Featured art by Maren Klemp. Click title image to visit her studio.

Listen to Live Reading

Listen to Suggested Audio

Phaeleh (feat. Augustus Ghost) “Whistling in the Dark”

She had reached a standstill
The treadmill creaked
Her face was white and peaked
Replete with sense of ill
Life had bled her will
To see her discord spill bereft of thrill
For perched upon her window sill
The lovebirds were deferred of trill
She felt alone
Of fate unknown
Of faith outgrown
Of vacant glow
No hope afloat
All dreams obscene
Tomorrow set no scene

Her labyrinthine mind confided pious tales of e’er declining scale
For each detail, her skin then paled
Rescinded sails midst fitful gale
To further sink beneath the veil
With flustered brow and rusted mail
Lacklustre were the dreams once billowing akin to peacock’s tail
Life would surely change
If only angels could prevail
Through flesh and blood undone when desperately weak and frail

Life had such meaning when she was a girl
Back when her hair dressed a natural curl
Purer than pearl
Standard bearer for mirth
First to declare unperturbed sense of worth
Excited by birthright to see what was planned
The kingdom before her was scenic and grand
Encyclopaedic of both voice and hand
No weakness untreated
No blood in the sand
Too young to understand the hardships she would need withstand
Blest be this noble of open sprawl land

Hunched beneath the willow wept with head in trembled hands
She dreamt of being eight again
Returned to secret place again
Between twin trees
Succeeded breeze
That whipped a frenzied twist of leaves
Lulled to calm the distant seas
Disarmed against contingency
Engineered a single leap
Then fearlessly fell deep asleep
The kind that’s neither here nor there inclined, yet every fibre in-between
Awoke bespoke of industry and keen

The treadmill still creaked
Howbeit, her face was nowise quite so white or so peaked
Even with the heavy bleed, she felt scarce need to whimper
Bleak midwinter chided not the child that died within her
Nights would grow bitter and tears would flow freely
Yet, never one time would her newborn skin blister
For so many years it appeared not to fit her
Until she stepped in more sincerely

Nary had she felt such thrill
For perched upon her window sill
Were pair of virgin lovebirds undettered of fervered trill
She felt seen
Of destiny tween
Of faithful reprieve
To a vacant glow chambered by dangerous thieves
Hope afloat
Every sweet dream obscene
Tomorrow came
She then bedecked her scene

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

Click here to purchase All of Me Vol. I, II, III, IV, V & VI

Click here to purchase on Amazon

© Copyright: Rivers of Grue™ Shadow Spark Publishing™