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I'm a dweller on the threshold
And I'm waiting at the door
And I'm standing in the darkness
I don't want to wait no more

I have seen without perceiving
I have been another man
Let me pierce the realm of glamour
So I know just what I am

I'm a dweller on the threshold
And I'm waiting at the door
And I'm standing in the darkness
I don't want to wait no more

Feel the angel of the present
In the mighty crystal fire
Lift me up consume my darkness
Let me travel even higher

I'm a dweller on the threshold
As I cross the burning ground
Let me go down to the water
Watch the great illusion drown

I'm a dweller on the threshold
And I'm waiting at the door
And I'm standing in the darkness
I don't want to wait no more

I'm gonna turn and face the music
The music of the spheres
Lift me up consume my darkness
When the midnight disappears

I will walk out of the darkness
And I'll walk into the light
And I'll sing the song of ages
And the dawn will end the night

I'm a dweller on the threshold
And I'm waiting at the door
And I'm standing in the darkness
I don't want to wait no more

I'm a dweller on the threshold
And I cross some burning ground
And I'll go down to the water
Let the great illusion drown

I'm a dweller on the threshold
And I'm waiting at the door
And I'm standing in the darkness
I don't want to wait no more

I'm a dweller on the threshold
Dweller on the threshold
I'm a dweller on the threshold
I'm a dweller on the threshold*



Listen to Van Morrison's "Dweller On The Threshold" at this link...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Ln-H2HV6o0
...better yet...truly own his spiritual music in every way...
For attractive lips, speak words of kindness.

For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people.

For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry.

For beautiful hair, let a child run his or her fingers through it once a day.

For poise, walk with the knowledge that you never walk alone.
People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed and redeemed; never throw out anyone.

Remember, if you ever need a helping hand, you'll find one at the end of each of your arms.

As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.

The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure she carries, or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman must be seen from in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.

The beauty of a woman is not in a ****** mole, but the true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It is the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows, and the beauty of a woman with passing years only grows!
This poem was written by the late American educator-humorist Sam Levinson for his grandchild. It also happened to be one of Audrey Hepburn's favorite poems. She used it on occasion when she was asked for beauty tips.
Body language, it must be her body language
I catch myself staring at her confidence, sorry girl if I can't explain this
You see your aura shows gold and your passion shines bright
Your heart beats fast because of your sleepless, nervous nights
Of the thought that a man may actually know how to treat ya, greet ya, and hell maybe show honest affection
He may actually just wanna lay with you and hear you speak without any degrating corrections
You're a star. Beyond that in this abstract world where you and I are
As we lay ontop of the car and I point out the Little Dipper you show me the idea of comfortable love by tomorrow
Midnight kisses, sensation from my misses
It's the opportunities in life's that we should cherish that's my mission
Tear drops coming from a broken mask as we bash and I pour my stubborn heart into her empty glass
To find something that can forever last
No matter what the sceptics say
Girl, I don't listen to chatters I listen to only what my mind will say.
Follow me. I wanna guide you. I wanna show you. I know I didn't allow myself to feel the grasps of a good woman
But I held on
**I never released. I believe in the chance of us...can you believe in the idea of me?
Script
Roses, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
  But in their hue;
Maiden pinks, of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
  And sweet thyme true;

Primrose, firstborn child of Ver;
Merry springtime’s harbinger,
  With her bells dim;
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
  Larks’-heels trim;

All dear Nature’s children sweet
Lie ‘fore bride and bridegroom’s feet,
  Blessing their sense!
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair,
  Be absent hence!

The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough ****,
  Nor chattering pye,
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
  But from it fly!
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
    So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
    So true a fool is love that in your will,
    Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
long before the tides came in
and swept away our crippled romance;
long before the sun
burned up the technicolor veil on our monochrome love;
long before the heavens shook so hard
that the stars in our eyes had no choice but to fall back to the earth,
i believe we might've had something real.

and i say "might" because,
as you know,
i hate saying things with certainty.
too often,
it just ends in disappointment.

so yes,
i believe we might've had something real because,
despite all of the warning signs
forecasting our untimely demise,
you never once called me on the phone without a voice full of hope.

despite all of the monsters dragging us down
(you know the ones;
they'd hide behind my eyes
and in the corner of your brain),
you never once looked at me without a gaze of euphoria.

(i'm not a drug, though, and perhaps i should've realized that a bit sooner. maybe i could have left the battlefield without tripping over so many corpses).

to this day,
i don't really know what you saw in me
(or if you saw anything at all).
all i know is that whatever blissful light floated in the empty space between us
was bound to become corrupted by darkness,
even from the start.

still,
i stayed.
i let you feed me adoration in heavy spoonfuls,
as though i was the last lively flower in a barren field,
and you the lucky honeybee.

(i forgot, however, about the sting).

i was tired,
but i could see in your face that you never would be.

(i could also see what you'd become were i to leave -- an empty, sad shadow. nothing but carrion in a world of vultures).

i want you to know that,
at times,
i did love you.
on some days, i'd see your face and my aching heart would spring to life.
on some days, i thought i might actually be happy spending an eternity with you.

(perhaps, in a sense, i did. maybe ours was just an eternity shorter than most).

sometimes i regret not trying harder.
not for my sake, but for yours.
there are times when i try to convince myself
that you're doing just fine on your own,
that you don't need me,
that you found bigger, brighter flowers
in a field not so barren.

but then i remember the look in your eyes
on that gray afternoon in september
when you saw me packing my things
and it hit you,
like an oncoming train,
that i was leaving.

(i imagine that we both looked very much like ghosts that day,
drained of all the life once inside us).

i remember how,
for a while,
you didn't speak,
too choked up by tears.

(when you finally did say something, the voice wasn't yours. it was small and defeated and terribly confused).

i remember seeing the monsters take over again,
viciously seizing control in a manner very similar to how i imagine they had before we met.

and now, whenever i find myself thinking about you,
the first thought is always the same.

i wonder if, were i to see you walking down the street, i would recognize you, or if maybe the monsters have already made you into something else -- a man unrecognizable.

so i try not to think about you.
not too much, anyway.

every now and then, though,
your memory creeps in,
right behind my eyes,
where my monsters used to be.

and i can't help but imagine that when you think of me,
my memory climbs out from the corner of your brain,
where your monsters were.

i realize now, with certainty, that what we had was real.

but just because something is real doesn't mean it's beautiful.

(a.m.)
hi, i haven't written in a while, so here's a poem. it isn't a personal poem; it's written from the POV of a woman who was in an unhappy relationship and is inspired by a short story i recently read. so yeah, hope you guys like it
’Twas noontide of summer,
  And midtime of night,
And stars, in their orbits,
  Shone pale, through the light
Of the brighter, cold moon.
  ’Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
  Her beam on the waves.

  I gazed awhile
  On her cold smile;
Too cold—too cold for me—
  There passed, as a shroud,
  A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
  Proud Evening Star,
  In thy glory afar
And dearer thy beam shall be;
  For joy to my heart
  Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
  And more I admire
  Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time,

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
And tonight I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have a power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And comes like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
The sun sinks to bring in the dark
So tell me
Why is it so wrong for me to sink,
To bring in the dark?

Sometimes the sky cries for no reason
But when I do the same, "I'm
depressed"
Some stars explode,
Just to be **reborn again
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