassioned
Flexing equivalent
Of down upon my knees
Scraping at the edges
Peeling pages free
Swaying ecstatic, fervor-bound
Reading the words
Directly from the folds
Of the grey matter
Atrophying as you read
My final words
Inscribed by my own hands
In the spilled crimson ink
Aorta opened in desperation
For the secret words
My soul keeps hidden
Primarily from me
Inside the canals of
Sanguine heartbreak
I paddle, searching
For any silence within
My seemingly endless
Crackling chatter splashes
Drying a creepy sour green
K.B. Silver
About the Creator
K.B. Silver
K.B. Silver has poems published in magazine Wishbone Words, and lit journals: Sheepshead Review, New Note Poetry, Twisted Vine, Avant Appa[achia, Plants and Poetry, recordings in Stanza Cannon, and pieces in Wingless Dreamer anthologies.
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CH 22~ Working Vacation
With only two weeks remaining before school began, a combination of mission and vacation was exactly what the Queen ordered. Azure and the rest of her team stomped into the house, Cinnamon included, after their most recent appointment, and Azure called Frannie and Argento down for a “family meeting,” more of an announcement really.
By K.B. Silver Exclusive • 2 days ago
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 6 hours ago in Poets
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