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I got lost at bay and dropped my spark
I swore midday
My world turned dark.

Don't know which way my world is headed
Perhaps a doomsday was fated.

I can't see nor can I move
And I stopped having anything to prove.

Frozen at the beach I cried
I now know, my world has died.
If longings were a person,
Would he be sitting on a bench?
Thinking deeply—
A hand on his chin.
Snared by his own thoughts.
Troubled by a haunted reverie of you
Colours in his mind have turned to drought.

Or would it be a guy on a social app.
Adrift in never-ending
scrolling and swipes.
Posting — reposting the images
Of his own unrest.
Is it an act—unwise?

Someone — stale.
Travelling on a metro rail.
Peering out of the window.
Gazing at the moving greenery.
With slight tears in his eyes.
A person secluded—
in this crowded scenery.

Or will it be that guy
Sitting in a coffee shop?
Reading a book
With a daunting smile.
What thoughts would this longing have?
That it made him look up.
And see the world above those pages.
The world available yet unnoticed.
With time passing by.

Or would he be that person
Strumming high musical notes
Or an artist painting
some incomplete strokes.
Imagining and designing
The shapes of longing.

Or may be a scribbler like me.
Sitting on a bench.
Mingling some letters—
Weaving a poem -long.
Not all minds burn with equal flame,  
Some flicker gently, some boldly claim  
The heights of thought, few dare climb
Where intellect dances beyond time.

IQ may measure, but cannot define  
The soul’s deep hunger for the sign,  
For far-sighted eyes that pierce the veil,  
And trace the truth where others fail.

Some walk the path with books in hand,  
Researching stars, or grains of sand.  
While others rest in borrowed light,  
Afraid to ask if wrong is right.

To accept the truth, what sacred art!  
It asks not brilliance, but the heart.  
Yet still, the minds diverge and part,  
Some seek the whole, some just a part.

So let's dare honor each unique flame,  
Though not all burn with equal name.  
For wisdom’s fire, both fierce and mild,  
May yet awaken the sleeping child.
**
Jiri, Dolakha
10 Aug 2025
Power of Intellectual is unequal. Don't expect from Cheap people.
<>
"for the vanity of man is as porous as dust...and, in their supreme wisdom, because of this failing, the Gods have decreed, that mankind deserveth no more, no less than his designated allotment of being.
And such it shall be."
writ by
The Marshal Gebbie
June 2023
<>
rise up, rise up,
son up, sun up!
see for yourself a newly birthing day,
the early rays licking the unlocking of a grinning earth's face,
humbling humans and their perpetuity e~mo/notions of eternity.
how are the daily~we, to measure ourselves, versus our ancestry,
by whom shall we~be set forth as examples to our posterity
what tools we fools think, we possess, an etch~a~sketch,
to imprint of who we are,
what we were, and
who we might become, and
be  beauty becoming,
marking our time with ensigns of
words of integers in some giant network
authored, offered, up unashamedly

and even though the sun
does not always greet & meet
the discombobulated human riffraff
every diurnal,
daily identical,
when it shines,
it shines for us all
in an equality of glorious,
it shines upon us all in equality,
it, great equalizer, who restores and
replenishes our colored planets blue green,
a methodology of air, soil and water interactively,
for we are all chemicals, forever effervescent rebirthing

and so it goes.
our cells, are a
rare earth depository,
we plant ourselves
eternally, fed by
foodstuffs of
our ancestors cells,
their brewed ***** dust,
and thus each of us singly
is thus remembered, reconstructed
as are we, both, individually and collectively,
from dust we are, to dust we return, this matériel future prepped


postscript

We Hebrews have a knowingly foolish,
a most beauteous custom, gifted to us by
our forefather Jacob, who when espying a
solitary grave by the road, a nameless marker of
piled-on stones, marking an unknown person last remains,
added one more, add-on to ensure this nameless one yet remembered,
so we too do not pass by without adding a stone, a tiny pebble,
we encumbered, to solidify, perpetuate, renew, ever sustaining,
cannot pass by without adding another rock,
another pebble, that time will surely shift,
but as long we follow this custom,
spiting time's erosive nature and until today,
yet the same, for at a cemetery, every grave,
all marker, ego big, humbled small, topped,
festooned, with small stones, we top them
signaling that this, very spot here, here!
for now, until for ever
shall never
be forgot

<.
and so this peculiar, deteriorating canister places
one more smoothed handy beach pebble, upon
this, his unmarked resting spot
nml
<>
Monday morning
7:10am
an august, August dream day
specified as the 11th day of this
eighth month in one particular
calendric methodology
and as the
17th of Av 5785
in his ancestral calendar
sJews place stones on grave markers as a long-standing tradition symbolizing remembrance and respect for the deceased. It's a way to show that the person hasn't been forgotten and that someone has visited their final resting place. Unlike flowers, which are temporary, stones are seen as enduring, representing the everlasting nature of memory
Historical Roots:
The practice may have roots in ancient times when graves were marked with piles of stones
4:21am
Tue
Aug 12

<*>

restless is the thinking brain,
rapid repeated beating
from an overheating sun
in a room of full-on dark,

difficult to weep,
harder to silent breathe,
one listens to his arrhythmic heart,
sending out messages incessantly & incomplete

every single sin ever committed
comes in with cheery face,
a greeting of, still here!
in this ,
our temporary final resting place

finish us off by completion,
makes us full of restitution,
by seeing to our undoing,
revolving, unending, the finally of sufficiently

those old curses
we can only face
by turning our faces away,
drop in, like best friends, come to sunrise visit

though dawn is yet eons of minutes far away,
though relief can never be fully attained,
though "though' is the first ****** word of excusal,
though betrayal is always next, the secondarily, refusal,

there is never a dot of period,
only a comma of pause, because,
there is no ending in completion
only in forgiving by your harshest critic,

yourself, yourself, our selving,
this unsolvable function of forgiveness upon this,
this, the two-days of Tuesday,
to day
two partings of one day ~ the night and the day

f:
In various contexts, "f" can represent several different things. Most commonly, it refers to the letter in the English alphabet, representing the voiceless labiodental fricative sound /f/. In mathematics, "f" often denotes a function, especially when used as f(x), which represents the output of a function for a given input x. Additionally, "f" can stand for force in physics or frequency in other scientific fields. It can also be a written abbreviation for various words starting with "f". Furthermore, in musical notation, "f" (or "forte") indicates a loud dynamic.
What could be a better feeling than the need to eat, though everything is tasteless until you try blueberry and berry ice cream at the girl’s house; you think maybe you won’t leave and instead sit on her couch every day, eating this wonder slowly…

On this leather couch you feel such comfort that you want to stay; you want to tell the girl, “You must be a witch,” and at the same time take her onto your lap so you do; the touch of her body scares you at first until you feel her soft breast in your hand, “You surprised me,” you think.

You might believe in Shakespeare’s deadly love, you might fall in love with this long-haired creature. You still taste that berry flavor in your mouth, and after leaving the house you buy an unhealthy Red Bull; you remember your grandfather saying it’s better to drink wine with him, and you laugh recalling how she had stumbled into the bathtub naked and drunk…

Maybe you could feel love, too.
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