Seule – for C

loneliness is like a bubble

sometimes all we need
is for it to pop, Pop, PoP!
like a kernel in the microwave

at first, inert,

it doesn’t look like much
then, from somewhere deep within
a heated force of overwhelming power
shines through and breaks the shell.

Bring Me Back

The perfect drizzle
defines the line between today and tomorrow
A morose specimen,
far too endearing to share with our peers
peers out of its receptacle;
a chill destroys its resolve
“if only pigs could fly,
then I’d get myself out of this darned mess.”
It thinks, unwillingly.

The home of a collector
is not to be taken lightly
on days where the sun’s power dwindles
and the comings of months of death
appear on the horizon.

One step at a time,
it creeps, occasionally lurching
towards a white cover of bliss.
Brought back to the silence
of a city’s breath drawn again
when a cloak of winter descends
leaving everything amiss.

At times, when the sea of stars seems
to lose itself in vastness of the night
I’ve often longed to hear crisp footsteps,
ones I’ve dreamt of ad-nauseam;
despite the harsh and cruel winter,
they echo the sound of my love’s path
finally finding its way back
into the warmth of my tender embrace.

Fabricated Sorrow

What is it, about being a woman
that drives us, to feel lust
nay, neediness, longing, expectations
of the opposite sex
to WANT, to need, to succumb
to loving us?

It’s like taking the first hit;
wanting every moment
to inevitably feel like the next.
A drug of the heart, a survivalist’s wet dream,
suddenly the nightmare of the other.

I loathe the void I’ve created
within the absence you’ve brought;
the coward who parades around
as a hearty lion, navy suit astounding
the driver of slumber long deceased
brought back to life in a dusty dream.

Nothing is everything,
it all resonates like bass hitting a temple
wishing for change, but unwilling to understand;
the dance slowly dies
as the reality of one love lost
bites the dust, of poetic abstinence.

Heed a lonely cry, in the distance
a single ring on a finger
symbolism of something so untrue
it might as well be dead.

I’ll die too young
to see the fruition of your honesty.

Fishing in Cape Breton

Crisp
are the winds
that brought me to you
along the broken path
by the Ocean’s roar.
Jagged
were the rocks
that dangled beneath.
So close
to losing my footing
and slide
towards my demise.
Dangerous drops
rarely lead
to peaceful waters
and yet,
in all my meanderings
I failed to fall.
Rugged
was my resolve
in the hopes
that I too
could balance
on the fine line
that pushes
one foot
after the other
towards
the unknown.
Unfortunate
are those who strive
to maintain happiness
as a constant
instead of a rare pearl.
A thing
to be held close,
cherished
and observed
in moderation.
Happiness
isn’t a fish
you can catch,
but a fleeting moment.
Just breathe it in
and let it go.
Breathe me in…
And let me go.

A few short poems

A collection of short poems that will otherwise go unpublished, so I’m grouping them together here instead. Some of these have previously been posted to Twitter, so apologies if there is a bit of a repetition.

Half Moon Bay

The roar of the Ocean
Rules and narrow margins.
You stole my heart away
When we were in Half Moon Bay.

Morning Commute

Basic bitches in the back of the bus,
Shit sprawled all over the place.
I’ve never understood pumpkin spice lattes,
Maybe it’s the only spice they get in their lives
Future soccer moms and housewives.

(This was undeniably a morning rant)

Montreal

Ice in the night
Looks like latex
Brought to a shine
By an obedient little slave.

Submission

Subservient Subs
Surrendering Subconsciously
to Subliminal Subspace
like the Subspecies Subordinates
they long to be.

Succubus 1

Cry me your soul,
Let my hands slowly deprive you.
Oxygen fleeing, haggard existence
What does it feel like
To know that when you kiss me,
You are kissing death?

Montebello

A colourless day draws on
In cold observation of privilege
By the light of a dozen flames
Patagonia and Gucci abound
Wood, stone, and stained glass
The Succubus laughs silently
As loveless marriages melt away
On this crisp winter’s day

Melt

Time of spring
Icicles turned water
Frozen again
Time to slip

Bard Bits – Innocence

He marvelled at her innocence
Shining through in the darkness
An ethereal light amongst the shadows
Blissfully cradled in his arms
She was his angelic little slut.

Bee Mine

Darkness before dawn
A wasp flies up a mountain
Spread thighs await

Ode to a Fern

Leaning towards dying foliage
Desperate whispers part my lips
“I’ll cherish you forever.”
Fronds amiss, you sink into oblivion

Succubus 2

Create a void in me, so I lose sight
Embrace the upheaval of my thighs
Mountainous strength from beneath
As I erode myself into your world
Eager monster forsaking the gods
Devouring, until only the shell remains

© 2018 Lilith Ember All Rights Reserved

Until We Meet Again – For S

The raw scent of musky love
Envelops my thighs
My back arches, beckoning your arrival
My legs spread gently,
Always willing and ready
To feed you, my relentless lover.

Hands perched on parted thighs,
Only the most palatable position
For the refined and dedicated palate
Of my energetic connoisseur.
A sigh exhales, a moan soon follows
Etching ancient art
Into the heat of my burning body
A bit of this, a splash of that,
Savouring the many shades that unfold
So deliciously onto your tongue.

Nails digging into shoulders,
You tickle me just right
A timeless creator of the sparks
That ignite the fabric of my being.
Aching…
Come closer, my love,
Please,
Yes, slowly…

The deafening rumbling
Of a wave crashing onto shore,
Parting the seas of my lust,
Electrifying my senses.
I gasp for air,
Insatiable.

Overwhelm me with your love,
Just a little longer…
Deeper.
Harder.
Forever.

© 2019 Lilith Ember All Rights Reserved

Tiny Dancer

A thousand times I could die
Waiting for your love.
A wailing heart brings forth a song,
Of melancholy and mourning
For a love that only exists inside a box.
Unlatching, a tiny dancer turns
In melodic perfection, a pirouette of desire
What goes around, comes around, as they say.
She turns, again and again,
Always facing herself in the end.
Perfect imperfections splattered on a soul,
She’s there, at the tip of a tongue…
Little. Love. Lust. Lilith. Linger…
Never will her step falter,
For her puppeteer knows no other melody,
Save that of forgiveness and sorrow.
Alone, she turns, again and again,
Facing only but herself in the end.

© 2019 Lilith Ember All Rights Reserved