Rushing down the hill I go
Riding on my wheels of lies
Rain pours not yet here ye lo
Rumbling of the thunderous skies.
Your ears do hark the symphony
Of pink, of white, of green, of glee
But oh, do they cry sounds of truth?
Come close, my dear, and pray do see.
Observe thee what cacophony
Resides inside the colors three
Of red, of black, of gray, of death
That rot and tear and set me free
The Little Boat
Tread the waters
Walk not on dirt
For dust shatters
And leaves you hurt
You do not know
What may become
Of you who row
Through streams that numb
Down, down you go
With fingers cold
And eyes aglow
Oh, are you bold
Though fog pervades
Where future waits
With heart ablaze
You row away
Busy little hands frolic on the desk
Hopping up and down,
Swinging to and fro,
Waltzing here and there,
Clapping now and then.
I heard them stopping by and ask:
"Oh, little hands, why frolic so?"
The hands did answer with a shout:
"If frolic not, what must I do?"
Then off they went to dance again.
Built temples then, build castles now
The little hands ne'er stopped to rest
Till out of breath they came to be
And forced to sit down and behold
What works they'd done and art they've made.
No temples saw they
No castles beheld
What lied in glory
Were lies in waste.
The little hands shed silent tears
For naught their labor had been spent
Mere Fantasy deceived them all
The vague whispers of "Yes, you can!"
How treacherous! What mockery!
Burn them down, burn them down.
Let us never see them 'gain.
Those lying in waste
Belongs in waste
For ever to be
Something rests inside
my stomach full.
Gorging on enmity
It starts to eat away
my brain destroyed.
What's left of me?
I cannot say
For mine blue tongue
Has been consumed!
Dead – Mold
The threads of words in rainbow weave
A tapestry of legends told,
And men admire the beauty true
Of tales of old and lucent gold,
Till vultures bleak and talons keen
Swoop below and tear each fold,
To leave the tapestry of words
In shreds no longer shim’ring bold.
Today, men say that there’s no tale
For our descendants to behold;
Their eyes so seek to search the works
But find do they that words lie cold
So none have tongues that speak and scold.
O how the tragedy unfolds!
“Words are dead, and rest in mold!”
© Skye Sweven
Bio: Currently a university student majoring in English Language and Literature, Skye Sweven is an aspiring writer who has immense interest in manifold genres such as fantasy, young/new adult, adventure, and diverse types of short stories. She has written books for twelve years and has self-published a novel at the age of twelve as well as another at the age of nineteen. Her passion for reading and writing never stops and it will continue on even after her first ever official publication. Her short story, 'Luster Lost,' is about to be published through an Italian independent publishing company for educational purposes in July 2019.