Rushing down the hill I go

Riding on my wheels of lies

Rain pours not yet here ye lo

Rumbling of the thunderous skies.



The Gallery

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.


 Alas! Alas!

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





This Hunger

Insatiable, Unquenchable

Ravenous, Voracious

Something rests inside

my stomach full.


Devouring, guzzling

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

In coffins buried deep in soil,

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.