artisticflarings.blog · Ekphrastic Poetry · Healing · Martha's Artistic Flarings · Original Digital Art · Poem · Poetry

Dark Apostle

Rising shadows of flames,

dressed in deep void, I arrive

to burn the bramble of your complacent life.

You hide inside this clay façade,

live for self in idle pleasure,

slumber in this carcass

of addiction and desire.

 

I hold you down as you writhe in agony,

thrive on your muffled screams.

You smolder in my odious breath.

My laughter, cackling flames.

You recoil, gasping for prayer,

rebuking this demon

and fear that this blood fire

is your last sunrise. Confess,

 

I fascinate you.

Though cast to the raging depths,

I still rise, a dark angel.

Not all wings are lucent.

This charred cloak is age old,

frayed by lies, greed, addictions.

 

Inferno flames are still divine.

I am the instigator, the phantom fire

plundering your earth

to crack open your seed

and hasten your growth.

 

For this you need me, Dark Apostle,

the harbinger sent to alarm and awaken,

to jolt you from trance

into rebirth.

 

revised The Dark Apostle 05/12/2020

©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog; meelosmom.podbean.com (Poetry: The Memoir of the Soul)

Image: “The Devil’s in the Details”, original digital art, ©Martha Harris. See Martha’s Artistic Flarings@artisticflarings.blog

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

artisticflarings.blog · Ekphrastic Poetry · Healing · Martha's Artistic Flarings · Original Digital Art · Poem · Poetry

Dark Apostle

Rising shadows of flames,

dressed in deep void, I arrive

to burn the bramble of your complacent life.

You hide inside this clay façade,

live for self in idle pleasure,

slumber in this carcass

of addiction and desire.

 

I hold you down as you writhe in agony,

thrive on your muffled screams.

You smolder in my odious breath.

My laughter, cackling flames.

You recoil, gasping for prayer,

rebuking this demon

and fear that this blood fire

is your last sunrise. Confess,

 

I fascinate you.

Though cast to the raging depths,

I still rise, a dark angel.

Not all wings are lucent.

This charred cloak is age old,

frayed by lies, greed, addictions.

 

Inferno flames are still divine.

I am the instigator, the phantom fire

plundering your earth

to crack open your seed

and hasten your growth.

 

For this you need me, Dark Apostle,

the harbinger sent to alarm and awaken,

to jolt you from trance

into rebirth.

 

revised The Dark Apostle 05/12/2020

©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog; meelosmom.podbean.com (Poetry: The Memoir of the Soul)

Image: “The Devil’s in the Details”, original digital art, ©Martha Harris. See Martha’s Artistic Flarings@artisticflarings.blog

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Audio · Poem · Poetry

To Write a Poem

To write a poem

You must pretend to sleep,

Sitting up

With a pen,

For if you jump up

To catch the Muse,

All is washed away

Like a dream upon awakening.

There are no better lines

Than those in dreams.

Sleep opens to visions and

Images to truths untold as dreams slip

Into the darkness of the rising sun.

Trance is a collage of words

Dissipating in a fog if jostled,

Fluttering like butterflies

Caught in a net ready to escape.

Mindless chatter forming maxims

Quenched by quiet rumination,

Taking form in rhyme and meter.

In dreams the Muse tells secrets.

Poets can never sleep.

 

Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: Pixabay.com