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Winter's unsteady weather
cold, cold, hot desert
on this walkabout with severe angles of sun
icy mornings drip into the sweat of day
the impasse of giant stones the gods have laid
to stop or climb another way
egos travel irretrievable, sink into what is real
here we scale thorny towers of denial
revealed, peeled in layers - to cry, to smile
meanwhile awakened, shaken
from the sleep of our amnesia.
entered alone
the empty room

a tree
in a vibrant autumnal
gold
flooding the window

a morning mist
foreclosing the valley

and there
suspended
that golden
radiant tree

a baroque shrine
lit for love psalms
5.1.2015
About the title choice: I do know quite a number of windows facing only walls...
Without its' sheath a sword's blade becomes dull. Within it's own concealment, its strength is protected.
in the pleasure of discovering
words rhymes rhythms
i'm a gluttonous poet.

day and night
bite of my growing appetite
makes me sink low

i don't notice
broken pieces
shattered peaces
around me

i breathe in writing
eat and drink
poetry

crazed obsessed stressed
my poetry
like any other debauchery
is an escape ride
someplace to hide

i'm a poet
subservient
to the pleasures of words rhymes rhythms.
.
             *the *future is...a tornado of uncertain-
          ty• a swirling vortex, in its centre is
me•such power and speed, can ne-
ver see•can never foretell, it's hid-  
den debris•like clockwork, it will        
   make contact•by the second, bra-        
cing for next impact•the past is...      
  yet another•wild winds that echo      
     my mistakes as reminder•this twis-         
      ter within...tearing with no remo-    
           rse•destroying confident strong-
             holds, breaking feebly boarded
           doors•can't ease the rage...eat-
    en from the inside•won't stop
until...my beating heart had
        died•the present is...only this  
   frail little body•fighting huge 
battles that come incessantly  
  •fending off the future, con-        
    taining the past•not know-            
ing how long.......this disas-       
ter would last•but I'm still      
   here.....still holding integ-         
   rity......•still fighting this       
war waged in history's        
folly•will i be settl-
ed? will the winds
ever abate?•
will i ever
      come to    
terms...?
will i
ever
    acc-
          ept
                     fa      
                 t
               e
             ?
             •
"Pain turns hope into scars that burn"* ~~ *Rose


Painfully aware
Of things I see
And I do not dare
Touch what I believe
One single caress
And hope diminishes
What you're left with
Is empty promises
And unfulfilled wishes
The remnants of faith
Are simply ugly markings
Left upon your body
Causing a fire of darkness
And smoke rising
Made of sadness
That disappears
Into the atmosphere
Until you're left with...





Absolutely nothing
Quoted line from "I Killed Her" by Rose, for Frank's "Let's Do A Line!" challenge. This was the first poem I recall reading from Rose and I've been hooked on her poetry ever since then, thanks for the inspiration ***, love ya. :)
The red drops of blood sat there on the white crystals, creating a master piece worth sharing in a museum.
The artist stood nearby holding the dagger that served as a paint brush to paint those beautiful strokes. And like every artist, he signed his art work but by his ****** fingerprints.
Her dead body was frozen underneath the layers of the snowfall that kept her warm.


He turned her into an undiscovered art.
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