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Feb 2012 · 1.6k
Imperative, Pt. 2
Riq Schwartz Feb 2012
Your mind sings the verses
you write in your spiral,
but nobody hears them,
uplifting or viral,
before you start singing
to somebody near you.
And so you write verses
how no one can hear you.
Feb 2012 · 1.3k
Good Morning, Sweetheart
Riq Schwartz Feb 2012
colours sing their a capella hymn
lighter tones emitted from your skin
brush the light aside as morning's rise
shows us something glowing from within
Feb 2012 · 530
Sonnet 2.3
Riq Schwartz Feb 2012
Show me the man who dreams his faerie tale,
who gives it breath and depth, who sings it in,
and who can animate these without fail;
who robes the mind and gives the bones their skin.
Give me the chance to ask him how he lives
amidst the mortal memories of loss,
and what about his love of living gives
his mind resolve that death cannot accost.
And let me tell him, then, that when he dreams,
a thousand others pale against its light,
because, when everything is at it seems,
we use his champions to slay our blight.
Without a mind as his to give us wings,
we might forever pray for simple things.
Feb 2012 · 499
Sonnet 2.2
Riq Schwartz Feb 2012
There is a beauty in my life like air--
that is she follows me and fills me up,
and when my lungs in joyous mirth erupt,
it is by her my song is even there.
And should the gathered throngs around me stare,
or try to cease my song or interrupt
the rhythms of my heart, and so corrupt
the flowing of my verses, then beware.
The tumults of a love perceived too soft
may soon upset the sails of those too near;
these very winds hold eagles' wings aloft,
cause waves to break, and on a lesser tone
may carry whispers, tho it be a mere
few inches, saying "you are not alone."
Feb 2012 · 499
Sonnet 2.1
Riq Schwartz Feb 2012
I would distain to be a character
in one or many of the classic acts
wherein I’d sacrifice myself if e'er
I might find presence only in the past.
There all would look at me and wonder how
an artist with such skill could sculpt me so.
And in this irony, as 'tis called now,
still those who "know" me best, me hardly know!
I would distain to live by others words,
each hanging my intentions to their own.
While screenplays dare not script the flight of birds,
instead, expect love, ne'er having been grown.
What I would rather do had I not been
so tightly reined by such a sharpened pen?

— The End —