Ruined Worlds

Running away into ruined worlds
Where things can always be fixed
And fears can fly faster than father or brother
And daydreams and dangers are mixed.

A mask of the making of under worth the taking
Can hide away a ravenous soul
But there always are waking demons of the quaking
And demons, they never are full.

Falling down into rabbit holes
Where events don’t have to be fixed
And the failures that follow and the sadness that swallows
Can from life’s booklet be nixed.

It’s a mask of the making of truth that we’re faking
To take on a different role
But we never are slaking thirsts of demons we’re making
To be the villains that make our play whole.

Through a Glass, Darkly

I stopped looking for the light
When I first saw my own reflection,
The monstrous blood that runs in me
Inspiring defection.
I traded in my cloaks, I thought,
For the safety of the dark;
For every deed I wished I’d done
Became a wishful murder mark.
But still every wicked battle
That I tried to keep within myself,
And all the many poisons
I reserved for tainting my own health,
Have spilled into the sunlight now
With a sizzle and a splash,
Gone through every opening
I only thought of as a gash.


I have watched several people
Watch the years slip through their hands
And all the days I’m hardly counting
Are grains of the same sand
So, I can say I know the future
And it’s even somewhat true
Because I’ve watched the sands of time
And I’ve seen nothing new.

Mental Meanderings

I am running away again;
Every question is an answer
To the problems in my head.
There’s too much in the world today
That doesn’t seem quite right,
And I must face (or else fly from)
The fact I’m not a light.
I keep looking at paths forward
And I see too many lies;
The trouble with an honest liar
Is it always comes as a surprise
When the people who should be telling truths
Are telling you what face goes best with ties,
And like something that could be boxed,
They go ahead and advertise
The person that you ought to be
To fit into the largest mold.
But I’m afraid a world like that
For me, is just too cold;
Something in me rails against
The lies we’re asked to tell.
I tell the ones I need to;
But there’s none I mean to sell.


Outside, the world is burning
And the moon has stopped its turning
And all that’s left of yearning
Is the hunger of the beasts

Outside, their moans defying
The sirens that now are dying;
Inside, the only thing that’s trying
Is why so much has ceased.


I know that there’s a middle ground
But I’ll be damned if I know where
I’m either swallowed by the oceans
Or drowned in too much air

I want to find the place
Where I know I need to be
But I can’t navigate myself
As well as everybody

Still, I want to find my way
Without turning into stone
Because while it hurts to carry everything
It hurts more to be alone.


Does it make me immature
To always play the fool?
Does it make me somehow less
To play by your own rules?
Am I supposed to make it out
Like what is said is not a wall?
Am I supposed to never cry
Or feel anything at all?
No matter if I hear anger
In every other breath;
No matter if my father
Jokes of his own death;
No matter is supposed to be
Beyond my reckoning:
I’m supposed to somehow know this world
That I have never seen.
To know the foolishness of man —
Is that maturity?
If so, I’ve had my fill
And I beg you let me be.

The Inkwell: Cynric’s Rumination, and a Piece of the Past

I was supposed to do this last month, with this entry inspired by/including the word “revolution…” Goldie, who I’m borrowing these prompts from, already has done the entry for March… which… is almost over, isn’t it? I feel like now would be a good time to mention that I’m terrible with time. Anyway, if you care to, you can find the story that this is an extension of here.


Cynric’s Rumination:

“It starts like this, little sister:
With a silent, failing song
And we find we know the steps
And we start to sing along

And people call it revolution
As if it’s something new
But it’s as old as the world
And even older too

See, here comes the crescendo:
If we can keep in time
Then perhaps we’ll solve this mystery
And might one day solve mine.”


20 years ago:

The little girl screamed and screamed as her father’s hand, open or closed, found her brother’s head again and again. She cried and begged for the ten year-old’s sake, pleading for the staying of her father’s drunken rage. But in his red-tinted eyes, he saw only her age; not the age that he and a bitter world had made her, but the one that told him she was three years more of a child than the small monster upon which he now poured his temper.

“You’re no son of mine!” slurred the drunken man, smacking the boy again, who inched fearfully backwards. “You’re the devil’s son, you are!” Another blow, another retreat. “If your mother were alive, I’d throw you into the fire, spare her the pain of having to see the beast that you are!”

At the words ‘your mother,’ the boy froze, and fear gave way to fire. He became aware that he was standing just before the furnace, and at his father’s words, something rose up within him. “Do it, then,” the boy hissed, and for a moment he felt he might truly be some son of the devil. But he went onward, the words spilling out almost before he was aware of them. “If you were more of a man you might, but you’re not. You’re a coward and a fool. She’s dead, because you’re weak.”

The room went deadly silent as they stared at each other, the one with such a look as made the other flinch, the other with eyes that grew wider with each second that passed. “You really are a monster,” whispered the latter, horror slowly dawning into righteous anger. He went into motion, grabbing the boy by the collar, thrusting him into the furnace and shutting him in. There came up screams like a howl, and they seemed to go on and on as the father staggered backward, hand over his mouth. The little girl stared in shock, tears spent, as her brother’s screams finally died off.

The drunken man, much sobered now, turned toward his daughter. His eyes softened at her pitiful countenance, and he took a step towards her. She flinched. “It’s alright, Joy,” he said, coming closer, beckoning. “It’ll be alright, just come to me, child.” She shook her head, tears finding their way to her eyes again.

“I had a dream,” she whispered. “You tried to hurt me… But Cynric saved me.” She looked up at her father. “He was all burned up.”

“You…” The man groaned, a sound like a strangled animal; something faded from his eyes. “You too?” He grabbed a length of pipe from a nearby table, debris from a project he never began. “I see now,” he said, nodding sagely. “I should have done this before. Demon children, both of you.” He took a step forward. Then another, and another. Her fear was a glue that held her to the wall as he approached, and she sat crouched, shaking, when the first blow came. It hit her on the head and knocked her sideways, and the next she was aware she was on the ground, helpless as the second blow came down upon her side, accompanied by a cracking sound and a terrible pain.

Consciousness was beginning to take on sand-like qualities; but she looked up, and the last thing she saw was her father’s slumping body, and her brother standing behind him, clothing — what remained — in burnt tatters, a bloody knife in hand.


All the questions cropping up
Of the futures that could be
They gather like an army
Far as the eye can see

The siege now here upon me
I tremble as they come
No walls can stand against them
That time, I fear, is done.


I am deaf when you speak
Because all I hear is tension
And I am dumb when you judge me meek
Because some things aren’t worth the mention
I am cold because my heat
Has potential to cause harm
And if you think me chaff and you the wheat
Then why do you demand — and scorn — alarm?