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 Apr 21
Veritia Venandi
Of all the loves in the history of the world, ours was a one that could not be.

Like a newborn child dying the moment it is born, like a flower dropping to the ground the moment it blooms, like a fire put off the moment it begins burning,

Our affections were robbed of a life!

But maybe that is why, this blank space, this nothingness would cherish our love...
Because out of all the loves that stood, ours stood out more.

It was not a smooth trail of ink that took the shape of letters.
It was a blot of ink, a gigantic one that could not take a form and yet left behind a stain for the world to remember-Of a love that stirred hearts only to put them to sleep!
The many tales of love ❤
Thank you for reading!
There is this place
the source.....
of being
There is this light....
where we were born
where we return
when time  no longer
When all goes dark
and eyes no longer seeing.
While  Life floats away silently
and choir singing hummingly
The  Spirit flows
Into this light
Enlightening  the soul
so bright ......
while crossing over .

Shell ✨🐚
In honor of a friend! Stay strong!!!

The crescent today
Smiles feeble in the dark sky
Yet radiates from within
The light it holds dear

18th January, the crescent moon
 Oct 2020
Poetic T
We may give them all of us,
                          but they are cheap,
                             ******* around like were
worth 5 cents and not the diamond that we gave them.

But they end up broke,
                                broke up,
                 broke as there on the street.

Clothes on the pavement.
And we were richer without them, no ******* around,
                          begging like were paupers.

But were prosperous without them,
                            there begging on the street.
The only thing they get is middle fingers,
             and your trash your love isn't even worth

the 2 cents to recycle...
 Jul 2020
Thomas W Case
What difference does it make?
I'm already condemned.
There isn't a person in
this God-forsaken town
that hasn't tried me in
their mind and found me guilty.
Step mothers aren't real
mothers anyway.
My mother died when I was little.
Daddy remarried and couldn't have
cared less about me and Emma,
my dear sister, and the ax sharpener.
I was acquitted, and who can
judge me now?
By the way, the weapon was never
found, it's buried by my feeble
attempt at poetry.
Thomas W. Case Historical figure poetry Challenge Lizzie Borden
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