Internal Conflict (Prose)

As hours rise above the façade, abraded skin sheds, silence is a slow rumbling railway track. I pray to no longer hide behind the cloudy things I write and say. Every tremor, murmur, bump, raises blonde hairs on anemic arms. It’s so fucking painful to dwell in hell, memories of you, to live as a woven shell of crafted lies. I die in between breaths, push to purge all the broken things, and so I write until you or I win the war.

Copyright © 2018 – Brian Nettles. All Rights Reserved

Photo by Alvin Decena from Pexels

Ms. Liberty

Her breasts pushed up against my chest,
attentive as a midnight blossom;
transmuted reality adorned a pink halo
in the perfection of horizontal plains.

Flesh, immortalized, arched on a cross
as ambitious orbs surveyed Eden;
wrapped in star-born sheets
the bliss of heavenly bodies roared.

Black Waves

Dreary clouds overhead, howl and drone,
as evergreens whistle in minacious winds;
street lamps slam and clang against metal,
as damp roads empty against dusk.

Gaia’s heavy breath weighs down upon flatlands,
shadows walk slowly in puce terraces,
songs of thunder rage to tempest terrors,
as dark skies chant of war, churning the sea inside.

Ghosts of yesterday rise with mocking voices,
lightning rips and flashes in obsidian eyes.
Feeble jeers fade beneath hurried taps of rain
as black waves arrive to carry me home.

Copyright © 2018 – Brian Nettles. All Rights Reserved

Photo Credit: Pixabay