Lady Winter

She comes on her silver steed,
Black hair entwined in an icy breeze,
Face turned to the stars as she rides beneath.

Fractals and flurries cling to her tresses,
Crystals and curls sweep over her dresses,
Winding down her arms like shining caresses.

A glancing touch leaves shimmering trace,
Whorling over wood and the frozen lake,
Holding the world in a feathery embrace .

White and blue and silver ribbons,
Lacy ice flies from her hands.
Thin and sharp as weapons.

Kissed by frost and loved by snow,
She brings the cold wherever she goes.

Note

I have been suffering from a lack of lyrical inspiration.
I have also decided to go full-out geek and enjoy myself.
I have thus been inspired to pen a few poems describing my OCs.
I have come up with many of these, and they are just floating around in my head, so why not?

(OC stands for "original character".)

Note

I apologize for the recent
inundation of bad poetry that is
positively dripping with 
teenage angst and weird imagery.

I am uninspired
at this moment and 
Grasping
at thin filaments.

Hopefully I will come up with better things 
Soon. 
Thanks for reading,
and may things be going better for you.

Bad Poetry No.2

A puerile plea,
into the void of the ages,
misundestood and misplaced,
identity left to fester,
maligned on the open seas.

Confused in the confusion,
lost in the dissolution,
words strung like christmas lights,
guides in the winter nights,
promising that stars will shoot across the sky
and lead us to hope.

Swimming against stranger tides,
sickness and health merge with time,
no normal place to hide when nothing,
is average anymore,
something striking behind each door,
that can strike you down or with the bolt of an idea.
a desperate snatch of Elysium.

Candles and clay lamps,
stories and sentiments hand in hand,
share the window in the cold and dark.
point of faith in something we are not.
that things get better with time,
only by the hands of the divine.

Wail like the wind on white sheets,
black ink spilling or typed into being,
a cry devoid of any sound,
still changing the world as it spins around.
Hologram humanity in the model solar system.
How are we in some perfect image,
if real humanitarians and saints,
 are more unsure than anything human words create?

Bad Poetry No.1

Words that rhyme,
are overdone.
Overwrought and overused,
until they are faded rags flapping in the wind,
unseen beacons,
clamoring for someone's attention.

Even washed and wrung out,
as the meaning trickles down the drain,
they are recycled and reused,
the limits of language at the edge of our creative efforts.
still tinged with despair and desperation.

Whimsy

I cannot be made to write poetry,
For words, like birds, sound best when free.

Dull and Void

Everyone, Everyday,
captured in the Media Gaze.
Every sound byte, Every image,
recorded and ready to be replayed.

Every click, Every comment
filed away in little black boxes.
Every phrase, Every snap,
twisted and transformed into a legal trap.

Everyone, Everyday,
trying to stay out of the flaming fray,
Every like, Every favourite.
a chimera growing by the minute.

Every story, Every tale,
bent and twisted a hundred ways.
Every thought, Every buy,
traversing a million miles.

Everyone, Everyday,
trying to find a place to aim.
Every second, Every hour,
shoulders chipped, easier to look over.