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"Set", "Uncover", and "Dead Fly"

Written By

Crimson Blackstone



The shroud fatigued

Busy gatherings draining mass beneath

Hiding immobility, burdening its whispers in the untold

Furrowing as wings folding around failing bonfires

Curling against the troubler in knowing ignorance

Lift the curious protrusions and hold in place its pasty platforms

Raise your blurring reach, you cracking droves of casts

False fate means to gnaw on marred and bumpy backs

Chipped foundations pile over the ceiling, surrendering the floor

What does it mean to linger, suspended in that abandoned hourglass?

Translations endlessly flicker in and out of codes




Solving the unfolded riddle

Casting about for cures in the void

Repetitive messages divulged with evening’s desolate fall and mourning’s first glance


Spot the difference between the pinpoints and the guttering

Propose the used questions

Peer harder at the screen’s unbreakable programming

The solution’s crumbled


A firm grip on needles and stems

Bleeding what’s dead

Cackling for madness before the joke’s meaning sets in


Swelling blame sags on the blemished brain

Race faster on the derelict wheel

Change the channels, fresh and unrecognizable and

No one will remember yesterday’s actions

Take a slice and soak in shame

Borrowed flesh inherits decay’s stench

Senses tempt while they fade

Dare to face them

Admit they’re victorious


"Dead Fly"

Dead fly, by my feet

I wish I hadn’t poisoned you

I have bigger enemies I’m gunning for

Better tactics to bring targets down

Your time was so short as it was, dead flier

I hadn’t set out to cut your air time

It was your bad luck to enter my hideaway

Bad fortune to encounter a dweller with such toxic barriers invisible


Stay beside me so I will remember why you’re dead

As a bee, comb my dreams and sting retribution into my dimmed landscapes; avoid tempestuous shores, for the tide always tumbles in like a siren, remembrances foretold for the harder trips once the chains dismantle


By you, lifeless fly, I lie alone with anxieties

With you, cheated flier, I answer whether I find my voice

An iridescent sweep on your wing assures me that good justice calls home


A punch buried in my stomach twists my grimace with my insistence

Crimson Blackstone writes fantasy, horror, poetry, and nonfiction for adults and teens. Her work has appeared in Oddball Magazine, and 50-Word Stories. She is especially proud of her former students’ incurable addictions to books.

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