Volume Three, Issue 1

J. L. Moultrie

Doomed Ideals

Suffocating dimensions of speech,
stale with longing,
sing a dread song. The convulsing,
gathered attendants are perched
upon heaps of immaterial. Jostling
for form; known down to each haggard cell.

Stirring the silence with no will,
edging closer to the bandaged helm.
Encumbered with faint tolerance;
slumbering in enlarged shields. The
thread between days is broken.

Flailing whenever solitude arrives:
crawling across the real estate of my mind.
Silhouettes disappear with ease here. Half-
submerged above the water’s pitch-black stare,
flecks of heat emerge from memory.


The taste of violet sinks
past all senses. Injured
knowledge is often leaned
upon. Shadows cast themselves
across the handsome crowds;
claiming the tips of tongues.

Stumbling out of adolescence
past monoliths and keepsakes.
Fatherless pain, flushed of all
venom, is seen crossing the
vacant blue.

Watching symbols fall
like lead, until they cross
the raw threshold. Until
each morsel of feeling is
painted across the still-strange


Bent over the precipice, inches closer
to merging with malleable forms. These
plateaus only exist, jutting with all
signs of warmth. Stifled at the aching
margins, rain-filled bells are tipped.

Confined brilliance in perpetual
dance; the shadow-stained walls
become a blur. Collecting with
mud-covered fingertips, I find favor
in the wild earth; shedding the
bandages of youth.

Careening in and out of lives; time
becomes a distant signal. Each guise
is subsumed into another, uprooting tree
stalks. The feeling’s moniker is absolved,
coerced to ruin. Staring through the
statuesque blood; toiling with exhausted

Subsisting on panic-stricken light,
unfurling from sheetless beds. My dread
is unsheathed, glinting in the humid air.


A vagrant dream emerges from
wasp nests. Waiting for a break
in the absence; standing water becomes
common place. Peril, swollen and desirous,
sinks into my chest.

A blithe decree elicits wry smiles.
Carrying wet stones through the sober
earth, curtains and shutters are
closed. My nerves resemble shrapnel;
languishing in the history of my face.

Miles beyond the wound, towards the
storied city, await the prurient
spires. Spineless water falls
with a thud; flooding the graceless


Compounded by gales of wind,
the years flash with green longing. Tattered
bonds, enduring the exhaling night,
tip the scales. Frail bewilderment blooms
through worldly angst. Bounding walls;
truth is found coiled and engulfed.

Incensed and residual; I don’t recognize
the pale days. An innate will dissipates;
shouldering the waning earth. Enveloped
by the thin veil of pages; dying out grows
its definition. Faces of twisted ore,
flung to invented pastures, rend elegies.

Enjoined by twine and embers, mirrors
go asunder in manifold darkness. Sifting
through psychic ash, memory no longer
relents. Seething past inborn stars;
augmented sorrow falls through the
tall interior.

J. L. Moultrie: "I am a 29 year old poet based in Detroit, Michigan. I fell in love with reading and writing poetry after encountering Hart Crane, Rainer Maria Rilke and others. I am previously unpublished."

Top of Page

Table of Contents

Visit our Facebook page          Visit us on Twitter

editors AT rigorous DASH mag DOT com
webmaster AT rigorous DASH mag DOT com