In the vaulted madness;
she rose to her potential,
albeit blood-drained and Scandinavian pale.

The love that tore
at her once beating heart,
faded into oblivion, a dew-soaked spent flame.

And so with empty veins and
cob-webbed compassion, she began
the nocturnal dance of the blood-lusting dame.

She drew them in one by one
until the town emptied into
a ghastly sort, consumed by the darkened void
that gently seeped from that which did remain.

© 2013 Melanie Crew


It’s Only a Matter of Time

He grows before my eyes—
inches and feet—
an almost-man.
Neurons firing—synapse
to synapse.
The visions in his eyes
dancing dreams—hope.
Hold on to that, boy.
Now just a flickering bulb—
not quite there.
But don’t fret boy.
Youth will pass in
a wink of those baby blues.
And I promise,
you will be left wondering where it all went.
So cling to it, hold tight,
and as the wrinkles replace your glow—
just be you. If you’re lucky,
the gods will grant you just a little more time.

© 2013 Melanie Crew


Collective Memory

Time, an intangible trickster—
cruel sister of fate,
ally to the gods, foe to the mortal,
forces a chronological existence.
A morbid assembly line
manned by the grimmest of reapers
shepherding us forward.
We are pushed ever closer to the edge
from the moment we are
spat into the world—
a metallic, industrial delivery,
until we shrivel into the dust
from which we came.
War-torn and splintered,
incinerated into the void
of collective memory.

© 2013 Melanie Crew


Raconteur’s Lament

Primal disconnect—
outliers and outcasts;
from the first animated gasp to
la fin du monde. Intermingling lives,
strangers nonetheless.

Bonds—unstable, unhinged
and hollow.
Silence echoing what could have beens,
morphing into never should have beens.

Some play among the living. Some
to alter outcomes. And the likes of me,
to be the buffers,
the storytellers,
the narrators.
A separateness undefined.
A genetic mutation, a c’est la vie—
or both.

Perched on the outskirts of whispers
carried on the winds in bustling cities,
I smell
lust, pain-filled realities
seeping in long, wispy vitreous waves
from the grimiest, yet holiest versions of humanness.
And I covet.
Outstretched and grasping, not quite
the victor.

And so this empty
vessel of woe
clings and scratches at the surface, while
darkness paints dreams of eternal connection.
Human attachment.
Parasitic inclusion—
animalistic and dirty and raw and real.
A coveting,
sanctified yet

I am a seer
a watcher,
a voyeur, hell-bent on
convincing the gods
that despite the decaying
sour existence witnessed on
this jangled journey, a honeyed
bonafide life subsists.
Bonded—sticky sweet; free for most to taste.
Prohibition, the heftiest price…
My eyes merely
burdened windows
of truth, branded in fire.

© 2015 Melanie Crew


Scruffy poets,
gangly, old and grizzled –
beard-wearing story SHOUTERS.

Tales of youth, of nostalgic bleakness,
of booze or women or both.

Wrinkly battle wounds,
desolate trenches.
Forever scarred, jilted, scorned.
Sense the fear, the urgency, the NEED.

Angular, unsavory words,
contaminated worlds,
never-ending madness,
jolted to life.
Electrified, AMPLIFIED.

Hole-in-the-wall bar scenes,
dark alleys, covert operations.
Proof of life, or a clinging thereto.

Words that
suck and pull and shove and smother.
Angst-ridden desperation exhumed,
let loose. Chaotic lives – a holy yet
unsanctified opus.
Raw and real and worthy!

Bang those keys!
Release the kraken!
Devour the youth!

© 2013 Melanie Crew