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Amela Kovacevic Nov 2018
Tonight,
I am adorned in baby blue lace.
I have boundaries nevertheless.
Amela Kovacevic Nov 2018
My skin was once a muted gold
from years of
lying in fields of
welcoming poppy.
I aged without aging and
discovered foreign land without conquest.
My face, then, grew as old
as Sumerian celebrations of health,
when the joy plant was sacred
in its use for sedation.
I slept without sleeping and
dreamed of eventual rest.
My bones, then, began to point to
a future unimagined.
I whittled them in winter and
did nothing more.
My insides, then, began to bleed and
I continued to rot
for the sake of rotting.
Listen to your liver when
she rejects what you could not.
Amela Kovacevic Oct 2018
I favor not the days of months of
midsummer.
Then came the warmth of yours and of
solstice slumber
far and long enough to portray
a sort of ache I have ached
to confront like David.

Goliath, having finally fallen in fall
years ago
left standing merely a memory and
narrative which all have known
to harbor hardly any truth
nor any woe
but instead a poisoned crown of thorns
upon my head.

“Comatose”, cries Moses
along with his double wives
each of whom rinse my feet with blood
to merely watch them dry
and proclaim we’ve united.

“Go on, then, God”, they chant three times
and grasp my hands
and guide my eyes
into the warmth of yours and of
solstice slumber
far and long enough to decay
a sort of ache I have ached
to confront like David.
Amela Kovacevic Jul 2018
With Statius I will spend
400 years whispering
accompanied by 500 more
before we might venture
to that shining shore
of Paradise.
Would it have been worth it,
after all,
after the wealth,
the races,
after the fiery sea,
among some whispers between you and me,
would it have been worthwhile
to have prayed for 900 years
for sin as vile as
Paris' bow and arrow?
I know only
what you know,
save for the certain facade
we tread now.
  Jun 2018 Amela Kovacevic
Irina BBota
the taste of the wind
reminds me of the sea breeze
inside of Eden
Amela Kovacevic Jun 2018
I miss you, Cincinnatus C.
How long were our days of captivity
for knowing that we
know not.
Our part was red and
loud and
hot,
and I can now only wait for
the reign of terror to end
me.
Title credit: Vladimir Nabokov, 1935.
  Jun 2018 Amela Kovacevic
Kara Jean
You're sickening, kisses like  cyanide

I hide, from a world guesstimating

A potentional of none

The different is done

Procrastination is fun

Imagination is hung

Ticky tack in our lack, it's to late to go back

Steadily we stand, no need to navigate

I won't hesitate

The mundane has won
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