All Together

photo credit: quirkybird Goddess Series: Ma’at via photopin (license)

Stripped of everything but my soul,
Naked, nothing left to identify my mortal remains
But the record of my conduct here on earth.
All accoutrements of wealth, all holy symbols of my false religions,
All gone now.
All shields, all swords, I’ll have no more protections.
No magic spells are left to save me
Just an account of my actions
Where they weigh a feather against my sins.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

The Deaths

photo credit: Tortured Mind Dark alleys of Xibalba via photopin (license)

Plumbing the deaths

Falling to pieces,

This virus

Infecting us all.

This entropy

Interconnectivity

Escaping my soul.

This sickness

Modern madness

Crime waves

Pandemic

In the DNA

Of society –

About to tumble

And fall.

The faceless

And the faithless,

Mood music

To soundtrack

The riot.

Choreographing the violence

Over and over

Until we get it right.

Or we forget what’s right,

Loosening our grip on reality

The will to fight.

To all that is left is this decay,

Neurons misfiring

And demons crying

Over and over,

Until you get on your knees and pray.

For the seizures to free your soul

Or the inevitability;

The deaths to conquer us all.

 

Quote from ‘High Rise’ by JG Ballard. Art ‘ The Music from the Balconies’ by Edward Ruscha. Photo by me!

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 20 April 2017

Democracy of One

Here we are with Day 10 of my review of the last 12 months and here we have a poem about being true and honest with yourself …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: jDevaun.Photography Being via photopin (license) photo credit: jDevaun.Photography Being via photopin(license)

This is my voice
And it is wrong
More often than
It is right,
I accept that.
I accept this
Mortal fallibility.
It would be wrong
To deny it.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Democracy of One

photo credit: jDevaun.Photography Being via photopin (license)

photo credit: jDevaun.Photography Being via photopin (license)

This is my voice
And it is wrong
More often than
It is right,
I accept that.
I accept this
Mortal fallibility.
It would be wrong
To deny it.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Bodies

Day 13 of my review and a poem about the things in the darkness…

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: - via photopin (license) photo credit: via photopin(license)

Floating, floating
In the darkness
Of the forever night,
The silence
Is within me
My touch like ice.

Floating, floating
On this ocean
Abandoned
By the land.
Retreated
Beneath the waves
To escape the jealous
Touch of man.

This death song,
Its kiss of chaos,
Floating With the driftwood
On this midnight sea.
Floating, forever floating
Amongst the bodies
Silently mouthing
Their requiem

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Bodies

photo credit: - via photopin (license)

photo credit: via photopin (license)

Floating, floating
In the darkness
Of the forever night,
The silence
Is within me
My touch like ice.

Floating, floating
On this ocean
Abandoned
By the land.
Retreated
Beneath the waves
To escape the jealous
Touch of man.

This death song,
Its kiss of chaos,
Floating With the driftwood
On this midnight sea.
Floating, forever floating
Amongst the bodies
Silently mouthing
Their requiem

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.