The Grim Reaper’s Dream
by Serena Mossgraves
As though life was unreachable
the reaper dreams of what is
naught for them, someone to lead them
towards a paradise to rest in.
Kindness misbegotten,
the reaper realizes…
Dreams were ne’er meant
to be had.
Bohemian
I've been a thousand places
I don't know where I'm going
It's hard to find a place to call home
Every demon, every ghost from your pastAnd every memory you've held backFollows you home
Oh, home, let me come home
Home is wherever I'm with you
I'll go wherever you will go
And it don't look like
I'll ever stop my wandering
I've been down every road
Felt the sun, I've felt the cold
This is a cut poem for the volume Lyrical Recycling,
a cut poetry volume.
Bohemian Songs :
battle born by five finger death punch, nobody drinks alone by Keith Urban, Home by Edward Sharpe and the magnetic zeros, wandering by James Taylor, Home is You by Rozes, wherever you will go by the calling
Grief is Alive
by Serena Mossgraves
it slithers through your soul
eating, biting, devouring,
as it goes…
Grief is a creature
buried deep within,
alive and borrowing.
when the world closed in on me
I needed you so desperately,
I kept looking at the phone
wondering if you would be
there if I were to call,
if I asked would you be
there for me at all ?
Perhaps that's my mistake
I counted on you ever
to be the one I could count on.
I needed you,
and hope was gone.
Decay
by Serena Mossgraves
the body falls apart
decay setting in
age builds more
pain in decay…
I live in the decaying temple
that I I built in a soul
made of tragedy
and fighting for myself.
So quickly my whole world shattered
the results are in from the test,
you told us years ago
that you needed to be free,
and now there's a problem...
It is nothing new
doctors always doubt,
health is just a cost
and how much money
you are able to throw about.
Midnight Conversations
by Serena Mossgraves
In the wee hours
when life comes forlorn,
speaking with ghosts
of memory seems to be
the one comforting
thing to hold on.
midnight Conversations
with moments of the past,
seem to set to rest
the worries of my life.
the madness is but a whisper
that speaks to the chaos within,
tis okay though ... for as long as you
keep going forward and and don't give up,
it'll all make sense in the end.
the world will always have chaos
madness and drama to forge
the dreams into what makes
sense in the end
Little Deaths
by Serena Mossgraves
how many times
can a man die,
each little death
a monument to
the life they have lived.
Nothing so strong as needing
a coffin for burial or cremation…
still each death a moment
that affected how life was
continued from there on.
in the mind's bouquet
mine seems to be
gathered wildflowers
wrapped around
belladonna and foxglove.
Irises and daisies,
violets for sure...
a collection of strange
that suits me so well.
soft, lovely, and deadly,
with beauty to spare.
Pattimouse 