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aar505n Nov 2015
Mystery are the prongs of jealousy
When struck rings and sings like a song.
Mystery still is why such innate sea of emotions
Overcomes me in such a fashion.
What does this say about me?

The prongs rings out -
I doubt -
I've ever felt this wrong before.
The prongs rings out -
I know -
Singing of everything I want
But will never had

I cannot change the song
Or tune these prongs
To another key
As the ringing is too strong

And it's been too long
Since I've heard sweet silence
All I have is neat violence
In the form of a forlorn song.
aar505n Nov 2015
It's hard to know which way the wind is going to blow
And whether I will blow with or against it
Weather is temperamental
It has its own mentality - its own sovereignty.
And in a sense, innately sentimental.
How spring brings life - winter takes it.
Season change with little reason
Not strange in the grand scheme of things. Does it really matter how green the ground is?
How blue the skyline?
Does it harm us if it's not warm enough? What's enough?

I don't know which way the wind is going to blow.
But blow it will and maybe this time I'll  blow with it.
aar505n Nov 2015
Please forgive me when I laugh at another thing you've forgotten.
I do not mean to imply your brain is rotten.

Please forgive me when I get annoyed by your confusion.
I know it's not your fault your mind has a shakey vision.

I wish I could help you when memory fades.
However there is no easy remedy made.

Please know how much I love you and your funny ways .
If only that was enough to prove you're not a lonly member.

I would remind you of all our happy days
But even for me it's hard to remember.

I hope I do not become like you.
I hate myself for saying it but it is true.


I love you.
And I hate that you forget.
If memeory is all we are, then who are we when it fades?
aar505n Oct 2015
The sound of feet is isolated in the tunnel.
Echoes of the slow steps of many fill the narrow space.
We march in silence.
Alone among the many.
We do this odd ambitious walk twice daily.
Twice daily this space is filled with the sound of the travelers and the workers.
And what about the times that betwixt the twice daily commute?
An ambiance like no other.
A roaring silence.
For those who have march here
They leave behind an echo,
an imprint of sort.
More ghostly than any ghost.
Haunting these tunnels with their essence
When the sound of feet is not present.
I like my train stations
aar505n Oct 2015
I am always late.
I wish I wasn't but I am.

My friends, they wait for me -
This time.
But they won't always be there.

The day they stop waiting -
Is the day I stop being late.
I am just the worse
  Sep 2015 aar505n
Emily Dickinson
1439

How ruthless are the gentle—
How cruel are the kind—
God broke his contract to his Lamb
To qualify the Wind—
  Sep 2015 aar505n
Emily Dickinson
674

The Soul that hath a Guest
Doth seldom go abroad—
Diviner Crowd at Home—
Obliterate the need—

And Courtesy forbid
A Host’s departure when
Upon Himself be visiting
The Emperor of Men—
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