Author William Wright, Jr. – She Hails Through the Trees

Creative Talents Unleashed

Through bare

Overarching limbs

Jaggedly swerving

Skewering

The pitiless dark

I ascend

To moonlight’s

Withering call

Awash

In her shadowy illusion

Winter prods

My still

And heedful form

To embark beyond

The weaving

Snarls of bedlam

© William Wright, Jr.

William Wright

Excerpt from the book “The Slums of Nightfall”


William Wright About the Author

 My name is William Lorenzo Wright, Jr. I am the youngest of three children, as well as the only son to two loving and hard-working parents. I am a college student from San Diego California and I hold a deep passion for reading and writing poetry. I was sixteen years old when I first fell in love with poetry and I have been faithful to the craft ever since.

Visit William’s Author Page At: www.ctupublishinggroup.com/william-wright–jr.-.html

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With an Army of Defectors

My mind is six feet under
A feast for the vermin
The villainous thoughts, that dwell in dark places

I arrived here crashing
Coughing black plumes
Into the pristine world above

I was sent here by the weight of my sins
To be wholly forgotten
With an army of defectors

Where we’ll despair in circles
Through the years
Of our faultless hush

The Idol of Perfection

Pursuing, perfection
Through and through
Horse-pulled, on a pompous carriage

To oblivion’s door and beyond
Where I’ll strain and I’ll search
As a serf, for the rest of my days

In service to this idol I’ve born
I’ll roam for that threshold
Stout, blinded, and vain

Kindling a dream
In spite of the falls, sure and steep
Where reality awaits
And blooms upon landing

Timeless Falls

I’m along
For this furious ride through the ages
On our grain, amid grains of dust

I’m here for the long haul, over the falls
As a lone lost particle
In the broadest river of them all

Rushing unheard and carving
The expanding unknown

I’ll be here for it all
Never knowing our path
Imploring the stars
For just a morsel of truth

The Coils of Memory

The city is an open grave
Where the many lives I’ve shed
Arise in the night

My former selves are but mindless vessels
Slithering, from shadow to shadow
Unsheathing, the nightmarish past

The harder, I claw for the surface
The more I am cherished
By the coils of memory

A New Day’s Mercy

Cradled in Paradise Hills
In the chilled light of dawn
Gospel, blares with a new day’s mercy

“Every soul that surrounds me
Is surely, lighter than mine”

“Not I”
Eases out of my mind
Still tussling with nightmares
Still afire with grief

The news, it constantly skewers
With the mantra of madmen and traitors
And the ramblings of tyrants

“All the words they spill
Are surely, more potent than mine will ever be”

In a shower so hellfire hot
I find peace at last
Soon I’m wholly engulfed by the ghostly steam

Breakfast is short and sweet
Then I take to the world
On a few crumbling roads and rails

To the crimson cars, cable bound
Hauling along
The screaming, the anguish, the laughter of being

“Every soul, that encroaches upon mine
Is so full of fortune and wonder”

We’re atop one another
Patiently, lurching along
From station to dreary station

“Every soul, that enrages me
Is surely, spoiled and free”

Across, the blue and green lines
Then I’m crammed among well-fed faces
All purposeful travelers

“Every soul, that sneers my way
Rightfully burns, with pride and prejudice ”

But down the rows of the desperate
Through impoverished villages
Home, to the fast-forgotten

America’s sons and daughters
Still forage for our scraps

“Not every soul, that cranes my way
Is what they seem at first sight”

Stumbling to Eden

Tranquility seems, like a far off fantasy
Tangled in a permanent mist
With no roads through, to its firm gilded walls

Stability is consumed
Splayed in the swirls of a garden
Sunned and fragrant with lust

Clarity is vibrant
It serenades, every full mind adrift

From behind the steep walls
Where the bowmen stand poised

For the stray and wishful glances
Of fools on the prowl

Author Philip Elliott – Letter to Anabelle

Creative Talents Unleashed

Dear Anabelle,

Sometimes when I think of what we once were, I feel sick to my stomach. Other times I feel my chest tearing with such a yearning to be with you again, in that time, when the birds knew us by name and the future was just a fantasy. Is this our legacy, nausea and raw nostalgia?

It’s been a difficult couple years, Anabelle. I been in prison for a while—I’m sure you heard—and a mental hospital, too (don’t know if you heard about that). I think I came out worse than I went in. There’s no sympathy in a place like that, despite what people say. (I’m talking about the hospital but that’s true for prison, too.) Not that I was looking for any. But it woulda been nice if I got some from you. Even just a bit.

There’s a lot I want to say that I…

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