December 6, 2017 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Scott Pacaldo photo



Maria Lagdameo





Candelight Of Shadows



Mute for life, not vocal deprived, gagged;

By shadows, darker than a moonless night,

Embracing senses in frozen canopy, numb;



When pain is all she knew, pain is nothing new.

Foreign is a tender, a touch she endures, paranoia;

Hope grieves, a casket in her home, genocide;



Hysteria chanting in uniform, defying no norm.

Oscillation, singing a ballad, like a dark serenade;

Alluring a lover, offering withered bouquet, bloody;



Candle in casserole, melted unlit, innocence deprived;

Killed even before, fire had kindled its wick, shaped anew,

Distorted, match kissed, once again, deformed, hardened;



Reprieve offers no sale, when a heart is torn, to no repair.

Absolution, rode the ship that had set its sail, undocked;

Shattered soul, left behind buried, under millions of sand;



A pen dried of ink, sketched illusions, in clouds of smoke.

With lies retold and truth on hold, a dream came, restive;

Of sleep and doom, both looking out from afar, out of grasp;

Death Wish


Soon no more, look, her wings had grown, ready to fly.

Above the cliff, she freed herself, chilly wind blew her

Unto the waiting arms, of rocks beneath: her resting place;



Pain she thought, could never be, as comforting,

One last time; for the first time, she sees the sun;

Smiling, as group of ravens feasted upon her lifeless eyes;





Cock of the Game



Bullets fly, like blind hummingbirds

Impaling everything in their way.

Sunshine occulted by clouds of smoke

Lungs suffocated by the aroma

Of blood and gunpowder

Crimson cocktails of fluid and muddy earth

Bathing bodies’ void of life.


The once peaceful village

Raped by warring sides’

Collateral damage in the games of chess

Played by those moronic cocks of the walk –

Who puffs themselves up on podiums

Where they squawk like unintelligible Gods

When behind closed doors

They shake hands with the gaffers

Then sold them the same arms

That choke their very own flocks


My heart aches for the innocents

Caught in the crossfire for the sake of bloated balls

For the life they might have led

For the others they could have met

For the generation they could have influenced

For the difference they could have made

Now wasted, sacrificed in the name of greed

And the title – Cock of the game.






Maria Lagdameo

Maria Lagdameo is a working woman in her mid-thirties whose passion includes arts and crafts, drawing and creating stories and poetry. She’s been writing since her high school days but just got seriously involve last 2016. She likes to experiment and to try writing in different styles.

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