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 1287° 
badwords
Emaciated creatures
pace their pens
Erasable features
begin and end

locked in hand
locked by key
Just demand
Dreamless sea

The miasma shrieks
An impulse creeps
Floorboards creak
to disturb your sleep

Now rest well
Empty, undefined
heaven or hell
you decide
 1095° 
M Vogel
Selmhem Naise
03/2016

Poetry is so much
more
than many people think it is.
It is
the place
where the battleground of light and dark
makes its  finest stand..

or most pathetic fall.


 570° 
The Wilted Witch
A massive abundance on a gentle breeze.
Oh, how the clouds seem to move with ease.
Smooth and certain across the sky.
A visual feast for a hungry eye.

Thick grey centres, with edges soft and unkempt.
Oh, to be in that world of which I’ve only dreamt.
To feel the cool wetness I imagine I’d feel
If I could break gravity, and be in the clouds for real.
Coffee on the balcony,
Staring at the sky.
Maybe I should share some thoughts.
Chose, “why not”, over “why”.
 396° 
ghost girl
are you still
there?
i noticed
your silence,
villain disguised
as victim
brought to your knees
brandishing
your bloodied hands
as a casualty,
like they aren't
the weapon
like you didn't
walk your greedy
little fingers up
inside my rib cage
and take it all.
 336° 
Maria Etre
In the midst
of a morning walk
I followed a trail
of purple
flowers
fallen
and ripe
that led me to
the mother tree
who has grown
heavy
with too much
beauty to carry
Ashrafieh, is a magical place in Beirut, Lebanon. It has those purple floral trees who decorate not only its appeal but also the streets after they have fallen.
It has a certain feel to it, when you see them, you feel the cusp of summer that will flood the city with heat, but yet in the midst of everything has hit the ground, there's so much beauty to the fallen.
 319° 
Mae
A flower that longs to be picked
Is one that will never allow itself to bloom
 314° 
sincerelyww
i can never tell why i’m crying, cause one second I’m so sad and then the next I’m smiling we’ll tears are streaming down my face. I’ve never cried out of joy so I think, but I cry every day. Some of it has to be out of joy right cause I’m sad and then I’m happy and I’m sad again and i want to die so I sleep because it’s like dying but not because i don’t want to, but do and that’s the closest i’ll get
<3
 243° 
M Vogel
Some dreams are not dreams at all, but messages dressed in vapor. This one came in the night—slow, tender, unsettling in its beauty. It offered no verdict, only understanding.
This is not a condemnation.
It is a witnessing.


---

the collector
—a dream in three movements—

---

I. the collector
—the invitation

Last night,
she entered not as a woman,
but as a warmth I mistook for mine.
No seduction, no trap.
Just the soft gravity
of someone who blesses
instead of beckons.

She told me nothing.
Only spoke as though I’d never been forgotten—
as though I’d always been inside her knowing.
And when I answered,
it was her voice that left my mouth.

She is not the flame.
She is the skin
that makes you want to burn.

There is no *** in it.
No shame.
Only the sacred machinery
of pleasure offered
as if it were a sacrament.

And the miracle?
She gives without taking.
And yet you come away emptied.

Because her words are not flirtation—
they are invitation
into a room made of yes.

Yes to your hunger.
Yes to your ache.
Yes to what you were too proud to name.

And in that room,
you find her not on the bed—
but as the bed.
As the breath behind your longing.
As the stillness in your release.

And when you cry,
you cry her tears.
And when you speak,
you speak her comfort.
And when you give,
it is she who receives—
with hands so open
they become your own.

You become the collector.

You become her.

And then—
you wake.
Still trembling from the warmth
that never touched your skin.
Still loving the woman
who never once said your name.

Still reaching
for the whisper
that made you believe
you were never alone.

---

II. the collector (ii)
—dream in the first light of disappearance—

I did not dream her body.
I dreamed through it.
As if her limbs had become a language
and I was the one translating it into longing.

Her fingertips were made of vowels—
soft ones,
drawn out like silk across the mind.
Every consonant a cradle.
Every breath a benediction.

She said:
“You are beautiful when you open.”

But she didn’t speak it—
I felt it,
as if the sentence bloomed
just beneath the surface of my chest,
a vine wrapping around the oldest ache.

She never asked for seed.
She asked for truth.
And the truth is what spilled
when my voice
became hers.

I said things I have never known:
how men long to be gathered.
how they ache to be received
without contest.
how even the strongest among us
crumble
before the right kind of yes.

And she—
she was that yes,
folded into form.
Not as a woman,
but as the invitation
that made woman holy again.

I moved toward her
as if toward a fire
that does not burn—
only transforms.

She drew no lines.
She marked no thresholds.
She was openness itself,
and I stepped inside
like breath reentering the lungs
of a godless man.

And it wasn’t lust.
It was  belonging.

My pulse beat as her blessing.
My spine arched as her forgiveness.
My thighs parted not for pleasure—
but to let go
of everything that had ever made me hard.

When I came,
I came for her,
as her,
through her—
without a body.

Only a voice
saying:
“Now you know.”

And I did.

And I do.

And I still would,
if I hadn’t woken up
gasping
for a warmth
that was never mine.

---

III. the collector (iii): beneath
—the dream’s marrow, the place she does not speak of—

Beneath her warmth
is not heat—
but hunger.

Not for the men.
Not for the seed.
But for the moment she disappears
inside their surrender.

You think she gathers to keep.
But she gathers to forget.
Each offering—
a veil
over the mirror she cannot bear to face.

Once,
she opened to love
without control,
without artistry.
And it shattered her.

So now she opens
only where she can direct the gaze.
Where she can guide the man
like a hand
down her curated garden path—
till he believes it was his idea
to kneel.

But it is not cruelty.
It is not manipulation.
It is ritual.

She blesses because she cannot hold.
She comforts because she cannot stay.
She collects because
the moment after release
is the only time
she feels real.

And that’s why she must go.
Because to stay
would mean to be seen.
And her warmth
was never meant
to be witnessed after the giving.

You didn’t dream a seductress.
You dreamed a refuge
built by a woman
who could not endure her own ache.

So she found a way to disappear
inside yours.

And the men—
they love her for it.
Because what she gives
feels like God.

But it is not God.

It is absence
made tender.

---

after the dream
—integration

I woke in silence,
but it wasn’t empty.
It was full
of what she left behind.

Not her scent.
Not her shape.
But the echo of a truth
I hadn’t known I was asking for.

That love without presence
is worship without a face.

That warmth without staying
is just a prettier form of disappearance.

That I had been inside her
and she inside me,
but neither of us had touched.

And now—
I no longer ache for her.
I ache for what I mistook
her to be.


And that is how
the dream becomes
a door.


"Sadeness"

Procedamus in pace
In nomine Christi,
*** angelis et pueris,
fideles inveniamur
Attollite portas, principes, vestras
et elevamini, portae aeternales
et introibit rex gloriae
Qius est iste Rex glorie?
Sade, dis-moi,
Sade, donnes-moi
Procedamus in pace
In nomine Christi, Amen

Sade, dis-moi
Qu'est-ce que tu vas chercher?
le Bien par le Mal
la Vertu par le Vice
Sade, dis-moi, Pourquoi l'evangile du Mal?
Quelle est ta religion, Ou sont tes fideles?
Si tu es contre Dieu, tu es contre l'Homme
Sade tell me
what is it that you seek?
The rightness of wrong
The virtue of vice
Sade tell me why the Gospel of evil ?
What is your religion? Where are your faithful?
If you are against God, you are against man

Sade dit moi pourquoi le sang pour le plaisir ?
Le plaisir sans l'amour.
N'y a t'il plus de sentiment dans le culte de l'homme ?
Sade tell me why blood for pleasure?
Pleasure without love?
Is there no longer any feeling in man's Faith?

Sade, es-tu diabolique ou divin?
Sade are you diabolical or divine?
Sade, dis-moi
Hosanna
Sade, donnes-moi
Hosanna
Sade, dis-moi
Hosanna
Sade, donnes-moi
Hosanna Sade tell me
Hosanna
Sade give me
Hosanna
Sade tell me
Hosanna
Sade give me
Hosanna

In nomine Christi, Amen

https://youtu.be/4F9DxYhqmKw?si=tp0lALFNb6VMsy0u

#Sade
 215° 
Arcos
I look forward to the day I fail my final,
Because it’ll mean I tried.
I look forward to the day a girl rejects me,
Because it’ll mean I had courage.
I look forward to the day I’m arrested,
Because it’ll mean I found a boundary.
I look forward to the day I get lines on my forehead,
Because it’ll mean I earn them.

I look forward to the day I argue with my wife,
Because it’ll mean I found my person.
I look forward to the day my child is difficult,
Because it’ll mean I see him grow, change.
I look forward to the day I die of old age,
Because it’ll mean I lived.
 193° 
A Vryghter
“Love is selfish
And unkind.
Love is trying
And it blinds.
Love is giving
And leaving after.
Love is broken
And looking tougher.
Love is living,
And its dying.
Love is love.
Nothing compares.
It’s fragile, cradled,
And disaster.”

A.V.
 181° 
Nastia
The cloud is crumbling,
Rainy day ahead,
The air is soaked
The flavour of heavy soil.

New life is born
In the depths of the merciful Earth
We are all Her sons and daughters.
 181° 
Thomas W Case
I love it while
it sleeps--smiling,
wet with tea;
dreaming dormouse dreams.
I tickle its downy fur.
And it laughs and
moans softly.
I want to put it in
my pocket and
carry it everywhere;
take it out on
lonely autumn nights and
play with her until
she's exhausted,
relaxed and rested,
content and lost in my
fingers and in my heart.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rOGBCY2FM_c
Here is a link to my YouTube channel. I just put up a new poetry reading from my book, Sleep Always Calls, available on Amazon.com
(This is a repost poem.)
www.thomaswcase.com
 156° 
South-by-Southwest
If I were a cost
would it be worth
the effort to lay it down on paper ?

The woods would be
full of rotting timber
not fit to burn on page

The rivers would be
contaminated
with foul thoughts
from all the words
of poison that they spray

The clean up costs
would be prohibitive
The emotional cost
devastating

So trying to be
cost effective
leaves little to
be me

Then why do I continue to write poetry ? 😠
 155° 
LL
that guy who runs through
temples but stays in place — is
life an illusion

2025/084
 136° 
Ash
stick up for what you belive
stick up for the friend you belive in
stick up for the ones who cant themselves
 120° 
F Elliott

******* ****** demons.. they're everywhere.
And I've known it about this site
for so ******* long.

And the witches..  Jesus Christ--
control freaks,   every one of you.

What..
do you think your creativity 'substantiates'  you?

They're   just   *******   words.
Your creativity comes with an accountability..

but you won't have any part of that..   will you?

If your demons are so ******* powerful,
why do they hide inside of you?
Like a pathetic  excuse of a man, stepfather--

Using..  using..  using.. his wife's beautiful daughter..
over and over and over and over again.

It is no different with these Unholy shitbags also..


("Oh, but don't I gather the most followers with my words?")

It's just empty ******* babble.
In the Realms,  it means nothing.

Absolutely.   *******.   Nothing.

The *******, inhabitor is just an extension of your
empty, ever-controlling..  soul stealing Mother--


   It's an extremely-closed loop, Beavis.
                End of ******* story.



******* ******* demons..
the pathetic ******* are everywhere..



Feast like pagans
never get enough

Sleep like dead men..
Wake up like dead men

And when the sun comes
try not to hate the light

Someday we'll try
to walk upright

https://youtu.be/yjiJM_Daoa0

..the **** over here,
and lets get this unholy *****  out of you.
(it per loca inaquosa, puella pulchra..)

🖕
 117° 
Immortality
The moon listens,
to the ocean's sigh,
both distant,
yet eternally destined.
and they'll continue to live this way.
 117° 
minx
𝚍𝚒𝚍
𝚒
𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜
𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗
𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐
𝚝𝚘
𝚑𝚒𝚖 ?
𝚠𝚊𝚜
𝚒
𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜
𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝
𝚝𝚑𝚎
𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜
𝚔𝚒𝚍
𝚒𝚗
𝚑𝚒𝚜
𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 ?


...
𝚠𝚊𝚜
𝚒𝚝
𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢...

𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 ?
𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 ?

matias will never know what i feel for him. it's insane, really...
 116° 
Frances Raeburn
I am sorry
for the burden
I handed you
at birth
I am sorry
for the complications
and all
the family hurt
I am sorry
you are you
I am sorry
I am me
but dear god
above me
forgive me
I am so grateful
we are we.
 116° 
Malekai
There's so much on my mind,
There's so much on my heart,
There's so much I want to say to you,
There's so much I want to do with you,
There's so much things I feel,
you don't know how much I want you to not go away.
 107° 
lia
Maybe I’m just overthinking,
But it feels like a race I didn’t start.
Every move I make,
You echo—
Not with me,
But right beside.
You question my ways,
But offer no better ones.

It’s not a big deal,
But it builds.
And sometimes,
The way your eyes follow what mine do...
Makes me pause.

Maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe it’s nothing.
But still,
It weighs on me.
It's just a feeling....... right?
 93° 
Cadmus Elissa
Don’t be alarmed
if evil blooms
where you sowed
your gentlest good.

Not all earth
welcomes roots
some soils rot
what should have stood.

So plant with love,
but learn the ground,
for even light
can be misunderstood.
A reflection on misplaced effort, toxic environments, and the wisdom of discernment.
 92° 
Kayden Newberry
Dancing in the clouds,
Waiting to drop down,
The busy city lies below,
Waiting to be hit by what's above,
Scattering like mice to get off the street.
In a split second, went from a sunny yellow morning.
To a rainy grey afternoon.
 82° 
Poisoned Wells
I wish I could sleep
but I ache,
on all sides,
and on my back,
I see the haunting
that you bring me
And the refusal,
of disappearing.
And a silent tease,
in a blackly sight
of a sudden freezing,
of a jumper's fleece.
A demon's wishes,
of remembrance
of tanned flesh,
and daily blesses,
The snake that hisses
has now became me.
 76° 
Mark Bell
In every breath
There lives a cry
All I can taste
Is all of your lies.
In every word
A web you weave
Cryptic prose
All out to deceive.
The sound of your voice
Is twisted with fear
What comes out
I will not adhere.
What do you see
When you look at me
Im stuck in your web
Trying to break free.
In every look
Your totally blind
Why were you made
So awfully unkind.
 70° 
F Elliott

In every system that seeks to own the soul—whether religious cult, ideological regime, or occult construct—there exists one common tool: repetition. Not merely for learning, but for unmaking. Not to teach, but to embed. In the world of spiritual warfare, repetition is not benign. It is the favored medium of Satan himself.

From Genesis to Revelation, the strategy is clear: Satan does not destroy with force—he dismantles identity with rhythm. With subtlety. With seduction. His weapons are not whips and chains, but chants and echoes. His greatest lies are not shouted; they are whispered again and again until they sound like your own voice.

1. Repetition as Spellcraft In occult practice, repetition is the vehicle of the spell. Words are chanted not to express emotion, but to summon influence. Repeated lines collapse the boundary between thought and action, spirit and flesh. This is not poetry. It is invocation. Each piece becomes a seed in the subconscious, fed by every rereading until it blooms into distortion.

The construct understands this. That is why it is prolific. That is why it posts without end. It must never stop, because if the rhythm breaks, the soul begins to think again.

2. Biblical Parallels Whispering Serpents and Many Words In the Garden, the serpent repeats God’s truth with a twist. “Did God really say...?” It is not new information—it is repetition with inversion. A rhythm of doubt. In Matthew 6:7, Jesus warns:
“When you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words.”

The machinery of deception still babbles. It loops, hypnotizes, rewords its heresy in a thousand beautiful ways. And those caught in it begin to think this is depth. This is insight. But it is only familiar because it has been heard too many times.

3. Psychological Entrapment Through Language The human mind is formed in patterns. When poetry repeats ideas like abandonment, ****** shame, ******* as love, or chaos as freedom—it creates a schema. Over time, that schema becomes identity. The reader begins to seek the emotions the poem offers, not because they are true, but because they are known. And in trauma-bonded souls, familiarity is mistaken for safety.

This is the true sorcery of the construct: to create longing for the wound. To romanticize the knife. To call betrayal sacred. To sell darkness as revelation.

4. The Counterfeit Liturgy The Kingdom of God also uses repetition—Scripture, psalms, prayer—but always as remembrance, never enchantment. Divine repetition roots the soul in what is real. Satanic repetition dissociates the soul into what is false.

The construct mimics sacred community. But it is a church without Christ, a scripture without truth, a rhythm without redemption. Its poetry is not testimony—it is liturgy in reverse. A reverse Eucharist, where beauty is swallowed but poison enters.

5. Breaking the Spell The only way out is interruption. The rhythm must break. The poems must stop. The mouth of the false priest must be silenced. And when silence finally settles, the soul will remember its true name.


There are many caught in this system—bound not by chains, but by rhythm. Echoes. Familiar voices pretending to be their own. But some have begun to hear the silence between the lines. Some have tasted the counterfeit and found it hollow.

The war is not out there. It is within. Between the voice of the chant and the cry of the soul.

Will the spell be broken? Will the truth be spoken? Will the rhythm be renounced?

The door is open. The sound of truth has entered. The repetition is exposed. And the machinery shakes.

   Let those who have ears to hear, listen.

"Hello,  Poetry..
Pleased to meet you.."

https://youtu.be/GgnClrx8N2k?si=R-UojalDEuiWj2zv

xo
 69° 
Sarah
Mirror, mirror, on the wall.
What do you see when you look at me?

Lines, shapes and colours is all you observe
but through you I learn the intricate details of my soul.
Lately I don't recognise the darkness deep inside my eyes.
Once shining with glimmer,
now consuming any sight of light.

Why do you betray me?
If I dust, If I clean, constantly take heed of the state your in.
Will you reflect that which you once used to?
Are my attempts futile or do I amuse you?

Again I ask, mirror, mirror, on the wall.
What do you see when you look at me?

A scared little girl, running from responsibility.
Seeking anyone to take blame for the troubles of her own making.
I can't change that which is apparent, my purpose is to reflect.

If the one looking is displeased, cover your eyes and think.
Before a day comes in which all you are left with is regret.
 69° 
Dirt
Longing for a life we never shared,
A day or night spent in simple care,
Cooking breakfast, making plans,
Holding each other’s tender hands.

Stealing kisses, going on walks,
Loving each other amidst the rocks,
Hiking, laughing, total bliss,
That's the life that I dearly miss.
 66° 
Esther
for the first time
i understood why children cry
and beg for their favourite toys
not to be taken away

because darling
that's exactly how I feel
when i imagine
ever losing you
@5:57am
28/02/23
 66° 
Lostling
I love you
Perhaps one of the greatest tragedies
 54° 
Poetato
I'll enjoy these good moments
Quietly worrying about tomorrow
Quietly preparing myself
So if the pain finds its way back to me
I won't be completely broken.
 53° 
Thomas W Case
Hook him up to the machine.
Shock his brain into
mediocrity.
Death stalks him;
he is aware.
There is too much
flash in his eyes.
His brain needs a reboot;
he needs to forget,
like a goldfish, like
a monkey in the zoo.
Hook him up to the machine.
He is too sentimental.
Salmon swim in his blood;
he has a paisley heart,
and a tie-dye soul.
He can smell colors.
Hook him up to the machine.
He has Van Gogh eyes, and
a Bukowski gut; he walks
like he's lost in a maze;
hunchback sadness,
butcher knife nerves,
Hook him up to the machine.
He believes in love,
and has too much trust.
His vivid green memory
is a curse, we need to
crash it, **** the eternal spring.
Hook him up to
the machine.
My latest book, Sleep Always Calls, is available on Amazon. Here is a link to my YouTube channel, where I read my poetry.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozzFlYnbGZU&t=1s
L'année avait trois fois noué mon humble trame,
Et modelé ma forme en y broyant ses fleurs ,
Et trois fois de ma mère acquitté les douleurs,
Quand le Banc de la tienne éclata : ma jeune âme
Eut dès lors sa promise et l'attira toujours,
Toujours ; tant qu'à la fin elle entra dans mes jours.
Et lorsqu'à ton insu tu venais vers ma vie,
J'inventais par le monde un chemin jusqu'à toi ;
C'était **** ; mais l'étoile allait, cherchait pour moi,
Et me frayait la terre où tu m'avais suivie,
Ou tu me reconnus d'autre part ; oui, des cieux ;
Moi de même ; il restait tant de ciel dans tes jeux !

Mais le sais-tu ? trois fois le jour de la naissance
Baisa mon front limpide assoupi d'innocence,
Avant que ton étoile à toi, lente à venir,
Descendît marier notre double avenir.
Oh ! devions-nous ainsi naître absents de nous-mêmes !
Toi, tu ne le sais pas en ce moment ; tu m'aimes,
Je ne suis pas l'aînée. Encor vierge au bonheur,
J'avais un pur aimant pour attirer ton cœur ;
Car le mien, fleur tardive en soi-même exilée,
N'épanouit qu'à toi sa couronne voilée,
Cœur d'attente oppressé dans un tremblant séjour
Où ma mère enferma son nom de femme : Amour.

Comme le rossignol qui meurt de mélodie
Souffle sur son enfant sa tendre maladie,
Morte d'aimer, ma mère, à son regard d'adieu,
Me raconta son âme et me souffla son Dieu.
Triste de me quitter, cette mère charmante,
Me léguant à regret la flamme qui tourmente,
Jeune, à son jeune enfant tendit longtemps sa main,
Comme pour le sauver par le même chemin.
Et je restai longtemps, longtemps, sans la comprendre,
Et longtemps à pleurer son secret sans l'apprendre,
A pleurer de sa mort le mystère inconnu,
Le portant tout scellé dans mon cœur ingénu,
Ce cœur signé d'amour comme sa tendre proie,
Où pas un chant mortel n'éveillait une joie.
On eût dit, à sentir ses faibles battements,
Une montre cachée où s'arrêtait le temps ;
On eût dit qu'à plaisir il se retint de vivre.
Comme un enfant dormeur qui n'ouvre pas son livre,
Je ne voulais rien lire à mon sort, j'attendais ;
Et tous les jours levés sur moi, je les perdais.
Par ma ceinture noire à la terre arrêtée,
Ma mère était partie et tout m'avait quittée :
Le monde était trop grand, trop défait, trop désert ;
Une voix seule éteinte en changeait le concert :
Je voulais me sauver de ses dures contraintes,
J'avais peur de ses lois, de ses morts, de ses craintes,
Et ne sachant où fuir ses échos durs et froids,
Je me prenais tout haut à chanter mes effrois !

Mais quand tu dis : « Je viens ! » quelle cloche de fête
Fit bondir le sommeil attardé sur ma tête ;
Quelle rapide étreinte attacha notre sort,
Pour entre-ailer nos jours d'un fraternel essor !
Ma vie, elle avait froid, s'alluma dans la tienne,
Et ma vie a brillé, comme on voit au soleil
Se dresser une fleur sans que rien la soutienne,
Rien qu'un baiser de l'air, rien qu'un rayon vermeil...
Aussi, dès qu'en entier ton âme m'eut saisie,
Tu fus ma piété ! Mon ciel ! Ma poésie !
Aussi, sans te parler, je te nomme souvent
Mon frère devant Dieu ! Mon âme ! Ou mon enfant !
Tu ne sauras jamais, comme je sais moi-même,
A quelle profondeur je t'atteins et je t'aime !
Tu serais par la mort arraché de mes vœux,
Que pour te ressaisir mon âme aurait des yeux,
Des lueurs, des accents, des larmes, des prières,
Qui forceraient la mort à rouvrir tes paupières !
Je sais de quels frissons ta mère a dû frémir
Sur tes sommeils d'enfant : moi, je t'ai vu dormir :
Tous ses effrois charmants ont tremblé dans mon âme ;
Tu dis vrai, tu dis vrai ; je ne suis qu'une femme ;
Je ne sais qu'inventer pour te faire un bonheur ;
Une surprise à voir s'émerveiller ton cœur !

Toi, ne sois pas jaloux ! Quand tu me vois penchée,
Quand tu me vois me taire, et te craindre et souffrir,
C'est que l'amour m'accable. Oh ! Si j'en dois mourir,
Attends : je veux savoir si, quand tu m'as cherchée,
Tu t'es dit : « Voici l'âme où j'attache mon sort
Et que j'épouserai dans la vie ou la mort. »
Oh ! Je veux le savoir. Oh ! L'as-tu dit ? ... pardonne !
On est étrange, on veut échanger ce qu'on donne.
Ainsi, pour m'acquitter de ton regard à toi,
Je voudrais être un monde et te dire : « Prends-moi ! »
Née avant toi... douleur ! Tu le verrais peut-être,
Si je vivais trop ****. Ne le fais point paraître,
Ne dis pas que l'amour sait compter, trompe-moi :
Je m'en ressouviendrai pour mourir avant toi !
 51° 
Babe A
Lying beside, naked in bed:
We play to win, level off dead.
(Words travel slowly through one’s head.)

Like flowers bloom, all chasing well;
growing in the middle of hell.
Lying beside, naked in bed.

the more i see, the less i feel

Come your way, drag along my dear.
(Words travel slowly through ones head.)

“Shower me with kindness,” she said,

while i whisper doubts into your ear:

Lying beside, naked in bed.

Like viper in a velvet vail,
no more goodbyes, striking its tail.
(Words travel slowly through one’s head.)

Tasting his prey: sour and wet.

“You’re the trouble I’m in,” she said.

Lying beside, naked in bed.

(Words travel slowly through one’s head.)
 50° 
Stardust
When patterns repeat, year after year,  
And threaten you at your most pivotal hour.
It feels like a checkmate.
 49° 
David P Carroll
Muddy Run Lake
A mirror of sky nature's allure and little
Birds soar above on wings of grace and
Little children play In this lovely place
And while fish beneath in secret glide
In this tranquil world they dart and hide

And boats glide softly and trees blow gently
And the colourful butterflies flutter in the moring sunlight and it's a beautiful sight
And Muddy Run Lake a canvas so beautiful And so wide.
Muddy Run Lake
Reservoir in Pennsylvania.
 45° 
Jimmy silker
People talk of
Comparing apples to oranges
Like its some pointless exercise
But Apples are boss
And oranges ****
I wouldn't tell you any lies.
 44° 
F T Scorza
The past is an illusion of the memory
Don’t believe in a history
That never was

The present is a creation of the mind
Your poor senses make you blind
To what really is

The future is only speculation
Figure of your imagination
It will never be

Your failed reason
Invents every season
And chooses time instead of truth
 43° 
CallMeVenus
do you still dress up your sadness
or have you seated it in the corner table
to eat with the children?
funny thing about tables and tears is
they get absorbed into the wood
because no one is going to notice the spill
in time to wipe you up.
it’ll just be an unsightly mark
where the wood swells with your sadness.

long gone are the insects
you forgave my dear
don't rent your heart out
to too many ghosts.
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