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“Once more unto the breach,” echoes from within.

Cast away your anxious thoughts, don’t let negativity breed within your skin

Only positivity from here on out, a new strategy for an old plan

You are the decider of your future, you are the eye of the beholder, will this break you or make you?

Only you will tell, though you are a quiet soul

Soak up the rays of the sun

Let the light fuel you in the hardest times

Remember what it feels like

For you are the quiet warrior, blood of your demons stains your sword

A savage for the good of all

Ghosts of the past invade gentle nightfall

Remember how you conquered, never faltered, and smile

The past can only persuade you to try harder, your demons are only your fodder

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” gently slips through your lips

Your next war draws nigh; Blood drips from fingertips
Nick Moore Jun 28
Like a hat,
That never had a head,
I lay upon a double bed.

A melancholy feeling of loss,
We are the riddles
That we came across.
A Hall of Mirrors
ill conceived
With dark reflections
to deceive
From front or back
and side to side
Each look impounds
what time proscribes

Were you looking in
or looking out
When Alice voiced
her final shout
A dozen clonings
a thousand views
The glass your jailer
— in silver hues

(Dreamsleep: June, 2025)
Nick Moore Jun 22
It took a beard
Of bees,
To bring me
On my knees

Many stings,
To hear the
Bells ring

The honey of love
To soothe
The pain.
Nick Moore Jun 10
When Bob Dylan wrote,
Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to
Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle mornin' I'll come followin' you.
If he'd had a mobile phone back then,
Most likely not noted the tambourine man,
Never mind following him.
Driven by red
riding hood,
wheels of eternity run
hot and cold
along the tracks
in her arm.

Around the bend
there are jigsaw
pieces of a puzzle,
scattered as destinations
once towns and villages,
now fodder for
the migrant beginner.

According to fable,
there's a wolf at the door,
home is no longer
a worthwhile rendezvous,
but a trap of origin.

Misery is a train ride,
a stray fantasy,
lingering in the wilderness
of her fractured mind.

She sells her gold bracelets,
for she needs
the dark coal,
she seeks
its deep freeze.

She can then
be many things
along the journey,
just never
a connection,
never a permanent signal.
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