To Wolves- Austin M. Ely


Drawn from the darkness

Only to be thrown To Wolves

In an unforgiving light

As I am ripped to pieces

I come back together

In the blink of an eye


Take a step forward

And I die…

In a pit of pain

A pitiful way to go

When I’m toe to toe

Eye to eye

With the beast

Consider Hammurabi’s Code

An eye for an eye

At least have the decency to numb me first

As a matter of fact

Take both of my eyes

For I have seen too much

In such little time


Image courtesy of Pixabay

A poet based out of the city of Wilkes Barre, Northeast Pennsylvania. At the age of 13 he began writing poetry and short stories in a foster home in order to express what he couldn’t. Through the years, now at the age of 21, he has always sought to personally develop his word play as well as inspire those who read his work to perceive themselves through and to the world. He has dubbed himself a “modernai literary” which is a title prescribed by his generation in order to distinguish himself and his writing.


His blog, which can be seen at houses much of his works for any and everyone to read.

Emily- Samantha Lucero


i was once obscure
like food stains under skirts
or a film of oil on a flowers tongue
but i grew to be a bigger blemish
like a birthmark on gods face
until i had to hide away
so no one saw

death had come on many occasions
and i, the greeter at the door would grin
but i was not the company he was looking for
when i’d invite him in

thus i watched them all march out
my loves; one-by-one and fall to ash
and still i, never being the one sought out
began to wear white instead of black
to mourn; no coward soul is mine,
in hopes he’d never return.

Samantha Lucero likes… uhhh… cats, and can never think of what to say about herself, she writes at sixredseeds, sometimes and is a managing editor at Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.

As if from Nowhere by Sergio Ortiz


[Poem and painting by Sergio Ortiz]


Miguel Angel’s memories haunt him

like a baggage car that does not quite fit.

But let’s talk about his voice,


somewhat faded by the years,

as if words were spying on him.

As if there were no throat

only the spoils of a race war


hidden somewhere in the towers

of New York City.

He talks about his mother

who is in her 90’s and lives

on the beaches of Rincon.

Talks about the wife

and grandchild he’s left behind.


Suddenly, death is him

and this is the ferry’s last stop.

Miguel Angel from nowhere


the world becomes numerous,

but the cold keeps its stories.