Playmates--yet another journal poem

The sun brightens again,
tearing the night from her sleepless
cold rage.
Another bleary morn breaks.
Playmates have all gone to bed,
after one more strand
of squeaking false victimhoods--
prancing, swishing, swaying, neighing
to her captive audience--
as I lay poetry,
lines vibrating as fingers reach
for keys in vain.
Out, out damned spot,
let the bloody voice find air
so that I can scream
and get it over with.

The blissful hiss of the Muse
whispers, echoing the lessons
dredged from deep wells,
a dim dreamy radiance
now remembered.
Tomorrow's eve will find
one more priestess returned
to rejoice in her Mother Moon--
only a few more clicks,
keystrokes pushing the Cancerian emotions
back within their natural element,
padlocking the casing
as they have yet to be earned.

Unrestrained...another "journal poem"

It's just a cage,
I remind myself,
a play of metal and gothic
baubles, swinging fancifully
from a wrought iron branch
in a thespian's paradise.
Just a cage...
a figment of someone's fantasy,
brought to life by a welder's torch,
artfully antiqued,
and ready for whatever plaything
might be willing to sit.
Yet, I cannot deny
the heart's flutter at its sight,
memory whispers on the breeze
of a Fate that was so nearly mine,
entombed, entwined
in bronze tresses spun too tight.
So long ago, yet it stands so near,
my shadowed self,
the one that when pushed too far,
died only to be resurrected,
a watery phoenix.
Just a cage...
but a coffin of what could have been.

Into the Metaverse

This is what I'd consider a "journal poem"--written in the heat of the Muse's strike and has had little if any editing done as of yet.

I've almost lost it once, so I'm posting it here, for safe keeping. :)


_____________

Into the Metaverse

Through bloodshot eyes and caffiene-trembled fingers
black letters, symbols, appear on the screen,
not quite knowing what will come next--
what emotion will spring forth
expressing itself through a still face
a visage of ivory, emerald eyes
pixel-painted lips
somehow holding the sacred river
that is myself.
What is this new music I create?
This reality that--isn't?
Swirling, whirling, churling
the dance goes on,
prims and pixels meeting,
colliding and mingling--
the wild throb of a vessel
torn from reality,
placed into a captured dream.
What is reality, anymore?
We are but a world away from spirit,
a shimmer, glimmering somewhere
deep in the mind's eye,
shadows of eons past,
the servants of that eternal sleep
awaken and play themselves out
through scripts and streams
pulling my source onto the screen,
seeming so much closer
and yet, further away.