Sunday confessions, cat

Each bead

thumbed in reverence

not with prayer

but with each burning desire

that begins

with your name.

.

Sunday

kneeling

wafer upon my tongue

a prayer in my head

as I imagine your taste.

.

These days

he becomes the starting

and ending words

of my Sunday confessions.

.

No sooner have I confessed

and repented

than he has me on my knees.

Sinning.

Again.

Each defilement

glorious

violent

and dark. 

.

Confess to me.

Satisfy your sins

along every silken inch of skin.

My curves

your path

of destruction

of salvation.

Amen.

:

*Another instalment in my Sunday confessions.

©SirenSong1208

Photograph taken from Pinterest

 

 

 

Music of rain

Raindrops have their own music

In this symphony of rain

The initial movement is undoubtedly

Allegro agitato

The rain

Fast and angry

Making a statement

Making an entrance

This eases into andante

But the rain

When there is a storm

Never starts with one tempo and ends with another

There is a continual accelerando and ritardando 

Fast

Slow

Fast

Slow

Until the heavens empty of their anger

The sky clears

And the sun comes out

 :

*Written two years ago but as I watch and wait for the rain it seemed a perfect time to repost.

©SirenSong1208

Photo taken from Pinterest, original provenance unknown.

Flowering beauty

Every thought

a seed planted,

watered with attention,

becoming the flowering beauty

of words spread across the page.

Giving colour and image

vibrancy and warmth

to the pristine façade

of an otherwise

monochromatic life.

#AprilFalls

:

©SirenSong1208

Photograph taken from the internet, original provenance unknown.

If it is yours please let me know and I will remove or credit.

Luminary

Hope is a luminary 

she sets alight

and frees into the night air

watching the light as it travels

following its path

believing in its brightness

finding the unexpected storm

that blows the flame out

in a single burst

casting her into darkness

leaving her to search

for that flicker

the hope that she had

a purity of faith

that would right her perspective

that would calm her soul

that would make her remember

and believe

that there is good that happens

after all

:

©SirenSong1208

Photograph taken from Pinterest

Red poppies

Fields of red poppies

Litter the landscape of my soul

Composed bleeding

Never a mess to be found

Yet the color gives voice to pain

To the wrenching hurt

Of being meticulously cut

A thousand silent times

Never noticed

My face ashen

As pretty poetry takes

My life blood

#AprilFalls

:

©SirenSong1208

Artwork by Moey

How the night moves

She loves how the night moves

How it curls itself

Around her

Softly caressing

The inky, velvety black darkness

So still

So quiet

Whisper soft

Allowing her thoughts

To rove and ramble

To be free

To breathe

:

*Written two years ago but I still adore the night, and how it moves.

©SirenSong1208

Photo taken from WhiteNoten

Amaranthine

It was a moment suspended in time,

one she returned to again and again.

As brilliant as the brightest star

shining in her midnight sky,

it became an amaranthine memory,

neither waxing nor waning

as the moon

but perpetual as the ocean’s tides.

Her fingers traced its outline

reminiscing,

the heat captured within

warming her

still

its colours remaining true

through time.

#AprilFalls

:

©SirenSong1208

Image taken from Beautymothernature.tumblr