Vitaliy Mashchenko paints

Warmth

 

Mike Zone writes

Post Modern Times

shotgun wedding to the face

a marriage between

Heaven and Hell - where the planetary brains splatter

out the skull onto the celestial cathedral walls

of a baby universe

in awe of infinite probabilities

total annihilation

She came at me

sliding a coffin with one hand and swinging a snake in the other

dressed in white straps and buckles

a bridal gown made up of straight-jackets

without reflective science or revelation laden mysticism to save me

floundering knowledge set against this stark portrait of companionship distancing itself from romantic salvation and meditative solitude, BREAK CLASS IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, (a programmable sanity)

like glass - an imaginary border

shattering in the mind's eye,

but aren't we all just human

with the lonely hunger for the comfort of others with the greatest of expectations

in a realm of hollow expenses?

The Snake Goddess -- Halvor Bagge

A.J. Anwar writes

Proof of Life

That little round clock
ticking on the wall
is the proof
that life
continues
even when the house
is empty
and power
is turned off
to save energy.

Elizabeth Esguerra Castillo & Jonathan Aquino write

The House on the Hill

Elizabeth:

It is just an ordinary night or so it seems

The rays of the moon beaming right through my window pane,

Noise of crickets echoes through the darkness

There is no other hum to listen to but the mere breaths I take.

Jonathan:

There is a house on top of a hill

where daring boys dare not go,

where even the birds are still,

where all is quiet as the grave.

Elizabeth:

A winding road leads to the old house,

With cracked walls and scattered debris

A deafening silence welcomes you to an eerie ambiance,

On a dark night such as this with no stars in sight.

Do spirits roam this lonely sanctuary?

Some are enchanted by its haunted stance

Gives them shivers and goose bumps all around,

Mystic shadows may be lurking waiting for prey.

Jonathan:

Legends speak of a murder most foul and evil,

a woman and three children, and no one survived,

but on cold, moonless nights, you will hear

the sounds of fear, of the living buried alive.

The killer was a scorned lover, I've heard it said,

or the husband, or a vagrant, or the Devil himself.

The bodies were never found, no one came near,

nobody saw them, but everyone knows they're here.

Haunted House --  Ken Meyer