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A little lipstick
On the lips,
A little blusher
On the nose,
When my mum
Goes out shopping,
I like to
Wear her clothes.
 Jun 2019 Christy Sandhu
Micah G
I write mostly for acceptance
That much is true
But mostly it is
To escape

My kind is a terrible place
Dark business
Unproclaimed and without much ado
Scarred by Evils omnipresence

While they write of love that is true
I write of darkness’ admittance
Despite its bitter aftertaste
I never seek repentance
If everything you touch turns to gold
and everything I touch turns to ash—
then together
we will sit upon our thrones
of riches and ruin
and make the world bow at our feet.
You who have lifted up your sunburned face,
Long-told of peasant warmth and the forest tableaux.
Barefoot, you brought the book of hours upon dusty roads,
Ungoverned, little flower from Jeanne to Lourdes to Lisieux.
Our Lady, osculum pacis, the kiss of peace in wood and stone.

Burned out to those dusty eyes,
Now-empty look of rosework from the forest-fall of sunlight.
Medieval prayer, earthly-dim to its rafters of oak,
Come un-cinctured in ashen cloud of amice and alb,
And the murine blackness of plague-like smoke.

Birds that sit blinking at the winged fossil of intrados,
Pipe air through your own ribbed vaults, organum pulse.
Let the city rise in your vining voices—and hold the note.
The great ***** intones from the runs and pedal stops,
Along the turbid streets of the rue de la Cité to the empire of catacombs.

Beside his candle, the monk in sadness knows
All loveliness of heaven except his own.
Our Lady, every sunset is your faded candle hour of peace, for us to know.
Holy Father, so passes worldly glory,
Over the roofs of Paris like fire-scorned and leaden wings.
Can you see her, that woman there?
Standing tall with her head held high?
Lo, can you see the truth of one so fair,
Hidden beneath all her beauty and grace?

Alas, she stands tall to hide her fear,
She only barely keeps her head up,
Her eyes defiantly hiding all of her pain,
Her hands clenched in doubt and anxiety.

Hiding under all of her strength,
She is as delicate and fragile as a flower.
Beneath all her beauty and grace,
She's as sensitive and poised as a bomb.

Lo! Heed this warning I give to thee.
Do not mistake her strength as a facade,
Nor believe her fragile state as weakness.
For that is where her true beauty lies.

Hark! You should not simply judge a book
By its cover, nor by what lies within.
You must look at it all as one,
For only then will you find the beauty hidden within!

~ Wolf
I see your mind as a house
A mansion in fact
With so many rooms
And all closed doors
Capable of sustaining so much
Yet uninhabitable
Your mind can no longer hold me
 Jun 2019 Christy Sandhu
Traveler
I am but a poem
My body made of rhymes
I have been written
One too many times
Beauty I often read
Love I wish to know
You, you are an explanation point!
You let your feelings show...
But as you can clearly see
I'm a simple paragraph
Easily as I was written
I am doomed to pass...
Yet it's all been written before
After all
I am a poem
Nothing more!
Traveler Tim
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