I pity thy facade.
Caked layers of makeup.
Two faces, twice the work.
Masking. Hiding. Deceit.
Outward lie.
Apply. Shroud.
Cloak. Comply.
Deny tears.
Features die.
* 'The Pirouette Poetry Contest'
* Sponsored by: Suzette Richards
* Entered on: 09/05/2025
I fell in love with a dangerous man,
a man whose shadow walked ahead of him,
whose eyes carried the silence
of graves unmarked.
He spoke in the language of fire,
his whispers smelt of blood and incense,
and when he touched me,
I felt the trembling of spirits
too ancient to name.
His love was not tender
it was sacrifice,
it was ritual,
it was the smoke curling from midnight altars
where I stood trembling,
offering my heart
like the lamb that bleeds without protest.
I should have run
but desire bound me tighter than rope,
drawn to his darkness
as if my soul was already promised.
Now, when the moon rises,
I hear his chants in my veins,
and the night itself bends
to the memory of his hands.
To love him was to be devoured,
to drown in a river
where no prayers reach the surface.
And yet...
even in the ruin of myself,
I ache for him still,
for the man of rituals
who taught me that love
can taste like death
and still be sweeter than life.??
I have rituals
for the first day of class
like a superstitious athlete
they get me into a good frame of mind
where I feel like a juggernaut who has total agency
and I don’t need to seek validation
It’s a moment in time
I have all my books—stacked on my desk
they look serious—very nuts and bolts
I’ve beaten the syllabuses to death
to try to figure out where my power lies
learning is all energy, it’s a marathon
it’s hard to sustain that for the entire semester
so not switching off, now and then, is unrealistic
Still, I’m comfy in in a classroom (I’m a senior)
Good students are just a little weird.
I say hello to the moon so she won’t feel alone
I say ‘cheers,” before taking a shot of mouthwash.
If I lose my ID, my lucky pencil or something, I call out, “treasure hunt!”
When treating everyone to grubHub I ask, ‘the usual?’ When we’re done I ask, ‘how was everything this evening?’
If I see a random girl looking fabulous, I tell her, because if I get complimented, I think about it for a week.
.
.
A song for this:
Thetan by Single Gun Theory
They, the idols who have the right given by you to dispose of your own soul, offer to admire their wise reflections, but do not offer to share their wisdom with them. They don't want you to be on the same level of insight. This is the real culture, derived from the word "cult" - you are allowed to admire, but you cannot touch it, or even come too close. It's a temple value, and it's not for everyone. Only for initiates who know the unwritten rules and rituals. Protected by the state, this plug is invisibly nailed to every object of worship, be it music or painting. But the state is not the best custodian, so only the maniac collectors can provide genuine guarantees of safety that last as long as they are alive. When there are no passionate lovers, both passion and its once adored objects disappear.
Have you ever pretended a guy was interesting?
Have you slow danced and let him sniff you up close?
I gives you somewhere to go, if you decide to.
Or given a little kiss—nothing slutty in that.
You know, a 'person' isn’t a good kisser - it takes two.
I’m not talking about me, of course.
There’s a two-way interrogation going on
complete with our own internal narratives
—we reenact it’s rituals in the strangest places
like quiet libraries or the lerch and spin of a dance club
we process by analogy and approximation and it works
until it doesn’t, like cold water poured into a glass.
Then we settle back into the dull rhythms of study
I’m not talking about me, of course.
.
.
Songs for this:
Loveland by The Blenders
Human Nature by Mitchell Brunings
What stemmed from a mystic romantic tale
The Lack of love and endearment inspires me
Nothing other then this another classic speak
In the tone of a voice one wants to hear
soothing and sensual the perfection of study
Muddy road, the tracks of a wobbling wheel
brisk chilly evening winds glazing the tempered feel
Glistening skies it's Christmas Eve
Loneliness my warm blanket a sweetened confection for me to eat
Filled with sunny day rituals,
we are a sampling of the craft;
The bourgeoisie will call us fools,
filled with sunny day rituals;
Magical keys and safety tools,
duplicitous sides come off daft;
Filled with sunny day rituals,
we are a sampling of the craft.
They forbid my travels, and money transfers
A hostage of criminal times
To all that is negative I am immersed
Expectedly drowning in wine
You are lucky to stay at the positive side
It’s an obvious thing to admit
A sort of dialectical suiside
Which I often forget to commit
Exhausted, I’m lying in bed the whole day
Eyes closed, but I’m not sleeping
It’s the rehearsal of rest and I play
My part, till the darkness creeps in
Then I see multicoloured ripples
Through the water they drift me away
The moleculas dance happy rituals
Escourt me to where I should lay.
Love Letter
Courting a Black Widow Spider
I do admire your knitting skills
The sight of your cobweb fills me with thrills
Your hourglass figure glowing red
has never gripped my heart with dread
The sight of you a passion rare instills
So I could never believe, as I view fresh kills
that the day we wed, I’ll be next day’s meals
the nuclear snakes
slither into disaster
warheads waiting
in the dithering wings
~~~!~~~X~~~#~~~>>>
light explodes
darkness erupts
fiery projectiles
obliterate without mercy
the reptilian warlords
fumble through flames
apocalypse waiting
amid withering declarations
movie about
Preparing the dead
Was moving
In so many ways
It celebrates life
And the beauty contained
As a heart wrending
Story relays
My favorite scene
Is the one
Where they feast
After closing up shop for the day
As one of the
Leading men
Gorges himself
He looks at his partner to say
I hate myself !
The embracing of
Life so voraciously
After dealing with death
And it's sting
Fills the viewer
With hope
As for answers they grope
As to if their own lives mean a thing
Though it's written
That we
On the scales
Are mere dust
This observation
I've
Come to trust
He sees me!
No Exit
musicians hide behind scarring sounds
beyond madness
beyond folly
beyond Somewhere Everywhere
dance with delirious determination
through fragments of melodious folly
dissonant dulcimers declare
repetitive chords
within punctuated digital drones
repetitive beyond vibration
vibrating beyond repetition
percussive rituals vibrate
beyond inflated vaudevillians
mutating into
mad cacophonous comedic collisions
rituals beyond vibrating cacophony
rituals behind chaotic vibrations
deranged vibraphones
denounce
fragments of repetitive visions
mindful of mindless
Exits
Covered in shadow
White to light
She is married
To the night
...yet she claims
I am owner
I am might
I have won
It's my right
...to rule man
Androgynous
When at war
A goddess
No more
...to appease appetite
Kings and Queens
Bound to glory
They honor and venerate
Her ancient story
...empty womb
Written by Trudy Schrader on 07/26/2020
I took off on a journey to the abyss of their eyes
not once where dawn bestowed upon my skies
and nights kept adding on the count
and vows continued to mount
one after another and more the rituals taunt
till the heart even just a bit bloomed
and tears for even once could stop to gloom
and all directions upon me converged to one
I sank in single direction like setting sun
even today this mind stopped but at their memory
beaten heart still quivers at nights to their scenery
falling gazes climbed confused a road anguished
Alas! Not a day gone by not living not wished
even death became an idea difficult to tug
lost in thoughts of dying in their last hug
Endless tunnels lead me, to dim corners of strange dimensions
Floating with waves to infinity, loops curling me to shores
I lose the stories seen, in witty rituals of my mind.
May 23, 2020
Let the Pens Flow - Sijo Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Jenish Somadas
~Winner: First Place
BRIAN'S select D,any form,any theme Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
~Winner: Third Place
Related Poems