Thursday, August 27, 2015

Grotesque No. 3




How long your words are softly spoken,
delivered with razor edge. 
You begin to churn time. 

The ancient man sits motionless as eons.
The urgency exhales into zeal.
I am over watching the skylight dance beneath its own demise.

It tests his patience;
Reminds him that stars are powerful,
Cold eyes from the most enigmatic source.

Decided once a fool,
The old man sitting in the black performs patience well,
Nothing from an intolerable life should extend to legacy.

His head sticking with wound, dark blood in his veins.
He feels his hands may have been exact at reproach.
You are precious even if not there.

The smile of the ancient man betrays the truth;
He hasn't any of his own to take.
No, but then I am restless as time.
It has too long.


Poetry "Grotesque No. 3" Copyright ©  T.A. Miles

Original Artwork "Another Misplaced Third Eye", used under license by CC,
Derivation "Grotesque No. 3" by T. A. Miles


Saturday, July 18, 2015

Snippet No. 12



From a bed, Korsten looked toward the window of a room that felt spacious; the air around him moved freely, as if the water in his dream had transformed.  His mother sat smiling at him before the window, red hair dark against the ocean view over her white shoulder.  She watched him with what he’d always taken for gentleness, his private shelter from his father and from life outside of his dreams or a book.  Looking at her delicate features now he saw something else.  He saw wisdom, of an ancient sort.  Thoughts of Ashwin flashed across his mind and he watched the smile slowly seep from his mother’s features.
He felt at once confused and remiss.  “Mother,” he began.
           “Korsten,” she said, her voice overlapping his own.  “Come home.”


Snippet taken from Blood Reign
Coming December 2015 from Raventide Books

Monday, June 22, 2015

Quote No. 2



            “Flowers grow for anyone and no one. There's not one flower that comes up from the Earth that did it for any one individual, personally.” 

Nicomedes
Coming Soon from Raventide Books

Thursday, June 11, 2015

Grotesque No. 2





Why else?
That question played,
Always replayed his beginning and end.
Moments defined by raising arms.

His one seducer back.
One moment pressing as another cares.
The tongue of  his stranger’s mind,
One soft  flicker.

Lips that touch his blood directly,
Shoulder leaned down,
Hand in shirt...
The dark wall of closed eyes looks back.

He was rolling it happens.
Will other lips have way as his?
Slender difference if it were so,
Beautiful young flower.

But oldest is fair,
Letting blue of lavender,
Like moons, straight around his face.
A delicate face.

Eyes a pale mirror.
A far look back at expression to be.
Even he does much more than none.
It matters.


Poetry "Grotesque No. 2" Copyright ©  T.A. Miles

Original Artwork "Dirty Thought That Eats At Your Stability", used under license by CC,
Derivation "Grotesque No. 2" by T. A. Miles


Saturday, May 30, 2015

Snippet No. 11



              The Vadryn made themselves personal, by burrowing to the roots of their despairs and suckling, like children from an unhealthy mother.  They grew, like twisted caricatures of family, roosting in the heart, cluttering it with debris, sending poison out to the rest of the body.  Sickness and depression, lethargy and weakness, desperation and insanity; those were what the Vadryn brought to men.  They truly were as a plague.


Snippet taken from Blood Reign
Coming December 2015 from Raventide Books


Saturday, May 16, 2015

Grotesque No. 1



Quickly!
Words would see the darkness.
Yet anything screams.
Anything of him but years.
As they enter they choose below thought,
Appearing against resounding, weaving feet.

The demon alone, it knew his back.
Always coming!
Dropped brow and shrill roar..
White, its bones.
Thin, the limbs.
A fanged beast, bones in its back.

Both hands sobbing.
Begging eyes,
Ivory, them.
She dropped the head in the whispered sun.
It’s the tiny jiggle it started,
Somewhere in the recesses of her brain.

Arms to staircase,
Command continuing and serene,
She delicately proceeded.
Her silverback familiar, slightly gray-blue,
Mysterious, even to himself.
Eyes found him pleasantly.

Walking, she answered a thought;
 “I thought I’d save you.”
To much in her, she wondered,
“Have I walked time enough?”
And the empty streets of her quiet eventually accept this:
Your little ways.

At one with dark as she was with It,
The best threat, 
Its carrying need.
She had demons off combating her weaknesses.
Exorcists quietly gave her study,
Their fates yet decided.



Poetry "Grotesque No. 1" Copyright ©  T.A. Miles

Original Artwork "Old Man's Gloom", used under license by CC,
Derivation "Grotesque No. 1" by T. A. Miles