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Quietly, the wind comes,
transforming into a pointed dagger of a muse.
The murdered landscape of colors bleeding,
trying to ingest the muse.
A quarrel between violet homes
defeated and uprooted.

Unfurling stitches of dead mouths.
Colors deformed. Bright neons
& curled blues.
A white sky now turned red, opaque.
This space, an empty eye.
Nothing is forever.

What about your muse?

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X and I, The End of (sort of)

S. K. Nicholas


As their lips met, Herbie poked his head out from the pocket of X’s dress. The animals moving about them were no longer animals but glowing orbs, and behind what had been their animal faces, he saw them for who and what they really were. He didn’t have an answer—he was just a hamster after all—yet he understood the meaning of magic and that there was no greater magic than this. Sticking his nose into the air, he sniffed out the scent of love. He knew it was love because it was the only thing that was able to make her heart beat the way it was beating right now. It made him happy, so happy he twitched his whiskers the same way she twitched her nose. And to think that only yesterday he had lived his life in a cage, not knowing of the strange beauty that existed in…

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Homesick – Samantha Lucero

Our friend Sam on Free Verse Revolution


o’ willing death

that you should falter

from a barren road and howl

in the blood,

and like those homesick for the


could ripple in the living dark.

or should you tap,

i wouldn’t dare a dirty look

over my time-worn shoulder,

where hard moments have made

runic mobs. rather would i,


gape up at that maudlin deathbed

of worshipping pinpricks;

those clean, bright stars.

where i have ever amused

a close embrace, i have been

half-hearted. watching an

umbilical of white-hot


dash across my life;

i watch it tramp out fires

in my warring heart,

one already ill with


o’ willing death;

that you would whirl

and whisper in my arms,

but only once i wet

my scalp again in snow,

and endure yet

many moons

to come, that when they

bury my heart in los

cerrillos, the red soil


and those mountebank stars

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Finding You Again

Heartstring Eulogies

“I’ll ever stop trying to find my way to you.
Because you are worth it.
And so am I.”

This yearning I feel to break free of these chains is only making me pull against them that much harder. It feels like an invisible wall that won’t budge. All I can do is watch from my own magical prison, and I don’t yet know how to knock down the walls and break the links in the shackles that bind me. But that doesn’t mean I’ll ever stop trying. Because you are worth it. And so am I.

© Sarah Doughty

It’s time we break
these barriers and be free.

Happy birthday to
my wonderful husband.

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I, mind


by Erich Michaels

I spend so much time in my head that when I come out I am itchy and strained

Cold, dry air tightens my cerebrospinal fluid soaked skin

The conversations carried out in this alien world are clunky and forced

The ones in my head ran like quicksilver and you’d laughed at every jest

Pouring my heart out didn’t ring saccharine and your eyes mirrored intent

In my head I didn’t carry uncertainty like a leaden blanket, ending sentences in…?

In return you punctuated every sentence with

I love you .

Erich Michaels describes himself as  “just trying to share the human experience.”  He has a bachelor’s degree in creative writing, but find himself writing SOPs (lather, rinse, repeat) in order to make a living, which can be detrimental to the creative process.  You can find him on the road to recovery at Erich Michaels. Every journey begins with a single step, right?

The Night is for many things but …


I would rather walk

my authentic steps into the night,

embracing obscurity,

than remain pliant fodder

for certainly lovely honey-traps

laid aforehand, by well-meaning pity.

The night and me

we are one abiding,

our abode,

beyond the reach you seek,

with your contrivances,

of lightmaking.

If you wait

until my return

then we may talk,

as equals.

You bring the true light

and intent

and I,

bring my friends,

of the dark.


we will sit,

in the balance,

of mutual possibility.

Arico Nuevo

26 November 2018

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