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Morning twilight.  Monochrome.
I see the old Moon, waning, a crescent of white silk.
Venus and Spica share a moment nearby
As the Sun edges the horizon.

In my bag, I feel the breeze gently stir past the open zipper at my shoulder.
Sunrise creeps in.
Clouds mottled and streaked.
Red. Orange. A pillar.
Iron incandescence. Vibrant.

Earth awakens with whispers.
Trees reach and touch with each finger of wind plucking the branches.
Songbirds start.  Dogs caution.
First beams break the horizon.

Sixteen geese wing past with down swaddled in the early light.
I rise to give my wife words to see this beauty.
Dechanteur  Jun 2016
Spica I
Dechanteur Jun 2016
It was utterly vague and vast

How the sky mesmerize the night

Dim light of words and suffice 

She unsure of anything to sacrifice.

It was the only star shining brightly
Whom to tell when she cried vividly
The smile is worthless yet uncanny

It still a mysterious spotlight hidden under the canopy.

Call for the all it is worth of every lullaby

Sing to her the song of another mid-July

All the roads she could partake in

All the loves she had lost and found from within.

Holding the root through the palm

Not the tree but withhold with her arm

Say that she couldn’t be loved

That because she flawed in every curves.

Aloof is not a worthless feeling

Another paradox from isolation of fitting in.
storm siren Jul 2016
Let me entirely clear,
As clear as crystal,
As clear as the sky
On a summer's day.

It has come to my attention
That I was a fraud,
Just as you were.

I have recently realized,
It was never you I loved.
It was your potential.
Who you could become.
Who I thought you were.

And now going over it all in my head,
I realized I fell for sweet nothings,
And soft tones,
And ginger touches,
And brash conversations
About politics
Where you were just agreeing
To appease me.

And I am still a firm believer
That you can love someone
Because of their flaws,
Not despite them,
Because that is true love in itself.

But I did not love your flaws.
I feared them. All of them.

And in hindsight
I regret
Confessing my soulmate philosophy.
And explaining the red strings of fate,
And telling you of my synesthesia and demisexuality.

Because my being demisexual made you feel special.
You aren't, by the way.

And you used,
Almost constantly,
My synesthesia against me.
Even when I told you
"It is not an ability,
Nor a power.
I cannot read minds."

I also told you
"It is not a party trick."

And you pressured me into using it for the latter
Due to your selfish desire
To use my as a ploy and a conversation piece,
Among other things.

I never loved you.
No,
I loved who I thought you were.

Because you are not good,
Nor kind,
Nor gentle,
And no where near loyal.

You are selfish
And cruel.

Judgmental glances
And cruel tones,
Harsh words,
And selfish intentions
Made up our relationship.

Your mother wrote
Upon her wall
What love is.

1 Corinthians 13:4-8

It was literally written on the wall.

And we weren't any of that for each other.

If they had heard your words,
And if I had seen my own actions,
All would have known from the start
That we were toxic.

So keep fooling the world,
I'm going to be
A better me.

And upon these feelings for a Bluebird
Born under Mercury,
And the light of the star Spica,
I have come to see
The fear I have
For falling for anyone.

But maybe it's a risk
I'll be willing to take,
The closer I get,
The more sure I feel.
The ire of some men is too easily earned, and at that point is the point you should realize that you have grown beyond them, and maybe running as far from them as you can would be smart. Thank God for the other variety.
storm siren Feb 2017
His name isn't important,
Rather it's more of of the way it feels on your tongue,
Whether you're spitting it back at him,
Or swallowing it along with your pride,
When asking for help.

His name isn't important,
Rather it's more of the way it feels on your lips
When they're pulled back into a grin
Or are pursed into a pout.

His name isn't important,
No, it's more of the way it feels in your throat,
A raw sensation on your vocal chords,
When you scream it within a dream,
Terrified of losing him.
Or just as raw, but a thousand times more euphoric
When it's pitched into a moan.

His name isn't important.
No, it isn't.
It's the way your face flushes when you hear his voice,
Or the way your stomach jumps into giddy butterflies when he's coming home,
Or the way your heart frenzies and then settles into a rhythmic beat when he lays his head on your chest.
It's the way he holds you
When you get too bad,
When you didn't mean it,
When you don't know how it happened,
When you just don't remember but it stings,
So he helps you clean yourself off,
He helps you clean it off,
And helps bandage you up
Before you go to bed.

It's the way he doesn't hate you for it.

His name isn't important,
Rather, it's the way he makes you feel like you're flying, and that the air is your home.
It's the way he turns the fan down and the heater on before he leaves, so you don't get cold without him there.
It's the way he eats what you cook, and doesn't tell you it's bad when it's bad, unless you bring it up first.
It's the way you notice the little things about him, like the way he holds you tight before he gets up in the morning,
Or the way he wraps his arms around you,
Or holds your hand
Or brushes the hair out of your face because he wants to see your eyes
Or just the way his silhouette against his colors strikes your heart,
The way his eyes pierce into your very soul.

It's the way you feel like you have to protect him too,
Just like he protects you,
Because he gets defensive when he explains that he wants to do something,
And relaxes when you explain to him that it's okay, of course he can do the thing he wants to do, you would never stop him from doing anything he wants, as long as it doesn't hurt him.
It's the way the worry in his eyes isn't judgmental, instead it's kind and warm and somewhat achy in your bones, like the flu. But it doesn't make your heart drop, like when he gives you bad news.

His name isn't important,
No, it's the way he wants to care for you,
The way he has trouble articulating how he feels about you
Because he's not the poet, you are.
The way he tries to show it through adverbs and actions,
And you notice it occasionally.
It's the way it still feels surreal
That he cares to the extent that he does.

His name isn't important,
No, not at all.
But rather, it's the fact
That it's his.
storm siren Aug 2016
I cannot identify stars
Or constellations,
But I can make a shape
Make a something
Out of anything
You put in front of me.

But as for the constellation Virgo,
There is a star known as a Spica,
Sixteenth brightest star in the sky,
Brightest in its' constellation.
And despite all that I've read,
And despite all my hopes and dreams,
This is a star,
I thought I would never get to see.

Because stars are not meant to be seen
And kept.
Rather held in our hearts
Like secret memories
To remind us of homes
We've never had.

And trust me,
I can tell you all about homes
I've never had.

But I don't want to,
Not today.

I want to tell you about a Virgo,
Born under Spica,
In the ruling house of Mercury,
And all the love I carry in my heart for him,
And how my whole body aches to be held by him,
And my skin shivers in wait of his touch,
And how much my heart shudders and aches
For his presence and being
To be close to mine.
I miss you. :P
Ronald J Chapman Mar 2017
On a cold winter's morning,
Watching, Luna, Spica, and Jupiter,
Dance through the Heavens.

Recalling, thoughts of you.

Saying hello to distant memories,
Since then,
It has been dreams of centuries past.

I miss you very much.

I want to see you,
I want to take your hand,
I want to hold your Soul in my arms once again,
I want to feel your passion next to me while we dream.

Closing my eyes, wishing upon dancing stars.
To stand beside you once again.

No matter how much I wish and dream,
Of you and me together.
I know love can not be.

I closed the door on love,
A long time ago,
While whispering, I love you.

Copyright © 2017 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
[Eng Sub] Little Star - Standing EGG
https://youtu.be/n1yXa_mpGmQ
Kurt Carman  Oct 2018
Pops
Kurt Carman Oct 2018
It was in this place, found in the southern sky,
That he was born between two bright stars, Spica and Antares.
Libra's scales of justice would be his destiny.
Articulate, creativity and integrity was his badge of honor.

A southpaw that had hands of strength and determination.
An astronomical heart that pounded out an undying love for his family.
Your family is remembering you this this day and for those to come.
And this evening, as we face the southern sky, we'll signal you with our flash lights...

... so you know we love and miss you dearly.
Happy Birthday Dad - Love and Miss so much!
storm siren Sep 2016
Dismember the parts of my heart
And lobes of my brain
I am different
Yet I am the same.

I am the drip drip drop
I am the same sky
There's fire in my blood,
What am I?

I am the same scarf
Torn apart and into shreds
How many times?
I am a place to sleep, not a bed.

I am one thousand years
Of watching the world stop spinning,
I am the retrograde of memories,
I am the pain in your face from continuous grinning.

I am the falter in your heartbeat,
Due to love and all it implies,
I am found between Praecipua and Spica,
What am I?
Here's a hint: You've been waiting all your life for this.

— The End —