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sheloveswords Jan 12
I see The Most High in you
                                          yo demons hate that. . .
Jeremy Betts Jan 11
If I gave you all my air
Along with every single moment I could spare
If I exposed my everything, choosing both truth and dare
And encouraged you to take more than your fare share
If I were to wear my heart on my sleeve and allow you to rip and tear
If I gave you an entire life, without a care
Offered to carry both of our crosses to bare
While letting you name the time and place and going straight there
No argument here, I swear
If I submit before warfare and declare you ringmaster
If I kept the days I don't tell you exactly what you want to hear rare
And was able to turn a blind eye to every extracurricular love affair
Cause, ya know, buyer beware
If I pretend I'm not fully aware that you rather not be here
That you just take joy in being the puppeteer
If I could manage all that would you even care?
...could I ever consider it sincere?

©2024
David Hilburn Jul 2022
Politer to fruit
In the name, of a toil's box
Sat by order's river, the irony we suit
To possess a stilled eye, which has savored not

Run, fool, run
Sown notice, of a quiet in the din
Of the jungle, we notice the hope of cunning
To save a charging guidance to what we have, for sin

Win, tool, win
Lead since, fed genius
Is a harboring cold, the driven nature of meant?
In the dim eye's I forgave, many tears come to season

Sun, who'll, sun
Avid in heat we prophecy, is a need's shame
Poised to entail all, the voice of method's begun
To make a wish in open seem, the order to a name

Sin, cool, sin
Token treasure, thunder in the east
So willed, for a moment to understand again
Looking for a chosen one, that we lost at a feast

Gun, soul, gun
Driven by horror and the beauty of childhood
Where a blind friendship with only a smile sung
Has come and gone anew, like a heart of would...

Halt and salt, why do you insist?
Savage as a paradise with a missing child can be...
A sign of the times, a sovereignty to ask, is a glue this...?
Miracles in a guilty eye, are we that we are, kindred's anarchy?
Heaven, was a voice that never cleared? (War...)
Erik T Blaze Mar 2022
As the World
turns
I can hear the world
Yearn
They're unruly and desperately
reck-less
seeking for love on ever-
lasting
terms
But they proceed with no concern
they're unable to discern or
learn
Not heeding the many
warnings and dan-
gers
Unaware of the many
forces that lin-
ger
Now as we stand by idly
as we witness
this cruel state of
Ig-nor-ance
We're losing our
Innocence
instead of making sense
of what's
going on
Unconvinced
of the shapes that are
taking form
We're miss-in-
formed
sowing the seeds to breed the
Devil's
Spawn
Provoking violence within the
mindset
of the spiritually blinded
While letting our
Silence
speak the truth
of the spirits that blind
Us
Reminding us
of where we Fail
A rude awakening
outa the
Spell
Snapping outa the
Trance
of being frozen in a
mea-ning-less
stance
For our only chance to
Survive
Is to thrive in our
circumstance
Moving on in advance
observing Truth
Learning to pro-
gress
As we focus in our aims
to Arrest
these
developments of
Carnality
We're pulling down the
Devil's
Faculty
Exposing Principalities
wherever
they
may
Be
Ephesians 6:12-20
colette alexia Nov 2020
Caught in the crossfire of two men's love
Insecure, selfish, and helpless
Only my blood
10.2020
Michael R Burch Jun 2020
Sonnet: The Ruins of Balaclava
by Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, barren Crimean land, these dreary shades
of castles―once your indisputable pride―
are now where ghostly owls and lizards hide
as blackguards arm themselves for nightly raids.
Carved into marble, regal boasts were made!
Brave words on burnished armor, gilt-applied!
Now shattered splendors long since cast aside
beside the dead here also brokenly laid.
The ancient Greeks set shimmering marble here.
The Romans drove wild Mongol hordes to flight.
The Mussulman prayed eastward, day and night.
Now owls and dark-winged vultures watch and leer
as strange black banners, flapping overhead,
mark where the past piles high its nameless dead.

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz (1798-1855) is widely regarded as Poland’s greatest poet and as the national poet of Poland, Lithuania and Belarus. He was also a dramatist, essayist, publicist, translator, professor and political activist. As a principal figure in Polish Romanticism, Mickiewicz has been compared to Byron and Goethe. Keywords/Tags: Mickiewicz, Poland, Polish, Balaclava, Crimea, war, warfare, castle, castles, knight, knights, armor, Greeks, Rome, Romans, Mongols, Mussulman, Muslims, death, destruction, ruin, ruins, romantic, romanticism, sonnet, depression, sorrow, grave, violence, mrbtr
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