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The sheathing of this bulb
has broken, filled with scratches
Although it still shines bright

Hub of its joy: serving me

It has seen all of my doodles
but gave away nothing

My infant poems often think
that its light is their mother

My sweat, my tears, my nightmares
are its insignia, its tatoo

It imputes its capability
of breathing to me
but I am the apprentice here
influenced by wabi-sabi philosophy
My monastery is nothing
but crimson dusk
poured inside the veins
of this grove

Love to drink the liquid
from the evening's injection

My body's organs to be dried
with purple blood
 May 2019 n-khrennikov
Tryst
A lake as still as still — a cloudless sky —
A bird-less forest — silent as the page,
That monk-like sits reflecting for an age
On pious deeds exalted upon high,
The page gilded in wisdom, lauded by
Its maker’s peers, wherein is set the stage
For Nature’s bountied beauty — I give homage
Unto its gifted craftsman, one that I
Have oft’ with envious eyes admired afar,
And matchless to his art, have grasped for skill
Far far above my grade — From him to me
Has come a gift as bright as Keats' Bright Star —
        Unto thy lake, may this stone rend the still,
        And loose thy songbird skywards, Timothy.
To one who inspires us all, in the hope this may inspire thee.
 Apr 2019 n-khrennikov
sajjad ali
she was the black widow
he was the god of flies
he was in her web
in her mind
his wings plucked off
his hands and feet tied
They looked at each others Eyes,...
*It was Love at first sight
 Mar 2019 n-khrennikov
Amy Leigh
the dark is mysterious
I fell fast
the way the depth of his soul
danced in his eyes
like firelight
I was drawn to the shadows
doing tango on the walls
around my desperate, desolate heart

He was daring
I dabbled in the presence of
darkness
I liked being daunted
which was honestly, surprising
at first.


© A. Leigh
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