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they no longer run from me
my spirit friends
they stay when I approach
they seem curious
gliding to and fro
their orbs moving about like bright moths
playing tag
and then there's the one
who stood by the bottom stair and watched me
  
she ran last time
up to her room like a scared child
but this time she observed
this time she shows no fear

her life was taken
her tears have lingered
unseen
her cries have gone
unheard
echoing through three centuries
of grief
here in the bows of Foxcroft
here in the ageless comfort of her home
where I have found her
Oldie - my first contact
the Brickhouse is where you'll find them
it was here long before the school
it is where Jane lived
and where she died tragically
poor Jane
locked in the attic like a dangerous animal
and her only crime was that her mind slipped
so the story goes

and find them I did
I could not hear or see them until I viewed
what I had on film
there I found them dancing about
up and down the stairs like children playing
I made my way to the attic door
but could not go in
the weight of sadness filled the air like dense fog
I knew Jane was here

on film I hear their voices
distant...
sometimes it is children laughing
sometimes they mock me
''He knows Persley'' a gentleman sarcastically states
after my reciting the first line of
'Roses are Red'
at least one did not appreciate my being there
"Get Out" she demanded
and then the sad voice pleading as if lost in the wood
"I Hear You" she cried
"I Hear You"
is it Jane?
I will return
to hopefully gain trust in those that reside here
for I must know
more
oldie - a house where Jane lived and died..I've recorded voices orbs noises and direct responses to questions or requests. this is where my ventures into the paranormal began - the Brickhouse
belittled into submission
lost in darkness
the basement of my thoughts
a busted knuckle trying to heal
forgotten tears stolen by sand
along the beach of lost dreams
and unwatched sunsets
did you forget about me

sad cliches meet here
outside the realm of hope
waiting like wolves  
to take their breath away
oldie
i'm sorry for the things i've said
i'm sorry for the words that bled
unrelenting
from your severed heart
it is a curse that i must bear
i speak without a whim or care
i think not of my love's despair
only that it will survive
for it is love

like claws they work to rip and tear
until your love
succumbs
and there
you awaken
and I can only say...
I'm sorry
oldie
Woe to you desert of Libya
Whose whim tears mortals
As slaves, I invoke the spirit
Of love over hate on you

The desert crying voice
Whispering in angst
as unfiltered sand has no divisions
So the blood of human

Human be treated as human
O shore of libya
What's your libation offering?
O dervish beings of divers gain

What i see as vision
Is mortalized fuel
For fossil fuel turn
against you in rebellion

Shore of libya
Your border
can be peaceful
and loveful

just
as
it
use
to
be

Where is your lost glory
Do you mean your good days
are gone as readily evil
drop your weapons

And understand each other
Your shore will shine as the star on your flag
O Libya, why has your eyes turn black?

Written by
Martin Ijir
  Apr 2018 Thomas P Owens Sr
L B
Turn the lights down
and remember me....
Aren't we still the same--?
in shadows
of incoherent innocence and beauty?
In the soft and limpid
florals of the spring?
Am I not the same--?
still warm, somehow?

My love--

Can we not, still make it here?
In ancient fires?
Turn me toward you, in your mind--
Wanting--
Erase the blight
with lips still seeking mine
Hair has drifted off--
the years
to catch the moonlight on a shoulder
as nothing else    will

ever

With something mined
from hearts and minds  

Touch me!
Make me forget!

time
will you love me when I'm dead
when all the words are put to bed
when all the painful thoughts are shed
and you can live in bliss

will you love me when I'm dead
when shadows let you sleep instead
when ghosts no longer make you dread
my malignant goodnight kiss

will you love me when I'm dead
when I cannot feed your hungry head
when all your thoughts will be spoon fed
I'll await your soul in the abyss
there are times when I feel that my poetry is not always wanted and my thoughts of the other side bring darkness to this side for those I love - and that may well be true
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