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Agnes de Lods Jan 16
Tell me, voice,
How much time have you spent
touching heads and hearts?
Demanding to shape new worlds,
giving hope through despair?

This is a community of Catchers Dreamers,
growing as they look out of their windows.
They glue a torn truth,
completing and filling in new meanings
and symbols to push away
cruel and illogical realities,
political performances.

Today, it’s so difficult to write poems
in the empty spaces,
when money assigns values
to be or not to be.

Opening the little *****
with a metaphor, and pain,
they spin, reading and writing
silver threads are punching their hands
impossible to relieve this irreversible tension.

What a beautiful tone of
polyphonic orchestral poetic flow,
of thousands, millions of words,
serious and bitter losses,
coming closer and much closer
to a Common Human Denominator.
To my Friends Poets and my dearest English  teacher, Tina.
Do you know that Riemann Hypothesis
still remains unsolved?
We are moving like a pendulum
between our families, jobs
and deep wishes to create.
Sharing hours and fleeting days
of our lives.

Curiosity about the next move, wit,
and silence when support is not enough.
Everyday rituals,
healer and side effects…
How good it is to say, “I’m still here!”
Keeping a morning cup of bitter coffee
with a strong will thanks to a lucky twist of fate.
After the pain of the human body,
silence arrives,
not good, not bad,
just without noise,
without splendid glory,
filled with unfinished thoughts
of those who loved or were loved.

Crossing through an amorphous gate,
their material vessels vanish slowly
in the rotting smell,
inevitable deconstruction
in the same irreversible order.

The red liquid comes back
to the primordial elements,
to Earth, to Air, to Void,
everything and nothing.

We who are still breathing,
create new interpretations
to be more distant than close
to the elusive insight.

Clearing our space
we put various convictions
in our grief drawer, suffering,
looking for consolation—
against the final revelation.

The cosmic conscious dust
returns to the circle of life.
Does it matter what comes after?
Just stay now,
open your arms,
embrace a tender emptiness.
The chameleon swallowed hard.
Its tongue: hungry and burnt.
Feelings? A privilege of others.

Eyes wide open,
patiently waiting
for the flickering chance.

Who understands nature, unfiltered?
Too painful, without some sweet utopian IF
Nobody understands the vivid mortal chain.

What’s happening in his mind?
The heart - a precise mechanism
clicking down his time to the end.

Changing colors, matching seamlessly—
And what if the only help is calling?
No! Showing his tongue,
he just wants to catch a fly,
sticking her body to his hard palate.
Protein is so good for living.

But she? Her end makes sense
if we observe patterns.
Nobody notices – nobody’s fault.

Can we be a ripe orange
with green leaves untouched?
Or do we become a passing flavor
for other dining creatures chewing us,
without deeper reflection.
The scattered words disturb the silence.
I prefer written pages with my left hand,
But it is trembling too much to write slowly
I miss him, his calm hands giving juicy oranges.

Shattered glass falls in slow motion,
Screams in the apartment,
Just the neighbor next door.
Another struggle,
Another soundless fracture
From the outside,
It’s not visible
What really hurts.

I have my refuge.
My piano and fingertips
Strike the rhythm,
Racing to speak in time.

What I want to repeat to myself
It isn’t lush or gentle,
Only barren,
like thoughts hung on a dry twig.
I trace figure eights,
Locked in a simple shape.
I stare and cannot fathom
The logic of a cold two plus two.
A thought-form circles
Around the blue planet.

Something pointing,
With its mercury finger.
It speaks in an unknown dialect
It shows the place to live
And huge fluorescent deserts.

The clouds’ minds —
A piece of earth
Soaked in different
Kinds of screams.

This is my blind chance.
I was born here.
In my mother’s paradise garden
Spinning in dawn’s glow.
Sometimes I just write
To ease personal and common guilt.

I hear tattooed numbers,
Granting citizenship of the lower caste.
And here,
The fresh scent of good life in the morning.
Blackbirds and thrushes fell silent.
My mother knows how to speak to them,
I know how to speak with trees.

Everything pulses,
On this small piece of earth,
Giving shelter to creatures
And stones no one throws.
I am here in a place I can happily bear,
Without cold speculation.

I can still dive into metaphors,
This is my greatest luxury,
The gift after so many disturbing lives.

It would be better to create a world
With only diverse breathing gardens.
I don’t need too much for living,
A naked soul is enough for me.

So, I am sitting in this landscape
And I peacefully hope
That my daughter will remember me tenderly
As I remember him, my father
And all who passed away.

The simplest thing is
The presence of every human being
It's like a celluloid film strip
Left behind the broken ribs
In the left ventricle of the heart
That never lies, never cheats me.
Agnes de Lods Jan 10
The shapes of the world,
the fields of thought.
Why do I feel so guilty?

Written words,
released from the mental space.
My brain is my friend—antagonist:
incoherent, predictable, heavy,
of different colors.

The language of metaphors—
It’s medicine for a tough day.
Anesthetic treatment chosen
by destiny, angels’ voices, or DNA.

Could I feel safe in the painful crowd?
He, then she, and finally I,
chosen for terrestrial experiment
because of mirror soul fibers.

Existence like the footage, flashes,
partially canceled by collective amnesia.
All this spiritual, material stuff.
Like an extended passage of life.

One day despair,
another day hope,
with time acceptable, resilient
a true miracle of resurrection
after difficult moments.
Agnes de Lods Apr 12
Divide and conquer, deride compassion.
Indulgent resentment exposes the actions.
Wolves dressed as lambs, lambs as wolves.
Nobody believes in good ideas.

Craft deceptive reasons behind the words of love.
Stuff your victims into the dark, cramped box.
Do your work quietly, with discipline.

When the red moon rises
the energy of broken breaths
strengthens your existence.
Illusory peace as a weary sigh.

You laugh
when they try to unmask your behavior
Whispering: just another pathetic attempt
of hysterical souls, not pragmatic solutions.

Different actors, new stages.
You’re always the same,
Irresistible.
Agnes de Lods Sep 29
The night sings,
through the foggy glow of streetlamps.
The lethargy of emotions floats
in the street’s dark alley.

She came to take away the questions
never spoken,
and now I think of myself,
of the world,
of those who cannot sleep
in this nocturne time.

It would be easier to rise above
and cast soothing words.
Much harder to endure
like a thought shut in a tin
that escapes at last
when water appears.

I meant well,
Yet it slipped away from human logic.
That is why on many nights
I tear out hours, minutes,
to write what I feel.

Autumn is in the air.
Morning light reveals
golden-green shades,
slowly entering red.

In memory glows the smile
of summer landscapes,
of heat,
of promises unfulfilled
that fade with the light.

Today, everything falls into thought
like gossamer on ploughed ground.
So much beauty there is.
How could I live
without metaphors?

To call things by their names,
not to drown in longings,
not to color them,
to make shapes less painful?

Autumn has come.
I float between breaths.
I don’t know what will come.
I only know I write
in the silence of this night,
in search of lost time
more precious than sleep,
than stillness,
than a brief dream.
There are those who
spark under lights,
ready for fame
and splendid glory.
Untouched by the weight
of what lies behind.

There are those
who don’t seek applause,
work their silent craft
in the back row,
hold up every story.

Quiet presence,
unnoticed encounters
in the long hallways—
heroes of background,
like the steady ticking of the clock.

They are the pillars of pyramids
built by self-proclaimed Pharaohs.
Agnes de Lods Feb 23
I’m a barbarian in a woman’s shape.
I stomp into discourse with heavy steps.
Driven by impulse, twisting like switchbacks.

There are so many narratives...
With one hand, I hold a megaphone to my mouth.
With the other hand, from my heart, from my head,
I pull out jagged digressions and awkward arguments.

If I could weave just one logical thread
to see a common perspective,
to stop interpreting…

I would stand tall
on the pedestal of thorny incidents,
inept appointments, yet proud
that I would finally catch myself.

I know, I can only dream of
patiently knitting rushing words together.
I can’t stitch these threads into
a colored, beautiful patchwork,
that could give some warmth to the quandary,
or as a cover for chronic nostalgia.

Meanwhile,
within the conventions of social dreaming
I tilt my head from side to side
Asking myself with incredulity,
How is it possible that the voice
screaming inside me
sounds so weak and dull?
I wrote this reflection while listening to How to Be Invisible by Thrupence.
Agnes de Lods Sep 10
The wind is changing.
If I start shouting,
It only attracts
Those who can't tolerate
A humble human pulse.

They’ll come, taking away my calm.
I will be forced to fight at the wrong time
I can, after all, silently feel compassion.

Decisions flow each day
From the breathing mind
The water is wasted for soulless tools,
Not for thirsty, dry eyes.

Then a sarcastic ambiguity
Touched my body
And an unpleasant shiver
Ran under my skin,
So cold,
So emotionless,
As if this muck wanted to melt
My stubborn intuition.

I can’t erase my feelings,
So, I turn my soul inside
To dive beyond this reality,
Not to betray what I believe:
My unyielding, simple sincerity
With myself.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
You smiled.
I am your daughter,
But words mean to you
Something else.

I took your hand,
Telling you I haven’t slept for a year.
I write reflections,
Tame the voices behind my left ear,
Assemble thoughts about the darkness.

I pour a warm, salty liquid
That burns the skin – it doesn’t moisturize.
It helps me,
This pseudo-therapy.
I hide behind my nickname,
So that no one holds me accountable
For what I’m supposed to be.

You also sat up at night,
You read books.
You carried hidden sadness,
I stick a smile on my lips.

I hug people who carry Egregores.
You and I,
we are not afraid of the night.
Your hand is cold.
You smile,
You put together syllables into strange words.

You know that I matter to you.
I pretend to understand
What you wanted to say.

In a moment, it will get hard.
You’ll start screaming like a little boy,
Or again you’ll wait
Until this state of life passes you.

Life?
It’s a kind of space
Where people, because of fear
Bite and scratch
Like frightened, rabid dogs –
And then soothe it
With controlled tenderness.

I sit with you on the edge of the couch
And I think:
We write with the left hand.
We are beings of the night.
Our path was shared –
In fear, to protect a small piece of “I”.

I fear I’ll lose language.
I desperately defend myself against silence.
I dream of non-human languages.
I write words as if I wanted
To cast spells on reality –
Still, it’s not enough.
The anesthesia stopped working.

One day, this will be the end,
Yet as long as I live,
I’ll be the naive one.
That’s what I want.

I choose sweet, sugar-coated hope,
With pink sprinkles,
Telling myself that he, she
Didn’t mean to trample –
Only life pushed them
Into that dark corridor.

My hope
Is not a soft blanket,
This is a heavy, tight helmet.
Agnes de Lods Sep 11
Letters not sent
Words untouched by hands,
There is no softer gaze,
Opening radiant ways
With rapid pulse of breaths,
In spoken sentences.
The invisible margin of lost attention.

I saw unsettling light,
The sun glinting on the window,
An ordinary building across the street
And an elusive, surreal reflection
Of a blurred sphere, not giving warmth.

I stare at this distorted image,
Wanting to endure it directly,
Longer than I could bear,
In a motionless pause
The side effects of this manifestation.

My eyes were slightly closed
To hug the contours of an unclear shape.
The luminosity from a distance
Safely stays at a fragile layer,
So as not to freeze and not to burn
Before the piercing, conclusive truth.

Being for so long and perfectly alone.
So many hours punished by the silence,
The long days in tamed anger,
Waiting for relief,
All those good wishes in letters were never sent.

The gleams turned in the blunt, painful light.
Just two living spheres and a clear, cold glass
In the ocean of rigid duties,
A star’s slow implosion,
Reshaped colorful memories, grasping at remains.

The vivid balloon with the air gone—
No longer flying above our heads.
Nothing else, just indifference that forgot
How it used to cry.
In thinning air
Cut through by words
The dust has settled
Broken ties
Will not carry me
To the other shore
To open arms

I long for the land that never was
For the stairs leading toward a better dawn
For the days they called me
A dangerous optimist
Because I felt
And I loved
No matter what

I no longer feel anger
Hatred is foreign now
Envy has left me
I no longer weigh right or wrong
I only write

Carving my breath into the world
As far as spirit
And matter allow
Without indulgence
Yet still with tenderness

I carry within me three women
The holy one
The one exiled from Eden
And Silence
Who through awareness
Longed to make beauty of it all

When I lie close to the earth
I feel it breathe with me
It brings me spreading peace
If it is cold marble
I hold my life
Not to awaken
A deeper wrath that eats
My feeling veins


I reach for another’s hand
Pulling loose the words
Caught in the mind’s old tensions
I am only what lingers
When the breath forgets itself
Warmth without name
I have not surrendered

Let the world try to frighten me
I was two meters underground
I tasted the black soil
And now I look toward the indigo sky
I will never betray myself

When I crossed to the other side
And came back again
Beneath my left rib
An old scar pulsed
The red of the fruit
Was calling me

I walked the field road
Speaking with the lost souls
I felt only sorrow
That they had not yet known peace
Nor learned where to go

It is always the same
We carry just ourselves
Our thoughts
On our shoulders

So, I stopped breathing
Then I began again
Agnes de Lods Mar 12
I store measured meanings
all definitions neatly arranged in drawers,
to calm the mind and heart.

I see with human eyes,  
carefully tracing the pulse of the planet.
In this apparent chaos, a strict order reigns.

In the cycles of the nightly day and daily night,
the same thoughts come to me like wistful friends,
longing to bridge micro and macro scales,
to merge into oneness.

Waiting in line for health,
I heard that time is relative.
What insightful words
shift meaning
in different contexts.

Trees, animals, human beings—
Each one perceives the flow of time
through a different lens…

If I were a butterfly
its three weeks would be my entire life.
How sad it is that
I cannot truly appreciate
a single second of a butterfly’s day.
Its rhythm moves beyond my awareness.

To people, Eternity is a never-ending story
of unrecognized fields of unknown space.
To ethereal, thoughtful giants
just a fleeting instant,
the blink of the universe
across the slender strait.

I can whisper or scream,
cry, laugh,
or remain silent for years,
but on a grander scale,
it will be nothing more than
a dainty breath of spring wind.

So please don’t be upset with me
that I can’t feel the same as you do now.
To you,
this is the endless painful abyss.
To me,
it’s just a passing memory
of deep night vanishing
into a new dawn of becoming.
Agnes de Lods Feb 27
When bad things happen, where are the people?
A man fights alone in silent despair,
while laughter and screaming echo through the void.
Indifferent voices suffocate the heavy air.

The window for change will open,
but they waste another chance in the cold.
In rooms of power, apathy keeps growing.
Psychedelic visions masquerade as the truth

They gamble and sell domains.
Those for whom ideas matter most
are led to the pyre, to oblivion.
Human systems are shifting.

So, it’s time for another soulless game
for the inevitable castling.  
As the tower and the king,
sharing the power, they dance wildly.
Agnes de Lods Feb 14
Pink-red hearts of chocolate
What an invasion of love!
I always smile at those
who decided to celebrate
being together.

This energy surpasses rationality.
Find and keep a small paradise
after a crash or a change of plans.
Life could be so exciting!

How many languages do
happiness and tenderness speak?
Let's celebrate misunderstanding!

Perhaps one true friend
means more than twinkling fireworks  
on a February evening?
Agnes de Lods Mar 26
When I was a child, I had a dream:
nameless souls surrounded me
in a circle of light.

They told me I had to live this life
in pastel shades of grey,
in autumn rains and freezing winters,
with returning hope in the sunlight of spring.

The world is full of wounded branches,
they said:
you will feel where they hurt,
but don’t speak of it.
To be seen in pain
renders them exposed and fragile.

I didn’t listen, I didn’t understand.
I wanted to save the world and myself.

Now I only whisper words softly,
knowing they won’t change the flow of time.

Pain remains pain, and loss remains loss.

I stay for a while in a quiet presence,
watching where the light still flickers,
so they don’t lose hope
when, in their own world,
the glow has faded.
I cut through realities
like a slow-moving train,
seeing chess masters, victims,
silent witnesses
drowning in dense air.

From a dim-lit corner
I see those who run
breathing in danger.
Scattered shreds of information
stick to my head.

Precognition is
riddled with blurry spoilers.
Too vague to hold,
too sharp to ignore.
One girl was saved.
The boy? I sensed the loss
but not the name.
Bitter ineffability.
I draw words from an old well.

I wish my visions
were just a nightmare—
not incarnations
of a day yet to come or not.
The pictures wrench at my veins,
like dulled knives
playing a discordant melody.
Only a clear mind can save me.

I rebel in the silent scream,
clenching my hands
smiling slightly—
just enough
so others don’t see my fear.
The heavy drift of solitude
between reality and possibility…
Stubborn time bends,
refusing to be linear.
Am I still here…
or nothing but a vanishing sound?
Agnes de Lods Jan 25
Under my eyelids,
small and large, hidden feelings.
They are pinching, twisting,
healing me.

But when I open my eyes,
everything begins anew.
The train cuts through reality
flowing in a big hurry.
This is my private driving force.

The nod of ironic thoughts
bursts inside implicit words.
Welcome my smile-finally
you have appeared!
My missed special guest.

Now, everything is fine.
I only enjoy a comic mood.
It was too serious and heavy
So, I switch off my mode:
Complicating Even Simple
I choose to jump in a rumpled glory
between spicy, witty meanings.
Agnes de Lods Feb 26
Every time I recognize this feeling
in the tonality of deeply shifting sounds...
The words start to flow—
so naïve,
with illogical convictions
not to doubt.

I think I’m in trouble,
but I smile at this joyful,
passing state of thought.
Utopia is Utopia, meant not to exist—
It’s a controlled illusion, like a sedative.

I can go there and return
in a millisecond of a human thought.
Creating alternative worlds,
following the traces
of a tender yet aching life.
It keeps me, for a moment, feeling
so vast, deep, and complete.

Outside, I’m so distant from games.
Sometimes I don’t even remember
the language I used to speak.
Unfamiliar words come to me
like a flashback, like déjà vu...
Finally, to recognize where I exist—
in the present moment, in real
circumstances, assumptions.

This is not a bizarre illness
to try to understand…
My reflections inside are still safe.
I just hold every shattered human soul,
seeing them without judgment,
without control…
This is my quiet, ephemeral way
to set compassion free.
When we were leaving our place
I turned back for a moment,
I wanted to see it one last time.
The forest pulsing with dense life.

The first whisper
of Ambrorella’s blooming,
bitter fruit plucked
when we were hungry.

It was then I felt, for the last time
the false peace
of a sated animal.

I closed my eyes
and when I opened them
nothing was the same as before.

I remember,
You held my hand.
I was never just your rib,
I have always been your equal.

You didn’t resent me
for not wanting to live in illusion.
And so, our awareness began to grow.

I took the fruit
and I wasn’t the reason for our fall,
we just saw the world as it is.

I feel complete,
despite the pain that moved through my body
and still, it remains.
When all seems to die or to be born
I carry the warm living light.
Agnes de Lods Dec 2024
Oneness.
I cannot separate you from my Consciousness.
I am in a state of physical focus,
Yet, movement happens in every nook and cranny of this biological whole.
The cell is a micro-universe; its laws govern it.
Revolves in a closed space, separated by membranes and fluids.
They are the discrete, wrapping endless spaces.
Torn DNA ties, someday, will allow me to drop,
Like an empty jug, my physicality will be shattered into atoms.
For now, we are still together: I and you, YOU and me.
For better or worse, in health and sickness,
in love and letting go.
I want to last with you as long as possible if fate allows,
in progressive physical frailty,
We will collapse into each other, saying goodbye inevitably to this union.
Standards, tables, and charts of what you should look like are foreign to me.
I don't need perfection.
I like you more now than when you were young.
Others say that this acceptance comes with age.
After so many years, without fear, I'm back in deep water.
We float lightly, you and I, in an existential union.
We observe the state of passing, and we are with it, so strangely comfortable.
Our child is growing.
Day by day, hour by hour, he is approaching the world of adulthood.
In some time, already without you, in a silent eternity,
I will see, I don't yet know how unfamiliar the faces of people    
will be.
I know that I will miss you and the pain of physicality.
The thought that you were with me all the time
will give me solace.
My body,
I think, I already understand the nostalgia of the angels.
They desire just once, for a short time
to flow into the Physical boat to feel how it is to be a Human Being
Agnes de Lods Feb 27
Human beings
completely intricate—
distorted, subtle, direct, ironic,
melancholic, and other adjectives…
Not as clearly defined and innovative as their works.

In transcending the mirage,
longing for fulfillment,
made from the same clay,
the same flesh and bones.

They were born and still live,
sometimes, they pass away.

In the marketplace of lost illusions,
unwanted experiences—
transforming, shaping the messages
received from the Looking Glass World.
Seeking a new idea, like an exotic flavor—
to remember, to forget, to be angry,
to reflect, to love, to hate, to be loved.

And all of this for something so elusive,
to make life more tender.
Their fate was decided before
they could ever think...
And for what?

To laugh, to cry,
to be safe or stoic,
and to touch this strange structure.

Losing grip on reality,
without balance,
as they used to say.

I’m already on a dizzying poetic carousel,
with one foot in my normal life,
and one hand in virtual poetry.
The water was crystalline and cold
I danced with you in a crushing grip
and distant disconnection.

I held on to you—
in an illusory intimacy,
and deafening silence,
in the moments of fulfillment,
in the endless hours of isolation.

It was my first dance—
chosen with open eyes.
Youth tames wild rivers,
but the swirling depths take away
strength, naivety,
and wonder.

I persisted in stubbornness for years,
suspended between the worlds—
like a stone swallowed by a waterfall
at first, looking into an icy void
then into the warm sun,
convincing myself
I could heal something,
never having been whole.

Uncertain of what was
much closer to me—
my persistence
or my yearning
for what would never come to be.

Then the river tore me from the shore
carried me far away.

Did I ever have a choice?

The hardest thing
is to say goodbye to what
was never real.

This dance by the waterfall’s edge
will remain the only dance of my life.
I know I don’t want to be trapped
in the cold waters rushing toward
the abyss.
In your eyes, I see my own.
I waited so long
for your presence to become real.

In that crucial moment,
I felt something
changing my awareness,
and the soundless vessels were filled
with joyful abundance—
colored by
pain and sadness
that time goes so fast
in underrated moments.

Materializing all these silent dreams,
this one little girl who is growing,
watching me with defenseless trust
like nobody has before.
Gestures, smiles, brief anger, and talks—
I gather them in endless memory.

Sweet Melody, my Purpose
from the first breath,
you chose me,
and I felt beautifully complete.

I know that a real journey
begins through terra incognita
Every day is surprisingly different.
I accept with relief my passing.
I see your blooming wisdom
in thinking smiles, and authentic recognition.

My Daughter, I want to give  
as much love and acceptance as you need.
Taking your hand and letting you go
when you’re ready
to walk into life on your own—
watching the indigo sky.
Breathing freely, without anxiety.
After each fall, another resurrection comes.

I am here, I hope to stay a long while
to finally return to my last home,
without fear, with some tears.
Please, keep embracing this existence
with good and lost people around.
Be sure that I will smile
in your still-beating heart
giving you warmth.
.
It is what it is.
In the great *** of everyday life,
contexts mix at will.

You never know
whether the interpretation of words and actions
will stand kindly on your side.

And what if the perspective of others
obscures some truth about you?

You produce words,
uselessly explaining why.

Silent, you gain nothing.
Speaking boldly, you often damage relationships
and what you have built with love
over the years.
Agnes de Lods Apr 13
I remember being here.
Hours trapped in the little orange grains of dust.
I recognize these voices, I know their names.
I saw these words replaying in slow motion.

Like in a perpetual motion machine
designed to heal and be healed.
I came to this place after many missed chances
finding my redemption, to see all over again.

Whenever I embrace more flashbacks
from past lives, from past sighs
settling on the broken glass like gentle steam
I feel so quietly completed.

I hide myself in invisible arms
loved many times before,
feeling that I am close to touching my infinity.
Why am I so sure this is the right path?

When I open the boxes of hidden riddles
with keys given by the ethereal glimpses
I know that I return now to the golden core,
to the beginning of everything.
Agnes de Lods Aug 23
What is a body without its soul?
I saw his face,
not recognizing him
without warmth,
without breath.

When all that remains
are sharp denials
and a soft yes,
I know all is gone.
I keep trying
to redefine myself
with my thoughts.

My virtual words
will never hold
the scent of a book.
A microcosm,
woven on the platforms,
divided across
bittersweet days.
I leave space
for those who may come.

Now I drift in the bubble
of those already lost.
I am, like them,
a sum of interactions,
a collision of thoughts,
the familiar melting
of the same sounds.

A diary
of gestures left behind:
unfinished sentences,
gazes suspended
without reciprocity
or brief fascination,
until I am no longer
canceled by the completed past.

Yes,
for someone
I was
all reality, all world.
Agnes de Lods Apr 29
Faster and faster,
chasing one thought after another.
The unbridled force doesn’t stop
carrying dissonant sounds,
playing melodies on one dissonant string.

The reality?
Shaping through thoughts, through words
and actions.

If you listen, you are a friend.
If you reject it, you are just an enemy.

Emotions vibrating in the air
The butterfly effect works so well.
Nobody sees subtle cracks in the structure.

A pluck of the string.
The fragile beings disappear.
Those who feel compassion,
bearing the burden
of those who find pleasure
in the fears of others.

This is not a polyphony,
this is a cacophony of curses
of those who are unscrewing
the lightbulb in the middle of the day.

Please,
don’t fall asleep
though your eyes are heavy.

You still have your own songs
to sing purely and loudly
in the middle of the night.
Agnes de Lods Feb 28
It’s hard to tell myself,
that I'm nothing more than
a collection of possibilities.

I judge myself for my feelings,
I restrict my attitude to formality,
to avoid being hurt.

When I think that I am above,
comprehensible, intellectual…
I feel immersed in cold waters,
floating on the surface of my thoughts.

I accept and reject what the world offers me.
I express concepts to peel off
a layer of myself,
until reaching the black core.

I’m just afraid to swim on my back
not to sink into the soft mud.
My muscles are numbing under gravity.

I don’t want to return to my mental cage.
Hide again? Pretend?
Yes, I think I’m closer to myself
than I could have imagined.
My kingdom is built with
words, signs, powerful speeches,
sinister sentences, unspoken spells.

When you utter the first word,
you trace or carve a symbol in the air,
you are mine and mine alone.

Rationalizing, defending, and denying—
You detach, wrapping in theories
convincing yourself
that you possess a unique power.

You tear up your contracts,
scribbling dissonant manifestos.
You bite into my subtle meanings,
shouting at me in frustration.

I am the one who is—
the Realm of Ever-Shifting Elements.

When you return to me exposed,
opaque to others,
I am safe and dangerous—
I am your freedom
within endless captivity.
" Il n'y a pas de hors-texte." - "There is nothing outside the text"
   Jacques Derrida "Of Grammatology"
Agnes de Lods Apr 14
Loved or needed—needed or loved?
Does it still deserve to be a question?
This doubt will never be erased
from the human language.
It burns from inside
reducing plans to ash.

Do they seek to heal their broken thoughts,
or do they want to stay in hidden safety?

It’s unclear how to love all the sketches
made by routines, invisible seconds,
trivial matters
picked out from life
like slimy red, blue, and golden fish,
slipping through cold, wet fingers.

Existence as a heap of doubts
punched by blinding moments
bringing elusive clarity
that dims and flares again and again.
Needed or loved.
Loved by need,
an unbreakable union
without a sigh,
without rhythm
as a sharp dissonance.
Agnes de Lods Feb 22
Her soul was torn apart
into a dozen shreds.
How would she sew it up?
Such pieces couldn’t be stitched together again.
And it was such a beautiful, pastel-colored dress.
There was everything in her—
The desire to create,
First love,
and everything that could yet happen.
Only trembling hands,  
emptiness, fear, dry throat
and astonishment
that what had just happened
was merely a distant hour.
She wanted to return to her mother,
but she already knew the end
was coming on that frosty morning.
That girl would never come back to herself.
Ego
Ego
Oh, my dearest Egooooo!
When you can’t squeeze through the door,
so immense and entitled,
I tell myself,
“That’s enough!”
No more confetti and fireworks!
Haunting me over a lost chance.

The Magnificence of Doubt—
what if I were…
Soundless compliments
only to be pinched and ignored later.

From now on,
I celebrate my mediocre greatness
with a crown of fool’s gold on my head…
yet throne-less.

Some falls, invisible success,
and unfulfilled hopes,
which, surprisingly,
made me stronger.

Oh, the Irony of fate!
All these sleepless nights
for this Wisdom?!
Agnes de Lods Mar 24
I entered the room crowded
with tangled thoughts.
Something that shouldn’t exist
takes physical shape.

Emotions strain my heart,
stretching my tissue,
piercing with a dull tool.

I scream soundlessly
like in cosmic space
where all sounds are dead.
Smiling outside,
not to make people feel ill at ease.

Yes, I see gray, lead clouds
above human heads.
Angry Egregores stand  
and breathe joyfully.

I would run but my fear
holds me, whispering:
don’t move or you might wake up
The Writhing Dragon.

I’m still learning how to be invisible,
to one day melt in the limpid air.
Agnes de Lods Apr 30
It isn’t easy to walk, gravity weighs.
The biosuits lock the mind
in a narrow space.

An interpretive blow is crucial:
Does being on the other side of the mirror
truly want it, or only think it does?

A thumb drives into the right temple.
The heart pumps hectoliters of warm liquid.
Colours, sounds, tensions in the eternal swirl.

Delay in processing—eighty milliseconds
it isn’t a flaw.
It takes that long for all the cogs to turn.

Everything I do now is already in the past.
Decisions made long ago spit me out
into this reality with some name.

I am the last, but not least,
in the collective dream and blink of time.

Minds sway like golden grain, ready to be cut.
I can stand up or lie on the ground.

I walk—
toward the next stumble,
the next wound, and maybe healing.

Insights glow like yellow lanterns,
giving me some light.

No justification, no understanding.
My self-awareness is not a cozy couch.

One day,
I will stop existing, and I accept that.
I’m just afraid to leave those who still love me.
Yes, you were right
I hide myself behind metaphors,
floating through unspoken feelings
I celebrate my private happiness solo.

Without judgments and what was meant to be,
I sculpt my own friendly mental space,
reading and writing poems,
I drift into the unbearable lightness of being.
Agnes de Lods Aug 18
I laid my body on the tall grass.
She wrapped me in a rustle of green.
I closed my eyes in the shadow of a tall pine,
curling up so the pain wouldn’t spill beyond my heart.

Consciousness sinks into nothingness.
I feel the particles of my “self”
breaking into a million molecules.
I flow through the grass and seep into the earth.

Now my body puts down roots,
nestling against the pine that weeps with resin.
My emotions pass through the trunk of the tree.

The thread of memories is a long earthworm,
crawling through the empty
corridors where once blood pulsed.
White bones remain still,
slowly dissolving into the vessel of eternal life:
Earth, water, air, lost particles of light,
and my longing for the final union.

Doubts hollow a chamber,
soft and warm – my new home.
When my dream ends,
I will dwell in it.

Now I am the pine.
My needles, bark, and resin
radiate invisible light
for this space, for this world.

Yes, I was once human.
Agnes de Lods Mar 20
Where are the dreams born?
At the soft frontier of invisible worlds?
Where stars fade, and the sounds quiver,
like leaves in the wind.

I hear so clearly the rustle of trees,
and I fall slowly allowing myself
to linger in the void.

I feel the fragile structures of human thoughts.
I absorb their melancholic mood.
They are dancing in a gentle,
harmonious vortex.

Another dream has just been born…

Delicate drops of light
are touching my depth of soul,
drifting into the unknown.

The orbs reveal pastel reflections
caressing my mind.
This night is so calm, so tender
like the gaze of love.

Under my eyelids,
warm hope lingers.

The Gentle Night
I long to melt in your safe arms,
seen as I am.
Please, be my beloved Eden.
Agnes de Lods Mar 15
When the eye fails to recognize colors,
and the ear ceases to catch sounds,
when the mind doesn’t weave words
into something coherent,
and the body, shrunken,
no longer flinches to escape fear.

Then, my life, let me sit in a cozy chair,
wrapped in warm light,
and once again,
let me dive deep into the idealized past.

I will return without regret
to those faces, voices, and places.
I will wait, sitting in my pain,
calmly.

This departure will take a long while,
before I stamp my one-way ticket,
and everything becomes simple,
unconditional.

One day,
the stream of my consciousness
will dissolve into nothingness.

Then, my soul, let me—
in a gentler version than it was in reality—
settle discreetly and painlessly
in the memories of those dear to me.

I want to be nothing more
than a gentle touch of endless,
patient love.
A quiet presence,
a whisper of boundless solace.
I dreamt this dream before I could speak it out loud,
Between the signifier and imperfect signified,
With all kinds of broken hours and promises never kept,
I tried transforming what was often said in the past.

This place would seem so real,
Made for me, trembling in the middle,
With small and growing earthquakes.
I wrote myself again—my little truths.

Looking for missing lines without wings,
Carrying stones inside my mind,
In tight, frayed bags from my beating heart,
without hope for a final insight.

Perhaps I just passed through the steam
Of a swirling, repetitive, chaotic dance,
Seeking tickets, carving an elusive imprint
With my mosaic in this human code.

Five minutes quietly slipped by.
My earned time vanished.
I had my moments going along the roadsides,
Avoiding the end of this poetic journey.

I stay wrapped in a heavy coat of suspicion.
I saw Moirés crafting another delusion.
I found a small reward in an addictive cliché,
To feel short relief from what I call my reality.

I remember what I did before,
Choosing every day not to cast a stone
Into the center of what I can’t grasp
With my breathing, human existence.
And this breath was enough.
Agnes de Lods Feb 15
They closed their thoughts.
Genuineness is unwelcome in this world.
Their purpose and cause remain hidden.
Smiling ironically with their sharp hearts,
they tied disappearing ethics with golden threads.

Now they invite you to the feast.
The milky blood of a thousand voices is served,
at the table's abundance of emptiness.

Who are they? Survivors,
shaped by silent consent,
walk through the vast field of lost values,
tainted with soulless conformism.
They are afraid, so afraid of their dark shadows…
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