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you dare to compare
those who built a nation to
those who would shred it?
All slave owners may have been wrong, but not all were created equal.
 Jun 2017 Alaric Moras
September
Separate beds and shades
Of reds. Intimacy is
A ****** handprint.
A haiku for every lover.
I approach most desires
like a competition; can I
**** better than him;
can I be famous at twenty-
-three since he was famous at
twenty-four -- I must be able
to sink better than him.

God, it is exhausting. I
feel like I'm dancing with
a machine; a phantom that
I can never catch, for it runs
on my blood; my insecurities;
my passion -- and, boy, oh boy,
can I attest to having plenty of
  that stuff, ladies and germs.

I think, truly, that I am
encompassing the American Dream
I think is utterly flawed; that I think
is futile in nature; that I am sure of
is the closest thing to Hell, in this
Godless, spiritually motherless
dark shoebox of sudden collisions;
this space of useful and useless
results, splayed onto and into
our hearts, asking for reverence.

There is nothing  I want more
than to be sure that my importance
is not illusory. I am not sure if
I am real.
 May 2017 Alaric Moras
Rachel Ace
You look like a light-colored satin
Stars f
          a
            l
              l on your caramel hair
Your laureate crown is permanent

You walk fast as a local feline
L'Empereur far from his throne
You look disoriented
You look tired

It's nightfalling
Resolution parts
The moon shines
Gold minds

Lace L'étoile
Jeune ace
Shiny sleeves

I go through a mirror
You're sitting in there
I hide carefully
Not to be alert
I have found myself again
Dreaming of you inside
The reflection of your mirror

At night my opal
                           sleeves are made of satin.

   - Codelandandmore// 6:00 PM ©
Modern poem
My wife's family
is a pack of wolves.
One will be chosen,
and the others pile on,
tugging and tumbling
the lucky winner,
looking like they would tear
the chosen one
limb from limb.
At day's end
they huddle about
the battered cub,
licking its wounds
and nesting
warm and huddled.

My family was crocodilian,
cold-blooded and
waiting in preternatural
prehistoric patience
for a spot of blood
as the excuse
to pull the wounded one
beneath muddied waters
and devour their own.
So I lay in the weeds and watch the families go by....
 Apr 2017 Alaric Moras
Mary-Eliz
We don't write poetry.
It happens.
It hits you in the face and
demands to be.

Its pieces bombard like pebbles
thrown by zealous winds.
It wakes you at two a.m.
frantic to be free.

Like soul longing for body
it floats about
filled with anguish
and yearning.

The world is a poem.
Walking among its words,
often unaware,
we breathe the empty spaces.

We are all scribes,
sometimes setting down
a verse or two.

But...

we don't write poetry.

It happens.
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