This Basement Of Ours

[Mr. Brown]

We never enter the basement.
It is a place of horrors, fears, and sorrows.
Our basement is a black door surrounded by the fogs of mystery, chilled with neglect.
I've seen it once, this basement of ours.
I felt its chill, at first what I saw was unknown. It was another world, a new land, unlike anything I'd ever seen.

This basement of ours was dark, it was a place where the black sun hung high, it has a warm hypothermic kiss to the surface of the skin. I saw ravens flying, riding on the wings of burnt and unopened love letters, frames of a talented and widely loved young wolf gone omega.

Here in this world I feel the weight of silence. It rains silence, blanketing what was once golden. It fills my nose with every breath. A I sift through this place, wipe away the residue of silence and time, I see frozen moments, temporary forevers. I see pictures, what this land might have been.

I've seen many things in this basement. But in this moment that seemed to last forever, I found quite a find. I found a find that intrigued me down to the deepest recess of my mind.

It was on the outskirts of this wasteland. Covered in silence, it lay beneath dancing weavers weaving silk bed traps. What I found was a product of the twisted oak, carved with the legacies of the natives, the light in a dark world.

It was a chair, a rocking chair. A chair placed by the window yet untouched by the sun. A chair I'd heard stories about, a chair that had lived a long life, raising small children now grown. Yet her sweet whispering allure called to me.

On it I read stories of the seasons, from the blazing summer sun, to the frozen winter nights. It had curves as the hills in Italy, depicting the wild horses that roam. This land of silence and pain now turned loud, deafening with the questions and thoughts racing through my mind.

Where was it made? How did it get here? When did its journey end? Why was it forsaken? But most of all, What was this place? This land I found now stuck in time. This land full of things now covered in silence, wrapped in pain and mystery.

I hear footsteps, up in the world above. They call out to me, time has come rushing back. This wasteland will return to silence. I never forgot that place, now grown, my children will soon discover that land. They will journey for the answer to what lies below. I found the answer. This place, this is the place of lost sons, broken dreams, and bad memories.

[rowens]

I like this poem. I like this poem because I'm drunk to-day, and also on drugs. I hate drugs. I like this, as a climbing out hold. A hold on memories, marked up to the present, and hopeful for the future. If the future is worthy of hope, I don't know; but at least there is a future. Where the kids can discover the wasteland, and have a chance to make something out of it.

Memories are like dreams that cheat, with conscious control; thinkingly on their side. And so are poems about memories....Never does anyone enter the basement; but it has been entered, many times, by some and others. And so we get this description and elaboration of it. Sure no one spends enough time down there to get a genuine impression, based on reality; but reality is not good enough for the impressions the necessary distance involves, from a place like this. Or that; that old basement still here, and nobody knows quite while, but it is, and apparently, will keep up with its being there, for the children: and the children of the children?

I saw this basement of OURS, unlike anything I'd EVER seen. It's dark; a black sun hung there. Does it hang there now? it always only hung there. On the surface, it's warm, in that below the surface kind of way. Warm in that subterranean feeling that a man's used to not being used to. Ravens are flying, on other wings, wings of solemn, and carrion things, you now can look through without tampering with. Not to ruin the dignity and aura of the older, more dignified ruin. "A I sift through this place", Even a man that runs with angels and battles demons might mispronounce a foreign word; is this a 'typo', or an 'A' to confront a tattered, decrepit "Omega"? In this strange room of familiar things, even the most obvious correct utterances are mistaken.

Only a moment, only a moment that lasts forever in a poem, but in a basement of a few minutes is forgotten. I don't doubt there are deeper recesses of your brain, you, in the flash of a moment, decide not to acknowledge; and appropriately for decent poetry forget. A headache is worth a few confusing forgettings, or divergent hangovers.

"Outskirts", yes.

A rocking chair. The light in a dark world. How does it compare to the calls from the world above? And what is the difference? I guess there are things that can fill your nose with every breath. It happens sometimes.

[Keith]

This has a lot going on, some great images dark and forboding, I like the outer world references, they give the words extra depth, could do with a strong edit to clear out unneeded words and to sort out the flow that reads a bit clunkey. Only a moment x2 not sure needed. Fullstop follwed by (Or / And) doesnt need catipals or fullstop
A good trim should really bring out the theme that feels a bit lost in dramatic words.
Thank you for the read

[billy]

We never enter the basement.
It is a place of horrors, fears, and sorrows.
Our basement is a black door surrounded by the fogs of mystery, chilled with neglect.
I've seen it once, this basement of ours.
I felt its chill, at first what I saw was unknown. It was another world, a new land, unlike anything I'd ever seen. it starts off reasonably well. but all we have yet are intangibles, a fear of what, what sorrows? feels a little wordy wordy.

This basement of ours was dark, it was a place where the black sun hung high, it has a warm hypothermic kiss to the surface of the skin. I saw ravens flying, riding on the wings of burnt and unopened love letters, frames of a talented and widely loved young wolf gone omega.

Here in this world I feel the weight of silence. It rains silence, blanketing what was once golden. It fills my nose with every breath. A I sift through this place, wipe away the residue of silence and time, I see frozen moments, temporary forevers. I see pictures, what this land might have been.

I've seen many things in this basement. But in this moment that seemed to last forever, I found quite a find. I found a find that intrigued me down to the deepest recess of my mind.

It was on the outskirts of this wasteland. Covered in silence, it lay beneath dancing weavers weaving silk bed traps. What I found was a product of the twisted oak, carved with the legacies of the natives, the light in a dark world.

It was a chair, a rocking chair. A chair placed by the window yet untouched by the sun. A chair I'd heard stories about, a chair that had lived a long life, raising small children now grown. Yet her sweet whispering allure called to me.

On it I read stories of the seasons, from the blazing summer sun, to the frozen winter nights. It had curves as the hills in Italy, depicting the wild horses that roam. This land of silence and pain now turned loud, deafening with the questions and thoughts racing through my mind.

Where was it made? How did it get here? When did its journey end? Why was it forsaken? But most of all, What was this place? This land I found now stuck in time. This land full of things now covered in silence, wrapped in pain and mystery.

I hear footsteps, up in the world above. They call out to me, time has come rushing back. This wasteland will return to silence. I never forgot that place, now grown, my children will soon discover that land. They will journey for the answer to what lies below. I found the answer. This place, this is the place of lost sons, broken dreams, and bad memories.

in general a fair amount could be edited out. i like the idea of your changing basement, or should i say our changing basement. i get the feeling your writing about our psych basement. some the repetitions with sun could be improved upon. and some concrete images would really lift the piece.

thanks for the read.