![Sisterofthemoon.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmQxds3vdj6CWbkuwumSsdv12JqraeBoQYcH2yYfYjcHJY/Sisterofthemoon.jpg)
you who live
under dim skies
poor without a floor
in houses built of
flimsy promises
contracts with the
devils of safety
pauper-paper-rings
chains tethered
to mausoleums where
you are kept on your knees
where you cannot stand
and your backs are bent
in pain
and servitude
in sightlessness
crawl out and
stand
under unclouded skies
scream until your voices comes forth
take of the green-life-blood
grow strong
consume your fears
and reclaim your sight
rise large as mountains
have strong hands
and be free
once again
burn these paper-pauper houses
feed your womb
and grind the stone
eat off your labor
cast off the shackles
of expectation
and be seen
fiercely
ravenous
be the fury
of unbound
fire
and burn
it all clean
to renew
again
![Screen Shot 2018-04-06 at 3.55.39 PM.png](https://steemitimages.com/640x0/https://steemitimages.com/DQmZKD6AaAmHrNk7rAcgb5iXgSEsYrEB3tFZT8Wcz2VC83G/Screen%20Shot%202018-04-06%20at%203.55.39%20PM.png)
All pieces are newly crafted and posted shortly after in adherence to the rules of the challenge. All the photos are mine unless otherwise stated.
Entry for Day 31 of 100 Days of Poetry Challenge by @d-pend.
Join the Steemit School here: https://discord.gg/yZvYjfM organized by @dobartim on Discord.
"Houses built of flimsy promises," is a simple yet striking image. We can all see it. A house built on a bad foundation. A house that can be blown away in the wind, like so much tissue paper, yet to be wet by tears. A house that falls on you, like a house of cards built on lies.
"Contracts with the devils of safety," which we've spoken of oft before, the siren song of comfort. Lulling you to sleep beneath the waves of stupor. Letting it all wash over you, but letting none of it reach inside.
"Pauper-paper-rings," "Word-tombs," "paper-pauper houses." And the rhyme of words continues. Pauper-paper rings, made of paper machettes, nothing to last. Because words can be erased, and written over. So much permanence to what is supposed to be the true mark of permanence in our culture. But words have come cheap.
And where do words go to die? And what do you do if you end up there? Where all the words are dead, and aren't worth the ink they were written on, words exposed to the sun till they all wash away?
And paper-pauper houses. Seems it snuck in twice, but I think it fits. Can be seen several ways, as another fake house, or a house made of words that aren't worth anything. But also perhaps where the devils of safety do not rest, for there is no safety there, but only the illusion.
For it is not like devils to give what they promise, unless it can cause even more harm.
I can definitely feel some of your other poems here, especially Residuum and some of the older pieces. And it ties well into Salt-Grave. If that was a realization of the need to find another shore, then this is an invigorating war-cry to force onself to go for it, by setting ablaze the false haven, the unsafe shore, and a call for others to do so as well.
A call to return to life. To where words live. To where they do not need to be beholden to dead paper, just to themselves, and to life.
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Beautiful work, @mamadini! Your use of imagery is very captivating and paints vivid pictures. May the divine goddess rise!
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She is rising and I think so many of us can feel it. ;)
Thank you for dropping by. <3
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Once again, much to to admire, @mamadini, but for some reason this had me sitting up straight:
Turn-away from word-tombs
Stirring rallying cry, it got me cheering for the Sisterhood, damning all who would hold them down!
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::bows deeply::
Thank you. I am always so thrilled when you drop a line on my blog as I truly hold your work on high and am moved by so much of it. Thank you.
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Very gracious of you to say so, M 🙇🏻♂️ You are one of 4-5 poetic voices on Steemit with a distinctive style all your own & whom I can count upon for quality work — an experience, even. Onwards, upwards 👆🏼
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