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Nigdaw 58m
my grandad on my mother's side
was a lamplighter
so sad that these memories should die
that in some small way
helped to make me
A lamplighter lit the street lamps in London.
Zywa 16h
The grand parade is

over, and never over:


unforgettable.
Novel "Two Years Eight Months & Twenty-Eight Nights" (which is 1001 nights, 2015, Salman Rushdie), chapter 1, The Children of Ibn Rushd (Averroes, 1126-1198)

Collection "Low gear"
Sky without fringe
Blue itself resembles sea
Two stars collide
In the dark, the radiances merge

The memories remain
If we live forever
Then even afterlife
I'll possess you inside my mind

As a dark matter, I'm there
As magical stars, you're there
I stay still, no one misses
Sudden your warmth reaches

Our flesh is imminent without the edge
Collide, your radiances perfectly bewitch
I thought we were limitless
Two souls could merge

Even after dispart, you're resplendent
You've found another sky to shine
Even after our love is doomed
You're still in the sky, in the other sky

The memories remain
Sometimes they invade
Sensing nausea, my part has vanished
Spinning between anxiety, my heartiness cherishes
dead friends on the mantelpiece
to scripture over our lives
salivate and dictate from the sidelines
        - as i grow a family -
they become hidden behind a build up
                            of favourite greeting cards
                  too pretty to let go of
Sadie 6d
I wish my existence could be as poetic as my subconscious,
As graceful,
Elegantly dancing through life,
Like metaphors on a page,
Rain filling puddles,
Mud filling cracks,
Swaying arms of willow trees.
I think that I used to be that way,
I appear to be in the hazy happiness of my memories,
But I don’t trust my mind.
I look back on a life lived in pastels,
Baby blue skies,
Blush pink cheeks,
Sage green eyes,
Lilac dreams.
It’s all daisy chains and braids,
A freckled face,
Ferns and worms,
Rolling clouds and running streams.
I wonder now if those memories are just dreams,
Did they ever really happen?
Was I ever really happy?
Or was it all just manufactured to protect me,
A safety blanket,
A quilt handcrafted by my mother?
I wonder now if my life is just an amalgamation of stolen moments,
Memories stitched together by glorified nostalgia,
Fabricated by a veil so thin,
Made entirely of imagination,
A fictitious eulogy written by me as a child to remember the life I wish I had,
A life I’ve never lived,
A tortured poet trapped in a painfully privileged portrait.
Who can I trust if not myself to remember my own life?
I grew up cold,
Stuck in the rain with a broken umbrella,
With stormy eyes and a stormy mind,
Deep greens and blues,
Scarring scrapes from the sharpest scraps of misery.
I was born in the image of hatred,
Generational distaste that I inherited,
The quietest violence,
Gentle wrath buried beneath the softest reflection.
Tell me I’m beautiful,
Oh, how sweet,
Tiny and weak.
Admire all the lies I’ve told myself to stay alive,
Hiding my agony in metaphors,
Tucking it neatly between stanzas,
A great illusion,
Fallacious lines describing a person I'll never be.
.
Deep into the sweet and sleepless night I lay,

Cradling that which is not half as precious
by day
My heart aches because
I'll never see you again
Except in memories
Losing someone to the cold hand of death hurts especially when it's hard to forget the memories you shared together.
Dylan Feb 20
Lazing in an unbroken innocence;
a whirled undersea, under me.
Blazing tides taking hold of ambivalence
a calm serenity sweeping through the boundless deep.

An oceanic labyrinth,
rolling in the shadows of the sea.

Gazing past an apparent diffidence;
a cold melody for remedy.
Minding these subterranean incidents,
my torn identity plunges in a swirling stream.

An oceanic labyrinth,
roaming in the dimness of the sea.
Dylan Feb 19
Pale gleams flutter
upon a lap of fluttering streams
and in a dream, the sun melts
as the moon sets at the end of my bed

Island marooned, the mana consumed,
and with ancient runes a song is stitched
as love is woven in the white of wool threads.
rk Feb 16
on soft twilight mornings
when the world
still sleeps soundly
the blackbirds singing
their daily sermon
i stretch lazily
the crisp sheets a shroud
i feel the warmth
of the sweet summer sun
kissing my back
and i smile
knowing that you had once
done the same.
- we were a shooting star, a fleeting moment.
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