#eternallycoilingserpent

[eternallycoilingserpent-blog]

Breath of frost Frozen lost Snow eats      away at shallow sheets.  Swinging from the seams of bellowing blankets hardened from heat's assassin.  

[eternallycoilingserpent-blog]

Once Wolves Knock

Doctors of plague surround This darkened room lie shunned One wish for the worthy Knees aching; hands gripped tight Thighs strenuous with disease Crimson falling from mouths Telling futures Eyes of the ceiling eating chests 

Bloodshot and bloody, they all are...

Apparitions knocking at every door Falling heads on hard pillows Storms awaken Incisions through chests The harvest has come Eat, beasts, eat Feel it? Heartbea--

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Barnacle

When standing in quicksand one can only think of whether the grandfather still ticks, tocks when no one is around to hear.

Sinking deeper into consciousness one can only believe vivid dreams are more than just delusions procreating themselves verily.

Blankets of the grey sails and the treasure stowed away are but mere manifestations of a glossy and effervescent bay.

Cries in the depths are unheard with the exception of Elizabeth who lies bottomless and eternal waiting for someone to extinguish her forever.

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Last Billows of Storms Searching for Final Breaths of Flames.

The portending, prowling wolves keep wake through dawn with the howling sounds of cryoseisms shaking the land as if Atlas’ spine finally shattered from holding so much.

Preaching rosewoods hum the aftermath of fault lines whilst careening cardinals fall into Earth like canaries burning with passion for a final sight of diminishing sunlight.

These chasms of portals leading to the depths of caverns can only hold so many clocks deeming to be significant as the bark of the trees moan with the growls of grizzlies.

This ice — it seems to never thaw, only expand everly; garden sundials sit to rust while this polar landscape gives way to celestial skyscrapers of flurried phonetics still waiting to be listened to, although bland and beaten.

[eternallycoilingserpent-blog]

Sounds of The Elizabeth, Sinking.

“Holding my own in crows’ nests is all I have left; I know this ship is sinking.”

Talks of creaking planks; the wood is falling beneath our fee -- We still have a breath and a reason to break chains.

There is a sacrifice to be taught; a lone, lonely sacrifice.

Swim to the surface, sweet Marinda.

Per flames and ocean, this vessel has no room.

Find a way to give life for I will do the same today and you will find that ...

only one of us can make it out alive.

[eternallycoilingserpent-blog]

Blood in the Book

La la la...

These beasts kept unkempt and on their pedestals protrude.

Each lycanthrope lifts these statuettes to bring kings closer to the moon.

Blackened with silhouettes and drawn closer to the light, the darkness in shadows give but shallow shades of shimmering darkness:

Just enough to see yet not enough to illuminate the celestae above. They would drop any other had it been in best interest of suffrage.

So the feast of leaves leave but crisp crunches in their maws.

Food scarce; felt under their paws.

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Gathering on the Peak of Existence

Bewildered are the planned actions (too soon and flawed) that

part this winter and bathe in rockéd snow. Part these waters and waste away in the worry of the night.

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Several Stays

These tiles, emcompassed by sand hold secrets far, far beneath.

These ghosts, held by moons, dance with candles lit long ago.

These stones illuminate imagination; these stars shine upon soft crystals.

These chasms are closed with salts sealing the cold.