The Faded Glow of Mercy

Silhouettes of untimely death
Become present in all places
Fresh graves, dug far and wide, in the night

Is every noise an occurrence in the mind?
Or an unknown, grizzly demise
That stalks, with a murderer’s desire?

Hang close to your dismal light
To the lone fading glow
That may see you to dawn


From the Cold Dark Ground

Before a shrine of orchids, in the dead of winter
Few voices are astir and cling
To the tatters of life

Their words tread softly, so withered and bare
Seldom spared
In a calm and gradual whisper

All their melodies coalesce
And glide through the morn
Through procession’s of black
To the lone dark grave
Once a far away and nightmarish fate

The orchids prevail, in the dead of winter
As a prelude to spring
Where all death ushers life, into great swaths of green

From the cold dark ground
Where the quiet are sown

An Afternoon in the Park

The fall of rain was sudden and frigid
On an afternoon stroll among friends
Wide-grins and all

And we could not be bothered
We swung, we sang
As the broad gray skies overflowed
In their brief spell of sorrow

We carelessly sped
Through the rust-coated steel of our past
And were spared, from the grief of our day

Never wanting to shudder or gripe
Never knowing the burdens
That time would soon yield
In abundance

Songs of Creation and Wrath

The world is the author of these words
Not I
Its rivers roll through
With their songs of creation and wrath

Tragedy is a guide
For every stroke of this pen
In the long spacious hours, when I’m fed with despair

Life composes the vitriol I spit
Every curse, every ballad of blood
Was never born of this husk

I am
But their lowly vessel
Being kicked around, by the passage of time

Crash – Author William Wright, Jr.

An excerpt from my latest book, The Slums of Nightfall.

Creative Talents Unleashed

Crash and burn

Was the iron toll


High and proud

A shadow cast

Far and wide

The tyrant of tired eyes

Each fearful step

Each mishap spawned

Was a cause

To burrow within

To crash and burn

In lethargy’s hold


With timeless remorse

© 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:–jr.-.html

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A Frail Good Morning

Time just edges along
Causing arms to outstretch
And tired young faces to wince

Today, the world rushes by
In the shroud of their cold-dead eyes
Every sound, a death rattle before silence

Every generous new breath is forgotten
The bounty of this life, overlooked
In the haughtiness, of a teary-eyed yawn

An Aged and Weathered Promise

It only gets better, my friends
A new plain slate will unfold for us all
As we reclaim our bearings
In the death, of our trials by fire

My friends
A day will soon flower
That will silence our groans
Every colorless sigh of dispassion

It’s a promise
That strays from my voice
Wearily, roving
Dreaming to take form

Fragments Scattered in the Dark

The hours, are viciously skinned alive
Being shaved into the void
All along with my once raging hopes

Anticipation, is a villainous bomb
That quivers in my mind
Diminishing the quiet with worry

It is an evil that aspires
To scatter, the fragments of my skull
In a sudden rush of panic and want

I cling, to every fraction of a second
Before the white-hot murdering blast
That will send the world, tumbling to a hush

Mark of a Huckster

A genius in the art of deceiving
An impostor lives on
With the voices of the world, nestled deep in his pocket

They speak only for him
As he draws out the madness of these times
The armed masses, in their lock-step defiance

A true peddler of panic
With an arsenal of lies
“Home crumbles before your eyes
As the desperate take flight, from the fires of their own ”

He coddles the enraged
Till they swell with satisfaction
With the fantasies of far-ago times
“Oh how, we’ll be great once again”