Three Poems by Faust
by Gabrielle S. Faust

by Gabrielle S. Faust

Straight cut fine line dissection
Desertion tracked through
Grit and sand lodged deep
Within the confiscated pulls of
Coffin doors,
Rolling slowly in blind-eyed
Solitude of final prayer,
Behind the platitude of masses.

Spoken ego embitterment
Congealing quick on
Tongues of tired saviors
Soon to be ousted
>From their black night term,
Felling simple minds,
One by one,
To the ineptitude and reserve
Of one man's inadequacies.

by Gabrielle S. Faust

I am perceptibly beside myself,
Without the will to disturb
What is blatantly destructive
With my emotionally skewed
Removed rough dissections,
Two days before my
Flight home.

My soul imparts a secret to me,
That these two wayward
Worn paths will not
Cross again,
Leaving me hollow
As a rotten tree,
Without the will to stand
Upright against the wind.

I want to digest it,
To free it beneath
The echo of footsteps
In this coal miner's
Stair well,
But there is not enough
Daylight left
To purify.

by Gabrielle S. Faust

There is no poetry in emptiness,
No motion in brevity,
No passion in words, once forgotten;
Be still my heart to think
You do not remember
The city as it burned,
Before the edge of time,
Reflected in our hollow
Headlight eyes as you
Took me to the ground
And fed me poetry,
Shook me senseless,
As reality left your rhyme,
Scraping pollen from my thighs
To make bittersweet honey.

My lines seem to fail me now,
The part of simple saving grace;
Releasing the wildfire into
The ether as it shied away
>From my expectations of burning agony.
Virtue awkward,
Honesty, harrowing and fragile,
Logic that bends backward upon
A moment stretching onward
Into exhausted sighs,
And strangled good-byes
On a Sunday afternoon.
Remembering you face to face,
Black lamp moonlight
Near the arcing freeway,
Petrified mammoth north bound,
Breaking parchment voices upon
The scuttling whistling
Of heaven leaving me.

My silent last request before I die:
To see the sun rise with eyes brimming,
A focused anticipation
Of marmalade renewal
In crisp academic air
Leaning against hoods
Of rusted maroon metal;
Oh, how it never comes,
With so much sinful residue
Still residing in this house,
Working its way roundabout
My veins, charring the silver,
Hording the loot, making me move
Backwards over this burning bridge.
Not the first to feel the timbers moan
And give way
So that another can take my place.

You will not remember
The city as it burned,
Silhouetted behind
My naked form,
Beckoning you to pillage it
Steal its gold foil wonderment,
As you rose from where we lay,
Side-stepping the sting of the bee,
To take the honey you gathered
With deft deception,
Into town
On market day,
To sell for a dozen ducats less
Than it was worth.

About the Author
Gabrielle S. Faust
Painter, Writer, Graphic Designer, Photographer

Gabrielle S. Faust, 27, has spent the vast majority of her life in Austin, Texas studying art and graphic design. Primarily instructed from an early age by her father, Luke Faust, she has also studied at the Dougherty Arts Center and Laguna Arts School. She obtained an Associates of Visual Communication Design from Austin Community College in 1999. After spending five years in the advertising and design industry as a graphic designer and illustrator, Faust now works freelance while pursuing her passion for painting and writing. Her focus in painting is acrylic, mixed media with a surrealistic realism as a subject matter of many of her darker and more disturbing pieces; in writing she focuses on poetry and gothic fiction. For the larger part her works are reflections of the internal struggle of humanity against their raw emotions and the inner turmoil of society while her abstracts embody the flux of energy and elements about us. She primarily exhibits in Austin and Houston galleries. However, when she is not painting, Faust is hard at work on her first gothic novel entitled "Eternal Vigilance". This work and more can be viewed at or Faust works both on a freelance and commission basis as requested.

" Art is not only a visual representation of the inner workings of the creator, it is also the manifestation of the essential truth to which the waking world often turns a blind eye. There is no denying art. It is a form that reaches to embody the tragedies and exultations of our lives. It may not always be perfect in meter or rhyme for it is raw and unyielding to man's attempts to control it, to hone it. It is poetry... This is my meter... This is my rhyme... This is my complete lack of both... And thus, this is my life."

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