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Do you remember
The flagship's contender?
The rolling cold waves by the dock
And she herself was the sender
So did you attend her
Last day of rest by the rock?

She'd written you notes
passed by sailors on boats  
But you would just sit there and cry
As she sat feeding the goats
With barley and oats
While you watched from your tower in the sky

And she didn't forget
The first time you'd met
By the lake house with dusk's tender fall
And her kiss was a threat
That put you in debt
When you told her that she was your all

Her undying love letter
Didn't make you feel better
As you knew you were claimed by the sea
How could you let her
Become your love debtor
When you knew that it never could be

When you returned
Your stomach it turned  
As you stared at her home by the lake
And her father confirmed
Of what you already had learned
That her death was your cold mistake

On her funeral day
You had nothing to say
Clutching the letters she wrote in your fist
And you couldn't stay
you'd lead her astray
But loved her from the moment you kissed
 Jul 2014 Izzy Stoner
bones
Beneath a dusty summers sun
rabbits sniff a loaded gun

that lies beside its owners feet
his muscles twitching as he sleeps

in peace upon the baking moor
the huntsman starts to gently snore

a snore that swiftly grows in size
until the rabbits eyes are wide

with wonder at the awful sound
that fills their ears and all around

they run and stumble and tumble and trip
against the gun and the trigger slips

BOOM

rabbits scatter the huntsman jumps
awake to find a smoking stump

of ragged leg without a foot
his lucky one
the rabbits took.
A tale of accidental revenge.
:o)
 Jun 2014 Izzy Stoner
Black
Trial say hello to error.
Destiny plays it's part.
Together they make music, no art.
Apart, separated, alone. 
All of which remain synonyms for the Impossible. 
Success is never guarenteed, the percentage is unknown.
Failure is to common, the ying improbable.
Everything shrouded in black. Nothing. Question. 
Effort never put to waste,
At least if you learn a lesson.
 Jun 2014 Izzy Stoner
Black
Eyelashes battle like trees for the sunlight.
Theres dust in your eyes and your swiffer just wont cut it.
Knowledge is amazing, even one byte.
It'll set you free, so flit.

Eyelashes calm like an ever watching storm.
Theres dust in your hands and its to heavy to lift.
Trapped indefinitely in a chrysalis form.
Waiting to spread your wings, now flit.

Eyelashes open wide like night engulfing day.
Theres dust on your wings and your beginning to emit.
You've grown to much, minuscule things cant block your way.
Freedom radiates from you, so just flit.

You made it, Mc hammer too legit to quit.
Your a full fledge butterfly, now do what you see fit.
 Jun 2014 Izzy Stoner
Black
Even when the rain it pours
Seven senses scream some more
Steven gets odd to form the chlor
and
Eden calls with bright decor

Remember the wine
Remember the roses
Remember the times
and
Remember the tree line
Because in the end our cause and plausible reasoning for being,
are nothing more than rain that pours and ruins our decor.
You're in every crack on the tar,
Hiding beneath layers for days and weeks.
You're there when I close my eyes,
Arms painted purple by your fingertips.
You're in the front of my mind holding my hand,
blowing out smoke
Or blowing a kiss.
You're holding me against the bed,
Running barefoot across your lawn.
You couldn't control your fists
And I couldn't control my heart
So I guess we both killed each other in silent ways.
Shivering fingers, cradling a cold clay bowl
with dull roses surrounding the rim.
A Klondike bar cut like a grid on a paper towel.
My grandma used to let me eat one in the living room
"careful of the carpet"
on her yellow couches covered with sticky plastic.
She would play the Elvis Presley Christmas album,
To Ginny written in black sharpie on the sleeve
with a Love always, Mom underneath,
over and over again
while she hung bulbs of wood on the bottom branches
so her Welsh Corgi wouldn't break them with his paws.

Slate slabs with handprints
in purple paint every year for the holiday.
She'd set death aside in a coffin ashtray
to kiss my cheek.
Presley played in the background.

She'd rock
on the front porch in white wicker
coughing into the lid of a Pepsi can
until she'd catch me pressing my nose against the door glass,
tell me to turn around and sit on the couch.
It was too cold for me.
She'd only be a minute.

When we played, I'd hide between the two baskets
in the closet that held her hair products.
I could count all the bottles three times each
before she'd say she was too tired,
put on her coat, grab a white box, and hit play.
I always hated that album.
There was a strange moment
where time itself seemed to slow down
to a hundredth of a second
where everything was perfect.

Maybe it was just
the last vestiges of the sunset
dancing off your hair,
or maybe it was just a trick of the eye.

But for a moment,
there was perfection.

Maybe it was just,
because I like the way you smoke,
the way the colour accents your eyes,
in the mere moments that pass as you exhale.

But for a moment,
there was perfection.

Maybe it was just
because your smile ignited sparks,
that warmed me like the soft glow of a candle
as darkness started to fall.

But for a moment,
there was perfection.

Maybe it was just,
the way your voice lifted my spirits
as if nothing at all,
could make you happier.

For a moment,
there was perfection.
But for a lifetime,
there was true happiness.
Some people have been asking what Rasasvada means.

"The taste of bliss in the absence of all thoughts."
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