Demm - Hello Poetry

Dust to dust, the wheel does stop, oh the wheel does stop! —eyes rattling the sky. Trotting along the outlines, a duel of stirring clouds, falsifying sheaves of nostalgia, rebuking its dreary demeanor. A comedy of the flesh procured us to falter. Dust to dust, growling in between frolics, inflicting a strange quiver, death, ruthless as any lover!. Love me when I awake, I pledge to duplicate, sprawling about unclothed, ceasing our funereal prose. A ceremony of the flesh, procured us to transfigure. Dust to dust, the wheel does stop, oh the wheel does stop!, —your eyes rattling my sky. Irritating the stars, incinerating Sirius, remorseless to its demise, heart’s hitherto delirious. Setting the flesh aflame, procured an eternal inferno. Dust to dust, lying under your eyes, heed to my hearts desire, love me when you awake, my fire. . .

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May 16, 2020

May 16, 2020 at 2:48 AM UTC

strange merriment

Dust to dust, the wheel does stop, oh the wheel does stop! —eyes rattling the sky. Trotting along the outlines, a duel of stirring clouds, falsifying sheaves of nostalgia, rebuking its dreary demeanor. A comedy of the flesh procured us to falter. Dust to dust, growling in between frolics, inflicting a strange quiver, death, ruthless as any lover!. Love me when I awake, I pledge to duplicate, sprawling about unclothed, ceasing our funereal prose. A ceremony of the flesh, procured us to transfigure. Dust to dust, the wheel does stop, oh the wheel does stop!, —your eyes rattling my sky. Irritating the stars, incinerating Sirius, remorseless to its demise, heart’s hitherto delirious. Setting the flesh aflame, procured an eternal inferno. Dust to dust, lying under your eyes, heed to my hearts desire, love me when you awake, my fire. . .

34

I’m reacquainted with one of my many isolated world’s, only this time I’m not scurrying to flee to another. Consequently, intermingling them all together. The natural phenomena of everyday have always escaped me. It’s almost a betrayal that I’ve only come to know recently what was amiss. I daresay, I’ve never felt more at home. I’ve never felt more awash in hope.

0

May 8, 2020

May 8, 2020 at 1:54 AM UTC

Cosmic View

I’m reacquainted with one of my many isolated world’s, only this time I’m not scurrying to flee to another. Consequently, intermingling them all together. The natural phenomena of everyday have always escaped me. It’s almost a betrayal that I’ve only come to know recently what was amiss. I daresay, I’ve never felt more at home. I’ve never felt more awash in hope.

7

Flying around all the time has its natural implications. Shielded from trifle’s and indignities that could make one ennui. Now, I’m on ground and my stance seem unstable, positively pleading not to turn skyward. I’m meant to endure or perhaps embrace it all from both vantage point. The ground seems frantic, distressing, deafening, and I’ve avoided it neatly for so long— the firework’s and funeral’s. . . I’ve always felt early on that wherever I am, amidst chaos, calamities, God and I will always have this strange privacy. A delirious quality that has kept me geared for battle. Today, I am terrified— interestingly, a great show of cordiality. A sense of newness quietly furnishing my immediate sphere. Avoidance, elusiveness, does not heed to my soul’s manner of being. I must love forcefully through hysterics, endure or perhaps surrender to hurricane’s when I can no longer prosper, even if my heart reside’s in decrepitude, alas, I must tread carefully, banishing all fear or perhaps in spite of it— whilst also embracing the despairity of it all, for it’s in the knowing that one is without the other. My life’s duality is an imagined reality I have constructed to feel invisible, thus I have become invisible to the world and my ambitions. A color-blind chameleon. In fear of what? No one is trying to fright me but my own chatter, this morose prattle teetering from one interlocutor to the other, as if I’m running away from something only to find—-I’m singularly trying to decipher my mind’s meander. Sit me alongside a tree, on a bench, swallowing the noiseless repetitive air of a shy afternoon— I’d be joyous. I don’t need much and perhaps this dire needlessness has kept me restless. Always searching for something grand to arouse my spirit ‘cause if not this relentless truth that surfaces frankly, violently, everyday that life is indeed blissfully pointless— will be quite persistent in its attempt to build a cathedral within the halls of my mind. Provoking a cacophony of musings through courtship. So I nest. I refuse to surrender the attributes of the wind.

0

Apr 9, 2020

Apr 9, 2020 at 5:20 PM UTC

Bird’s eye

Flying around all the time has its natural implications. Shielded from trifle’s and indignities that could make one ennui. Now, I’m on ground and my stance seem unstable, positively pleading not to turn skyward. I’m meant to endure or perhaps embrace it all from both vantage point. The ground seems frantic, distressing, deafening, and I’ve avoided it neatly for so long— the firework’s and funeral’s. . . I’ve always felt early on that wherever I am, amidst chaos, calamities, God and I will always have this strange privacy. A delirious quality that has kept me geared for battle. Today, I am terrified— interestingly, a great show of cordiality. A sense of newness quietly furnishing my immediate sphere. Avoidance, elusiveness, does not heed to my soul’s manner of being. I must love forcefully through hysterics, endure or perhaps surrender to hurricane’s when I can no longer prosper, even if my heart reside’s in decrepitude, alas, I must tread carefully, banishing all fear or perhaps in spite of it— whilst also embracing the despairity of it all, for it’s in the knowing that one is without the other. My life’s duality is an imagined reality I have constructed to feel invisible, thus I have become invisible to the world and my ambitions. A color-blind chameleon. In fear of what? No one is trying to fright me but my own chatter, this morose prattle teetering from one interlocutor to the other, as if I’m running away from something only to find—-I’m singularly trying to decipher my mind’s meander. Sit me alongside a tree, on a bench, swallowing the noiseless repetitive air of a shy afternoon— I’d be joyous. I don’t need much and perhaps this dire needlessness has kept me restless. Always searching for something grand to arouse my spirit ‘cause if not this relentless truth that surfaces frankly, violently, everyday that life is indeed blissfully pointless— will be quite persistent in its attempt to build a cathedral within the halls of my mind. Provoking a cacophony of musings through courtship. So I nest. I refuse to surrender the attributes of the wind.

16

The joy of awaking in the same bed everyday, doing the same things over and over again can be as thrilling as making love clothed in a room denied of curtains. I recollect your shame with my fingers, maliciously sweet from piecing you back together. I unfold my eyes before the sun, outwitting your assault at the break of dawn, every time I reach for the rosary, I cant seem to construct vocabulary. exuding words out of me, ratifying the subtlety of love and fire, how it violently appear’s out of nowhere. I surmise the beauty of chaos, uncertainty and what it teaches, persecute all the churches and all their preaching. I surrender my thirst for warfare, your lust atoned for my despair, planting carnation’s in my soul, watering the patch where I became betrothed. Now, my days are distressingly peaceful, using oxymoron to describe how I feel about Jesus, and yet it has never felt more insufficient. We can finally make love all morning.

0

Apr 1, 2020

Apr 1, 2020 at 3:05 PM UTC

Carnation

The joy of awaking in the same bed everyday, doing the same things over and over again can be as thrilling as making love clothed in a room denied of curtains. I recollect your shame with my fingers, maliciously sweet from piecing you back together. I unfold my eyes before the sun, outwitting your assault at the break of dawn, every time I reach for the rosary, I cant seem to construct vocabulary. exuding words out of me, ratifying the subtlety of love and fire, how it violently appear’s out of nowhere. I surmise the beauty of chaos, uncertainty and what it teaches, persecute all the churches and all their preaching. I surrender my thirst for warfare, your lust atoned for my despair, planting carnation’s in my soul, watering the patch where I became betrothed. Now, my days are distressingly peaceful, using oxymoron to describe how I feel about Jesus, and yet it has never felt more insufficient. We can finally make love all morning.

28

my heart alighted— years have passed, I finally mourn my three angels

0

Feb 2, 2020

Feb 2, 2020 at 9:53 PM UTC

on a branch

my heart alighted— years have passed, I finally mourn my three angels

3