Literary Yard

Search for meaning


By: Mitch Green

Courtesy: Henri Matisse
Courtesy: Henri Matisse

Sinners, saints – bone edged proficient damsels

Rebirthed reunions relishing fortified foundations of burial worship.

To sink, we embalm our bones,

Hope – it’s not our home,

Nostalgic principles of dreamscapes and saloons, dividing oceans,

Monsoons, grave lagoons.

Open up – dead man sounds; eating floorboards, wall space and barking hounds.

Stagnant silhouettes in shallow sand – convergence, contorted round, into backward faces – lit in dread.

Steadfast to wake – quaking verses

Viral fallacies proven to procreate pallid pardons of the malice in gloss houses – spouses sewn at the seam of mortal dreams.

Fiends find the promise in fractured, spatter washed mirrors;

Crooked, creepy – screaming things.

On all fours – flapping tongues

Legs lurching, wild teeth chirping,

Chatters swallowing fleshed earth.

Till all is lost and the growls are faded,

should the royals rein over the dead and spaded.


Mitch Green, 25, is currently attending SNHU (Southern New Hampshire University) to acquire his BA in Creative Writing, with a minor in Screenwriting. He has written and have had published several poetic collections known as: ‘Rhymes of Sin’, ‘Godart’, ‘Paint Me Odd’, and ‘Monsters’ – which will be released later this month.


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