Sep 12th


By Depth Writer

Trees and leaves

wander aimlessly through cloud covered air

With bare limbs now, they wait for changing seasons.

Yet, in reality, it is them (trees) that change the course of humanity and the future to come. But life, as a general, has no bearing on elaborations or alterations. 

In all awe, the people seem content with no discourse, no weathered fabrics to lay on the ground once full of saturation and them, themselves venture naught into the unknown.

How ironic not to know what is out there... not to feel its texture unfold before very eyes, not to touch its very existence because you are fearful of its outcome.

Aug 20th


By Depth Writer

Outside bedtime eyes, there is a softness to the air. Almost as if time was never known in its harsh realities or its hate for beauty.


You see - - -

We are but an illusion in the face of others! 

For a shell echoes its own memories and passes it down to the next inhabitant. 



Jul 21st

Blackened Night

By Depth Writer

The illusion is shallow, un-moving, unaware,

but its edges are distinct and forebearing in hastes doorstep.


Ago's coffin half buried in moss lined tomb, enshrined in cerise

and pale pink lashes. Such beauty surely must exist. Even in darkness.


Ballerinas glide and soar across slippery floor. Just as they've always done. Yet, everyone hungers for the leap of fate to surcomb their paths.





Jul 16th

I. O. T.

By Depth Writer

Time is an illusion. It has never existed, but in the minds of keepers, who invest their lives daily in our existence. You see, they needed an equation, an object to disclose a 'way of life' and in this, they performed and endured daily numbers to equate seconds, minutes and hours. Soon all of this led to days, weeks, months, years, decades and of course, centures, but still it is wasted away. There is never enough to distinquish between the other. Is there? Or have you deciphered the tones to replay continuously into your own lives?

Jul 8th


By Depth Writer

I have slumbered and slept for a decade

Because, you remind me of the Autumn,

your hair spins webs of gray around stemmed

tree trunks and those eyes, they sparkle like

stars above our faces.

As high, as one can see without touching, the sky

blazes around ago and reaches for afar and ever-more.

But the edges of petals bleed of charcoal and blackened

nights where daytime should be. It is the moon that pales

to its knees when the sun appears, as if, to worship the

warmth etched upon your own skin. 


Jul 6th


By Depth Writer

Are you a believer of ups and downs and all-arounds?

Do you feel the heat of sun, as it softly warms the pores of skin and multiplies the ground below?

Can you imagine the persistence, people endured as they carefully cultivated the ink, as they delicately laid it to rest in a well of charcoal?


All around are the pores of nature, the faucets of endless spigots, the entire world at odds over? What?

I ask you to open your mind, unlock your most inner thoughts, to pull from the inside and paint what is before you.

Around, below, charcoal, what, you

All ground over before

And wells at odds is

Down in a world, we attempt to paint

Up at rest- entirety, inside believers laid spigots inside

A skin delicately - endless, to pull from

I ask have ya seen the inside of a yolk? Noticed its substance after the death, before the birth of chick?

I wonder if, you can accomplish such simple tasks?

Jul 6th


By Depth Writer

Old friends

Girls and boys

Bouncing from soil to shore

Touching tightropes and strength

Dawn blinded by moonlit memories

Racing through an illusion

Burying thoughts in sea bottles

Darkness swimming within artifact

Old girls and graceless aorta

Consume thy being, hunger its lips


Jul 6th


By Depth Writer



Further to deliver the brand of light; so calm it settles within raging sky and 'neath the soil, the roots flame in a crisscross manner.

No other being could lift its strength above arms wide and still hold onto the spaces in between these nighttime words.

So clear, so timid

It became a revelation; to choose, to be, as it may, unto the clouds fluffy with white speckles and belts fencing the boundary.

Help me, o', I say, help me to...

Help me, o', I say, help me to paradise

For it is writ in bloody cerise and its ink falls to feather-less quill, panting, exhausted, out of sorts and so, I stand foisted and erect out of touch with the world. Staying in sane mind, my thoughts gravitate upwards.

Jul 6th


By Depth Writer


I don't need to look no further...

Going to tell the maker my plans,
sit back, 
waiting for it to happen
While, riding the perimeter of the wind,
the tongue of the speechless,
becoming a platonic idea, 
a deliberate form;

Spent my time looking through hourglasses, 
sands slithering through...
impregnated fingers,
browser eyes;
Nestled inside the seam of naked stitches, 
weathering the toppling dawns,

Caught in the river, 
swimming in my own tears,
liquidity in time, draining
on the cold flooring of my mind...

Standing in disbelief...
numb, shivering from spine to spine,
peeling my breadths from my naked bone;
these... hands... shake, no longer be still my soul,
inhaling one last time, era
before exhaling...

Exhale creations finest rock

Jul 6th


By Depth Writer

Snake Charmer

Python crawls from hidden shadows,
laced in yesterdays sorrow...

  Cassandra lay in crimson flutes,
    salted with thick, oily whispers;

Apocalypse reigns heavily, 
upon gushing authority, in three-piece minds


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