it is a stage, an arena for the drama

of love, of lust, of death, of lukewarm

pain mingled in the milk that you sip

every night, licking the remnant mirth

that which still remains in tears of Pompeii

ash, ash, ash, I see ash, I kiss sublime art

of the fates, renewing with every birth

arriving with scars one can not erase,

one can see how it streamed, the lava

ravishing every sinew, skin and shirt,

it is a stage, an arena, above and under,

where past reels its role in the blessed lore


For Oloriel’s Poetry Prompt at We Drink Because We’re Poets, where the task is to write a reverse acrostic using one of the words suggested.

Image source


Ring of World

the ring of world

where we go

round and round,

where we clamber

the highest mountains

for everything material,

to put up a drama

on a porcelain stage

drenched in water

of fate

*Written for Trifextra Week Seventy-Seven.