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lirau Nov 2019
a crunchy-looking evergreen
glitters beyond the buttery sun
melting onto dense white halls,
an angel’s resting place

my breath melds with the clouds
together we drift silently
in these times,
punctuated by the early sunset
lirau Aug 2019
How do we know
goodbyes are impermanent?
Is it because inherently
Things never last
Such as the self?

I gave a bit of my body to everyone
Handed the pieces away
one by one like pills
so I don't have to say goodbye anymore
Well now,
I have returned
and I want those pills back
just felt like posting some thoughts today about the "hiatus" state
lirau Jul 2018
The dark reflects off the mirrors
A long t-shirt fondly used to cover my mornings
Fell for what sought me

With ferocious caresses
I am a carcass thrown to a starving lion.
But I'm still breathing
Against the shoulders above me
In return

He prowls
The rainforest path of clothing,
Tugging the shirt back over my head.
written in a starbucks while staring at my friend
edited Aug 12
lirau Jul 2018
Icons on a virtual screen
Tinny music for your ears
A row of keys
Linear time and
not so linear words

versus

A quill and ink
Bright dangerous oil lamp
Parchment paper
Musty like my grandmother,
Cradling the words in your mouth
lirau Jul 2018
gasping, panting,
the wind penetrating my pores.
eyes watering
I dash through the morning sun
a black blur,
free and wild as a sunspot

at ten past ten
peeking past my curtains I see
a dim blanket covering the sky
lirau Feb 2018
everyone's bouquets wilt a little today.

my stranger was slipped a note
dutifully bundled and hand-delivered
to the opposite side of the hallway
am i a hipster for sending out a valentine on Feb 15th?
  Jan 2018 lirau
Sylvia Plath
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks --
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.
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