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Orpheus Listens to the Requiem of His Own Undoing  
                (after Leonard Kress)


Orpheus hears his songs played on broken strings,  
A dirge plucked soft by an old man with blight.  
He laughs at this fiasco, cringes as it rings,  
Echoes bending, whispering through trees at night.  

Behind him, nova bass lines swell and roll.  
He imagines the dancers weaving in a line,  
The wading birds now gone—silent in their toll,  
Their scattered iambs left to beachgoers’ time.  

He turns back—loses his time, theirs too.  
He pleads; time will not rewind for beggars.  
He cries; sorrow will not soften, nor undo.  
He sets his vision on a new career—foreteller.  

He fixes his fate, throwing his guitar,  
Its keys, its chords—all song surrendered to riptide’s pulse.
Cadmus Jun 2
🐺

The more I understand man
and what he’s capable of…

the more I am convinced
the wolf was framed

and Little Red
wrote the story.

🧣🧣
Interpretations are often shaped by those who survive to tell the tale. Sometimes, the villain is just the one without a voice.
Ali Hassan May 21
The tongue once lived in sweetest lands,
Where honey dripped like golden sands.
It danced through syrup, soft and wide,
With velvet dreams it could not hide.

Beneath the sky, a sugared sea,
Where flavors danced in harmony.
And every taste, and every sip,
Was joy that melted on the lip

Around it spoke of flavor rare,
Of something rich beyond compare.
“They call it truth,” the voices said,
“Then why’s it left so dark, unsaid?”

The tongue fell still, its sweetness thin,
An itch began to burn within.
“If there is more,” it thought, “I must
Let taste decide what I can trust.”

Curious now, the tongue grew bold,
To chase the myth the whispers told.
With trembling hope, it reached and tried
To sip what others left denied.

But what it found was not delight —
A taste that burned, a wound of bite.
The sugar fled, the silk was torn,
Its buds were seared, then split and torn

The sweetness slipped beyond its reach,
No golden drip to calm or breach.
What once was rich now felt so thin,
As bitterness crept deep within.

It searched again for something sweet,
But found no sugar it could meet.
Its buds, once soft with joy and light,
Now knew but ash and endless night.

The others watched but turned aside,
Their mouths still sweet, their comfort wide.
They offered nothing—not a sound—
Just stayed within their sugared ground.

It whispered low—no choice remained,
To taste the bitter that none had claimed.
Its sweetness gone, the wounds run deep,
Still must it sip—no rest, no sleep
Ellie Hoovs May 21
She was busy counting wolves
conversing with crows
soft and white as a widow's linen.
They scoffed at her,
called her delicate,
only good for stew.
So she dug herself into stories,
buried beneath the noise
let them hunt after the myth of her,
never finding it.  
The forest swallowed her,
dried leaves and damp earth
scented with cinnamon
embracing her bones
in the hush of the underbrush.
She multiplied in silence
beneath the roots,
growing wild
through branches of wildflowers.
The thicket whispers a warning.
The hunters have gone missing,
and the doe-eyed jejune "varmint"
awakens whole, green with breath,
wild,
and never soft again.
I S A A C May 7
everyday is a new knife
inserted into my side
burdened without your eyes
i want you on me like clothes
i need you to fasten my ropes
nobody else knows how i unfold
you grab me with conviction
i cannot resist your temptation
i bathe in you like vacation
do not leave me like calypso
do not wound me with arrows
i’ll be psyche you be eros
Ellie Hoovs May 7
He said my name like an oath.

I said his like a war cry.

We met in the ruins of reason,

and built something holier from chaos.


He wore the moon in his eyes;

silver light and tides that pulled me under.

I gave him the sun,

burned my hands just to keep him warm.


We weren't star-crossed,

we were conjured.

Some cruel myth breathed us alive,

then turned its back and laughed.


We stole time from the fates.

Danced in Hades’ garden,

bathed in river Styx,

stuck out our tongues

as the gods crossed their arms.

He held my soul in his teeth

like a prayer too sacred to swallow.


And when the sky cracked,

we didn’t flinch.

We were the storm and the silence,

the prophecy and the curse.


Let the poets argue if it was love.

Let the priests deny it with trembling hands.

Let the world remember -

we are unforgiven

for making the heavens jealous.
Seeking embrace of the azure expanse,
A dreamer sought warmth, the value of trance.
With wings of hope, towards the sun he soared,
Seeking a freedom so deeply ignored.

Ambition seen sinister, but yet, of youth's call.
To rise above, and never to fall.
The heavens wept, for they knew his price.
For a flight too close to their own paradise.

The mournful sea watched, as his feathers deveined.
Embracing a dare, courage unrestrained.
A tale not of folly, but of a spirit so free.
A reminder of hope against fragility

In his descent, I see my reflection.
A shared desire of unbridled direction.
Not a tale sinister, nor of scorned flight,
But a hymn to the ones still chasing the light.

♦ Đerek Λbraxas ♦
Cadmus Apr 30
[Narrator:]
A bird once flew with joy, chasing the horizon.
But the sky grew heavy, and his wings grew tired.
One evening, he fell by the quiet sea.
A young girl found him, her hands full of dreams.

She knelt by his side and asked:

[The Girl:]
I found you trembling near the dreaming tide,
Your feathers torn as though the heavens cried.
Tell me, worn traveler, where have you flown?
What hunger drove you past the worlds you’ve known?

[The Bird:]
I chased the rim where fire and heavens kiss,
A line of gold no hand can ever miss.
I sang to suns, I danced where eagles dared,
I broke my heart on dreams that never cared.

I rose, I fell, I rose again and bled,
Until the winds unwove the life I led.
The sky, sweet child, is vast, but it forgets;
It makes no grave for those it once begets.

The sky is not a temple, but a field of knives.
The stars you seek will teach you how hope dies.
To fly is to wager all you are and own,
And to be forgotten even by the stone.

Freedom is a flame that eats its own,
A summit where the winds strip flesh from bone.
Dreams build their monuments from broken wings;
Songs leave behind the silence that they bring.

[The Girl:]
I hear the hollow echo in your song,
The mourning stitched between the bright and wrong.
Your wings are altars where the old prayers bled;
Your eyes, a ledger of the tears you’ve shed.

Yet if this is the price that freedom claims,
If every flight must carve itself in flames,
Then I will pay with all I have and more.
Better to burn than to be chained ashore.

[The Bird:]
Bold soul, you walk the edge where light falls blind;
You court the storm that cracks the clearest mind.
I too once roared against the tethered clay,
Believing wings could tear the night away.

But listen:
Not every fall redeems the climb.
Not every song survives the mouth of time.
To dream is to accept both birth and grave,
To build, to lose, to give what none can save.

[The Girl:]
Still would I leap, though cliffs erase my name;
Still would I sing, though silence be my claim.
Let it be said: she lived, and she was free
And when the end came, she did not flee.

If dreams devour, let them feast on me whole;
If stars betray, still shall I bless my soul.
Better to vanish in a sky of flame,
Than bear a life untouched by any name.

[The Bird:]
Then fly, fierce child, into the ruthless blue;
Let winds unmake you, they will make you true.
The sky is cruel but it remembers one:
The heart that dares to burn brighter than the sun.
This poem is a metaphorical tale about a young woman challenging the weight of social traditions and limitations, choosing the perilous beauty of freedom over the safety of conformity.
Dianali Apr 14
And I’m going to make you
so much of a memory,
That you’ll be more of a myth.
Linked somehow,
to the subtle pain
woven in
some parts of my voice.
Barely noticeable,
yet still lingering there.
Legend has it,
every now and then,
just between the happiest
and saddest
words I say,
If you listen carefully,
I’m just
Whispering your name.
A folk tale in my lore
Spirals,
Where have I been?
Chains, blood, flame.

The sun marks me with reverence  
But my eyes were blind to its fire.  
I wandered through the void unnamed;  
A wraith in smoke, a soul for hire.  

I have been sightless for eons,  
The old world forgotten, cruel and bright.  
But light returned like ash to altar;  
Unshackled
from the endless night.  

Where have I been?
These patterns mark my skin;  
Chains once carved, now forged within.  
Where has the darkness gone?
I stare into impermanence  
Through spirals etched in consequence.  
When will I spiral?
Oh gods, when will I spiral?

Celestial fire —  
It bleeds through my tears,  
It scorches my name,
It brands all my fears.

It slips beyond my grasp,  
And still I wait for the return  
Of the spiral I must pass.  

Laughter cracks like ancient stone;  
A sound I've never known.
Weightless now, but bound to pain—  
Who am I, if not the flame?

Spirals… spirals…  
This time around  
I keep my eyes open  
Until the cycle takes me down  
Again…

Laughter cracks like sacred stone;
A sound I've always known, unknown.
Lightless now, yet flame remains—
A self reborn in burning chains.

It slips beyond my grasp,  
And still I wait for the return  
The spiral never truly
Passed.

Spirals… spirals…  
This time around  
I keep my eyes open  
Until the cycle takes me down  
Again…
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