Brittney Marie

United States

Thinking of you intensely today 

And how abruptly you cruelly went away

A dream turned into a tainted nightmare

I begged and pleaded, but you weren't spared 


That moment forever haunting my heart 

The emergency room where I fell apart 

I didn't know how I would be able to survive 

Because at that moment, a part of me took a dive 


Now, a year later, I can't help but think: 

What would you have been, blue or pink? 

Are your eyes brown, blue, or green? 

Would you have been the cutest little bean? 

I will not know until the day we are reunited 

Until then, part of my soul will feel divided

I wish your journey got to begin 

I'll love you forever until we meet again 



Iulia Pană


I live in a black box...

I and my body

the box is small and the cardboard

has a strange smell of almonds

morning visible through holes

gouged with difficulty

as if I await nothing but more waiting

for long depressing couplings

the air blows through me...

goes on and remains stuck to the box lid

changing its color to gray

in this temporary dwelling

I have no room for visitors…

barely enough oxygen for a single creature,

a fly...

life in a box has its humor...



Sonia Pal

United Kingdom

Love is not THAT love

if it does not bring.....

the very best out of you,

gives you the pain to sting,

wells up your eyes with tears

 to roll down your cheeks,

while being reminiscent of the ties


Love is not THAT love

if it does not take 

you near your God

to pray for the re-union

which lingers on hold forever


Love is not THAT love

if it does not get into your nerves for life

to look for the one who taught you how to thrive

but you got separated from

and finding hard to survive


Love is not THAT love

if it does not keep 

you busy in your thoughts

and gets catapulted emotions Purgated and regenerated


 Love is not THAT love

if it does not uproot your inner self and 

reincarnate A NEW you

full of life for the little sapling of YOU

so delicate waiting for the sunshine, A NEW life

and turns out to be a SUPER YOU

like a giant Mother-tree!

Full of bloom, birds, fruits and beauty laden 

standing upright with a very deep hold of inside/ insight


Love is not THAT love

if it does not teach you the lessons of life 

beyond time and dwells in you to philosophies

for the brand NEW of you,

And tells you what is wrong and what is right,

how can you be wise for the rest of your life !



Gabriel Angrand

United States


I've seen flowers grow

in graveyards where skeletons

are laid to rest

So if bones
were buried inside me, can I be
made beautiful?”

Miscarriages, family secrets,
sex partners, or other trauma—
bones are whatever resonates
with you

But the answer is, “Yes”
Eve, ‘n’ you can be made beautiful
Jesus died in human flesh
Cause you were made beautiful

You were never graveyard
But you are earth in truth
So I pray that seeds are planted
In your heart and mind or womb

That you may see how flowers grow
where death had stolen room



Mike Ball

United States

You need not rise to open your door 

So that death can come into your room

Or into your life, although it stopped

For Emily and will visit you.

A marvel of physics, death passes

Like cosmic rays through your plastered walls,

Your locked door and your shuttered windows.

And goes where it chooses, and it must.

Your personal version of a death

May arrive loudly, violently

On the sudden point of a knife, or

Agony of exploding heart, or

It  may visit like the dew at dawn —

Moist, cold, soft smothering and silent.

You may bliss out with yogic OM or

Weep at ultimate unfairness, or

Rage your panicked need for long life, or

Make guttural sounds of the drowning.

You may strike an atheist’s bargain,

(In your mind; Death is indifferent.)

Death accommodates you in your end.

Braying while grasping a cocktail stem, 

Unable to rise from your wheelchair,

Working anxiously at your keyboard,

Vivid dreaming one last time beneath

Your comforter. Death accommodates.

You need not rise. Death will come to you.

Surcease is death’s only specialty.

In the end was the word, and the word

Was with death and death was the last word. 



Kassie J Runyan

United States

She haunts me.


When I wake up,

she hides under the bed

for only a moment.

Teasing that she went away.

I blink and she’s back

tapping on my shoulder

with her manicured nail,

painted in blood red

and sharpened to a tip.

Interrupting my thoughts;

my hopes;

reminding me

that she Is always there.



I plan a future

but she frays the corners

of my mind,

teasing me about flights

and storms

and the dangers of them all.

She reminds me of the future

that might never come

to pass.

She stands with me

when I go to my doctor

and they scan my body

looking for danger.

Shrugging her thin shoulders

when I get the all clear

and she mumbles under her breath,

“maybe next year.”

She forwards me articles

about the souls

that lost their battle

with their own mental demons.

Ones that look and feel like mine.

But they made the decision

or were pushed to

and she whispers,

“that could have been you.”

She sits in the pew

of the funeral home

as I pay my respects

to the family of a woman

I barely knew,

but who left the world

after a life well lived.

And the crimson nail

motions towards

the coffin

as her lips pucker

and she mouths,

“that could have been you.”

She is there,

now and always.

Stepping fully out of

the shadows

as I turn out the light

and lay my head on my pillow

trying to ignore her glossy glare

as I slip to sleep.

But still…

I can’t escape her.

She follows me to my dreams…

chasing me

like I’m her prey

and she’s starving for a capture.

She chants and pants,

“that could have been you”

as she haunts me.

Counting down the seconds,

the moments,

until she can caress me

and fold me

into her bosom.

Making me a trophy

residing on her shelf.

I toss and turn in my sleep

and whisper to her in the shadow.

Her name escapes my lips,

and is shared with the world




Gavin Prinsloo

South Africa

What is missing in our world today?

Where empathy is nonexistent,

Why do Devils come out to play?

Is it because we are so persistent?

Has tragedy killed empathy,

In a world dripping crimson and coughing death,

Has too much Death drowned sympathy,

with every struggling breath?

One for all and all for one that truth has never been,

For all the hopeless misery, that we have daily seen.

Disease and war are rampant, no matter how we strive,

Our chances get slimmer, of getting out alive.

Where do we go from here, it seems the world gives not a shit?

Our only hope is that we open eyes, so that Hope's bright flame is lit.

If we should never speak again, and the world takes its last breath,

Please join me in a requiem, for empathies torrid death.



Kathy Jo Bryant

United States

I don't mean to be nosey,

   But I brought you a posey,

       Maybe we can get cozy,

          Out here on the swing!

And then I might mention,

    Just to get your attention,

        It  is my intention,

           A love song to sing!

My heart is on fire,

   And full of desire,

      May the angelic choir,

         My message convey!

Words are just much too feeble,

    So Darling be agreeable,

        In the future unforeseeable,

           To LOVE me always!



Robert Baker

United Kingdom

This sorry tale is gospel truth.
One night when I stayed out quite late
I met a “man” who changed my fate
and took advantage of my youth.

I’d been out with an old schoolmate
who dragged me through the pubs in town
then left me stranded like a clown
and stumbling in a drunken state.

Confused and lost, I sought my pad
and passed a graveyard on the way,
a gloomy place of tombstones grey.
That’s where I met the scheming cad.

I’d never seen a man so tall
and handsome in a roguish way.
God moulded him from finer clay;
or so it seemed before my fall.

He whispered words that flowed like wine.
I took him for an honest guy
who wouldn’t ever tell a lie.
How could I know he was a swine?

He smiled and said, “Please call me Bob.
Say, did you ever dream to be
as healthy, fast and strong as me?”
It seemed he thought I was a slob.

Eternal life he offered me.
He swore that all he said was true
and counselled me to think it through.
Nothing that good comes for free.

I thought it was his little joke —
that Bob was making fun of me.
Perhaps he’d drunk too much Chablis
or maybe snorted lines of coke.

His eyes glowed red, and then I saw
he meant just what he’d said to me:
immortal I could choose to be.
If only I’d perceived the flaw!

Instead, I dreamed of endless time
and how I could achieve much more
if I were just as strong as Thor.
I didn’t see that Bob was slime.

I said, “You have persuaded me.
I’d love to last a billion days
and live my life a million ways.
So don’t be coy. What is your fee?”

And that is when he bit my neck
then drank my blood ‘til I dropped dead.
His fearsome fangs were dripping red;
my corpse was left a ragged wreck.

Since I was dead I didn’t see
the steps he took to bring me back.
That demon had a magic knack
and used it to awaken me.

I felt I’d died a dozen times,
each death more dreadful than the last.
My innocence he ended fast
as Bob enrolled me in his crimes.

“You must now feed if you’re to live
because you’re weakened by your death
and though you have no need of breath
my lies I doubt you can forgive.

“For I’ve not told you everything
about my life and what I do.
The trials that I will force you through
are worse than normal life would bring.

“Now every night you must drink blood;
you can’t survive on human food.
This means a change in attitude
so doubts you should nip in the bud.”

I shook my head and gaped at him.
“How could you ask me to drink blood?
I’d rather eat live worms and mud.
That diet must be why you’re slim.”

He sighed and said, “Before you run
you’ll need to know another thing:
that to avoid a fatal sting
you can’t step out into the sun.”

“I’m sorry, did I hear you right?”
I asked him in a trembling voice.
“You mean I haven’t got a choice;
I cannot walk into the light?”

“You’re now a vampire too, my child.
Your mortal life is at an end
and darkness is your only friend.
Like me, you must embrace the wild.”

And that is how I fell from grace.
My heart has grown as hard as coal
and I no longer have a soul.
Best run if you should spot my face!



Ellen Urowitz


wake up every morning

going to bed early and

earlier each day.

Each day passes by

one after another.

Another day has been

unfortunately, waisted.

Unlike other days in the

pass I have lost all of my


I have someone to blame

and sometimes I now even started

to complain.

locked in for days, 

it's like this is a

hard maze.

no one can predict the ending

no one saw it arriving.

no one wants to admit fault.

no one is ever wrong.

it can't continue to go on like this

business and restaurants will

a be gone.



Alex Thompson

United Kingdom

Mum, don’t read this, dad leave it too.

Sister you can, but grandad this isn’t for you.

I keep walking round my home,

all the time when I’m on my own,

and on the table or the kitchen top -

Nana’s phone rests, dead.

I see it in the back seat of the car,

it’s not a fresh wound,

but an unmistakable scar.

And each time I see it, grey, the case dirty.

I think about the things you said,

we’d do when I turned thirty.

The memories that are stored in there,

for no one to see again,

they’re safe in that little box, 

memories as thick as dust.

So if I call Nana’s phone,

if the screen lights up,

is there a part of her somewhere,

that hasn’t been struck?

If I send, 

just one more text, 

a letter of thanks, 

and nothing less,

will mine light up too, 

with a reply from you?

Reading words you never sent, 

and clutching it to my chest.

Someone hide Nana’s phone from me, 

because I can’t bear the sound.

Her old ringtone makes me think:

If not her, who’s moving Nana’s phone around?



Amanda Jane Bayliss

United Kingdom

Painfully, I cried goodnight

To the prisoner of death

As you took your phantom breath

My eyes blurred

From the polished cell

Tributes of flowers

As they laid you to rest.


My heart smashed

My tears ran free

Remembering memories

From years that have

Dimly deceased.


Images and words

That live on

Your life phrase lingers.


It is better to have loved

And lost

Than never loved at all.


These words are so very true

So go now

You have broken free

You will suffer with

No more pain.


Do not worry about me

I will be alright

You will see




Bilkis Moola

South Africa

I did not know the grey streaks,
swelling hips and sagging breasts that
would steal my body.

I did not know the wrinkles -
lines that crease the visage
of one who was young.

I did not know the heart turned to stone -|
pebbles and rocks hurled as I travelled
the road of life.

Age arrived with little remorse
reminiscent for days young -
youth fresh like darling buds
ready to bloom.

Regret taints the ticking clock for a
life ready to leave -
ready and bitter.

Age wanders with little remorse and
I did not know its swift arrival
for burial’s carriage.

Death stops, stops and rejuvenates life -
and time says,
“I am not ready for life to end”.



Marcellinus Alexander


Stamped in blood, death’s letter arrives

to men and women of the sapiens,

shortening their jolly-merry days

and to some, terminating their hollow-sorrow days

what’s the difference?

To some, those who believe in the bible’s Christ,

life is Christ; death is gain.

To some, those who believe in the Quran’s Allah, 

death is the gateway to paradise, an exit from the cosmos

To some, those who believe in the doctrines of the east,

death is a gateway to another opportunity of perfect transcendence.

To some, those who believe-not in divinity,

death is a return to nature, the end that constitutes the END.

What’s the difference?

The thought of death,

Many a mind occupies;

more than Juliet occupies Romeo’s,

that sometimes they forget to live

and other times the begin to live

what’s the difference?


Be alive while you live,

die while you live,

die when you die.


If you were alive while you lived,

and died while you lived,

then, you will live, after you must have died when you die.


That’s the difference!  



Rebecca Dorkins

United Kingdom

My friend died last week, and someone on Facebook wrote that she lost her battle,

and I almost hit delete.

There is no battle, no armor, no war,

Just a knowledge that we have really been here before.

Watching a friend fade away, knowing that will be me one day, makes things more

real, more surreal, more believable than any other day.

Death is closer, and we grieve in our own way.

After you have sat across from a friend and shared chats, coffee and cakes and

watched them slip to someone with a beating heart asking should I buy the shoes

or will I be dead before I can wear them?

It’s surreal and wrong and no cancer fighting language changes that and life for

those taking part goes on.



Melanie Haagman

United Kingdom

I am so good at hiding it,

All the pain that I feel,

I compartmentalize it all,

As if it isn’t real.

I want to speak about you badly,

But my mouth doesn’t comply,

I wish I could explain it,

But I don’t even know why...

I think about you all the time,

And what could of been,

If you hadn’t had to leave us,

When I was just thirteen...

But I hope that you are happy,

With the woman I’ve become,

Never think a day goes by,

Where I don’t miss you Mum...


Claire Kroening

United States

Nature followed her footprints,

Planting seeds in the sand

With every forward land,

Blooming trees to the moon.

Wind would whistle between 

The curls of her bronzite hair,

Setting a crown of flowers upon her head,

Hues of violets and blues.

No matter how much strength

She placed in the land,

There was only so much she could do

To brace the incoming doom.

Her eyes as forests

Would get torn down one by one,

Leaving nothing but rabbit holes

In the tracks that were left.

Generations would soon come to see,

The everlasting beauty of her earth.

In what was worth protecting.

What was left for recovering 

before her last breath touched the sea.



Kim Denning-Knapp

United States

I dig



sinking into dirt

feeling around for dead roots

remnants of a life

  to rip them out

they’ve gotten in the way, 

interrupting the moving on. 

My hands, brain,

they dig 

striking, stabbing, 

  turning over decay of leaves 

  pushing spade, 

The one he sharpened

  kept sharp

  to ease his work

in his garden of marigolds, hummingbirds, 

symbols of dead and life


Like in my dream of faded blue curtains

where he said goodbye,

his voice drifts of transparent West Texas steel— 

  You know what to do. 

  You’re doin’ it.


  Keep Goin’.

Knowing and doing,

he is here

my father

I see my hands in dirt

dirt under nails, creases of my palms

  for a moment 

They are his. 



Gavin Prinsloo

South Africa

Should color be the sound of light, and hold my heart in golden glow, cupped hands aglow, a beating golden heart with light spilling between laced fingers, laying bare the thoughts of infinite hues, a wealth of mind reflected in shafts of incandescent gleam, so bright as to narrow the eyes of perception, and shutter the window to the soul.


Sound heard without hearing, light seen without seeing, sensation felt without touching, it infuses flesh and mind, gifting the immortality of thought without thinking.


For all that is, all that ever will be, is the golden glow of life, of a heart suppurating and spilling over with the emotional heat of existence, irradiated with the promise of life.


So, as I return my heart into its suppository of self, as the light is quenched and internalized, as eyes yet see again, ears respond to the beat of my heart, and mind relax with the certainty of my temperance, my hands feel yet again the coarse texture of reality.


So again, is hidden my golden treasure, until time again to expose my mind to the light of a

beating, pulsing heart, to recreate this moment of experienced infinity, and to glow again with creativity of life.



Amy Turberville

I cut my teeth on grief

at an early age

Baby blues fading to black

I walked straight up to my grandfather’s coffin

and peered in

And felt death’s Cold, lifeless embrace

holding me tight

Only the void staring back at me

I have spent a lifetime

Gathering ashes & striped carnations

One after the other they fell

And I cannot help but feel it’s

Death taunting me for all those years I escaped its grasp

That I am living in a cursed skin

Drowning in survivor’s guilt

Longing for a life lost



Loretta D’Souza

United Kingdom

The moon so bright

Forever alight.


Shines into the night

Such a joyous sight


Sleep, my baby sleep

Hush, hush and do not weep.


Such a busy day

Walked along the bay.


Chatted to familiar faces

About the surrounding places.


Built up an appetite

So we stopped for a bite.


The day it ran away

And now time to lay.


Look up at the moon

You’ll be asleep so very soon.


Close your tiny eyes

Time for beddy-byes.


Dream wonderful dreams

As the moon still beams.



Ashim Hazarika


‘Let me live’, wails the child for life has just begun

Let us live peacefully or we can’t live, can we?

‘Let us die’, wails the aged for life is somber .

It is complicated to yield and yet mysterious to go,

To follow and to do our wish.

Can you live? Can they live? Can life itself go on?

Positively none can because of the destructive effect,

Impact of the cruel hands of violence.

Can they love? Could they love? Should they love?

Neither me, nor you, nor they, because

Affection and compassion has turned illusory.

‘Let us fade’, wails the earth for nothing is natural

Sorrow or joy, tears or smiles are worthless.

‘Let us unite and lead our life’, wails the youth,

For it is our time to meet our challenge.

Come, let’s live – let’s lead life, cos

Life is meant for living without delusion cos life is

A tedious journey, so, get everything

In time.



Adrian David

As we privates bid our final salute,

shrouding our grief as a tribute,

from near and afar, come shrill cries,

while our homeland mourns our brother's demise.


He enlisted to keep the flag flying high.

Alas, the horrors of war left him to die.

Remembering the good and bad times we shared often,

with heavy hearts, we carry his flag-draped coffin.


His family was waiting by their door.

From their eyes, rivers of tears pour.

The little angel asks, 'Mom, where's Dad?'

God, why has the world turned so bad?


The bloodstained uniform pocked with bullet holes

belongs to yet another unsung patriotic soul.

An undaunted hero gone too soon

leaves an indelible void in our platoon.


Deep within us, there is relentless pain.

We promise his sacrifice won't go in vain.

O comrade, whom we call our own,

Why have you left us all alone?


(Dedicated to the fallen heroes of war)



Tina Wayland

The Last Harvest


The cows give birth

in the barn,

six slick calves crowded

together in the mild

March night.

The farmer bent and tired,

too old, he thinks,

for another season.

Too broken

to breed them again.


In April he carries crop seeds

out to the fields,

filling the fallow ones

with corn and carrots,

cabbage and potatoes,

lining fresh-plowed rows

with beats and beans and lettuce,

his tractor creaking like his joints,

cracking like his bones.


As the henhouse heats

in the late May sun

the chickens chuckle and cluck,

the farmer reaching for warm eggs

with his sweaty palms,

piling them high and heavy

in the basket his mother made

when he was a boy,

sixty summers slung over his shoulder.

The sheep are sheared in June,

their wet wool mucked and musty,

bleating between the farmer’s knees

as he cuts the fleece from their feet,

their bellies,

each new ewe bruising his wrists,

shearing the skin from his palms.


Come July he sets his stand

by the roadside,

sells strawberries in wooden crates,

places peas in their pods in neat rows,

licking a line of raspberry juice

from his forearm,

feeling his tongue touch the old blue veins,

scrape across his burnt skin,

cracked and creased

from seasons of sun.


He runs the broom through the barn

in August,

sweeping rats from the rafters,

gathering gophers and voles in the fields

like an old barn owl,

swooping in on unsteady wings

to pluck his prey.


Then comes September,

the fields full and the farmer,

dirt deep down under his nails,

picks and plucks and reaps his crops.

Growing old with every row,

his weathered face fading

like the tall fall shadows of the barn.

But no more will he be bound to his bounty,

for when the last of the crop is culled

he will rip himself up by the roots,

snap his stem from the tree,

and at last, at last

bring his final harvest home.



Darshana Thapa


Why do they never meet?

Life comes first,

Death last,

What type of game is that?

Holding hands with happiness and sorrow,

Death follows life of tomorrow.

So enjoy happily as happiness knocks at your door,

Nobody knows of tomorrow.

Shed tears as much as you can

Don't grumble but run away from sorrow.

If day was never ending,

Light is long,

but darkness loves life

So beware of sorrow.

Life is a struggle for existence

until death ends following life .



David Dephy

United States

A look of a child makes you smile. 

Fear disappears by the breath.

Your hope is not shaped by 

the nightmares of the news at 9. 

It still leads you across the mists.  

A look of a child will refresh your soul. 

It will guide you in the dark, its strength 

will follow you all the days of your life, 

you will dwell in your own childhood miracles, 

forever, but put the rifle down, first.



Viva Andrada O’Flynn

look not so sullen 

when you see me gone

sunny skies and smiles
still dance before your eyes

earthy soil blooms into new life 

spurts promises and eases strife

somber black never suited your style 

glow like a rainbow does in exile

after the storm clears shake off your fears

leave yesterday’s episode

unpack your load

winds of change blow directions unknown

as a sweet soft sigh carries me home



Rebecca Kenny

United Kingdom

The line between

We never talk any more


          We will never talk again

Is razor






And when it’s breached


Like a blade to the chest

You were there


  You are not



Jennifer Muniz

United States

I’ve been picturing it lately

At the edge of the sea

Of my dreams

When all has been rendered useless

Except for this effortless transcendent love


I see you there.


When our broken bodies reach

The extent of their toil

After all

And our limitless hearts have

Met their limitations for injustices


I see you there.


Your omnipresence emanates

Where it didn’t before

You’re with me

My penance in broken remnants

When I will arrive at your door in the end


I see you there.


I’ll feel your heart pulsing in the stars

Well after the world goes dark

Our love stays

I’ve been envisioning it lately

I’ve been wishing it without my own consent

I see you there.

I don’t paint pretty pictures

Nor pen science fiction

Tell me now

What happens in that final hour

In the last pages of your ever afters


-am I there?



Michaela Fuller

United Kingdom

What’s that strange feeling? 

A rumbling, a sound, 

I wriggle myself on the spot,

To try and turn around. 

Ooo, there is was again, 

A low humming purr, 

Was that this person? 

Could it be her? 

Oh no, that feels different, 

That’s lower for sure, 

I wriggle around again, 

To try to hear more. 

The sounds are together now, 

In unison they hum, 

This is all new to me, 

The sounds are so fun. 

I think it’s who carries me, 

The noise who’s called mum, 

And it must be the noise ‘dad,’ 

That’s got to be the other one. 

I like these feelings, 

The sounds comfort me, 

I can’t wait to get out, 

Then the sounds I will see. 



Shanzay Sethi


I don't know what it is, but I want to make it something it's not.  

I want to make it complex. Wretched. Muddy. 

Heartrendingly beautiful, haunting my sensibilities and an emotional sensuality

Till the point my entire world looks like a wrongly arranged jigsaw puzzle.

Where only I can see the image, it's supposed to represent. 

When everyone sees only abstract insanity.  

Well, everyone except you.  

You would see the picture and we would discuss it over a bottle of apple juice filled in champagne bottle. 

People around us would whisper and point at us, snickering behind their mouth covered hands  and calling us stark raving mad.  

We cancel out our imperfections and the resulting combination is nothing short of a masterpiece.

Words are stuck in my throat.  

I have a sudden craving to take out my dad's old typewriter and write a tragedy.  I will probably wake up in the middle of the night, take the typed story out. Then scathingly scratch out the part where the two people in love die and rewrite the story with a happy ending.  

May be then, I will miss you less.



Hiba Heba


Freeing: the oceanic murmur of

a shanty. Beguiling, tongue-tied; 

like the soft existence of a recluse. 

A wall, tumbling. Brick after brick, 

and what’s beyond water, or sustenance?

When I am buried in the quicksand,

I will be a kidney devoured by a bulging

liver, or a heart. A flipped mattress. 

The color of reflection.  Convulsing, a 

metonym not yet pronounced. Out loud.



Francisc Edmund Balogh


We lived 

in that bellow the rainbow small dug hole of

subbasement apartment, 

from that  dug hole of crowded, narrow, snakes

like convoluted small streets area,

from that dug hole of end of the world small town 

which stole from us, slowly,  one  by one,

all the reasons for the sun to shine!

We lived 

in the dug hole of tireless aiming for the wonder of luck  

inside that barb-wired perimeter of everyday  routines.

We lived 

in the dug hole of a soul wrecking materialism 

hidden under it’s  shallow cover of wisdom. 

We lived 

in the dug hole of our fatality entrenched  self image 

as seen  in the color-blind mirror of life.

We lived 

in the dug hole of unpredictable bat flight like

sensitivity of the truth.

We lived in the dug hole of the  stone heavy silence 

of divinity!

The power of our love was so bleached!

We lived that dug hole life

without being able to turn it

into a tunnel.


the dawn released

a new morning’s light,

high up, above the town,

as if it was a white dove.




Matt Cummings

United States

Bedridden, virus got me in the vice
Rolling dices, gambler’s luck
Able to speak, but only sounds of muck
Filling my lungs as Death mocked at my face
Gracing the serenade of my soul
Stretched out, turning on the sirens
Off in the horizon, still following me
To reap what it sown
Snow slowly falls in my mind’s wasteland
Tipping point in the minefield, deathly hell
Stuck in eternal limbo, the key’s thrown away
No way out expect my private suicide
The reaper allowed one call, I called my god
He said to hang on, so I laughed
Haunting my own death, damn it all
My serenade to live, fearless in face of death



Nicolette Soulia

United States

I.  You lifted your head, searching

      Found me with your tired eyes 

for one last moment, yearning, 

and, just like that, 

today became the worst day of my life.

II.  It’s so quiet with only one.

      My heart beats half as fast.

      I’m pretty sure the mornings are 

the loneliest of all

  When I used to hear your voice call.

III.  I’d rather spend a thousand lifetimes 

burning in the purgatory of solitude 

than one more tissue on 

pretending that I’m okay.  

I just wish you were here with me today.

IV.  You deserved better than me. 

You deserved someone with more money, 

more time, more patience, more vitality. 

More of what you gave me 

when you were the one in need. 

V.  I no longer know how to function 

without your presence, 

so I sleep until permanently punch-drunk

and let my body’s aches be the 

only reminder left to feel something again someday. 

VI.  I always asked why humans deserved 

four and five-score aeons

while dogs merely a decade or two, 

but now I realize dogs don’t need long lives

because they actually spend theirs living it. 



Petronella Powell

United Kingdom

Life is for living,

You never know when it may end

So spend every minute wisely,

Do what you want to do,

Be who you want to be,

Let everyone see that you are living

As opposed to just waiting for death to come,

Just run up behind you,

It could come from anywhere,

Scare you to death,

Take away you’re last breath

Without any warning,

So don’t be boring,

Instead be soaring,

Living life to the fullest,

Being as pure as you can be

So you can live life feeling free.



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Mel is a special needs teacher from the UK. She lives by the sea and loves nothing more than walking along the beach with a coffee from her favourite cafe. She has always loved reading and writing poetry. 


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Kassie is a poet and fiction author from NYC. She spends her days working in marketing and her nights writing and designing... when she isn't traveling and trying to find the next best brewery.

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