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Earth in iniquity overall clad,
in a stained satin of sin:
loose garment
of a loose life.

Heart's maidenhead in twain was torn,
in Eden,
by Satan's scissors of lies
and wiles,
so crimson did stain
the purest soul
with red spots.

Gold embroidery of righteousness,
silver stitches of sanctity
have all been marred
by Lucifer's tailor-made sophistry.

Wherefore bespoke beauty
and dignity fell
off Adam's body,
and his nakedness seen.

Calvary's grace, the bleach,
the remover of blemishes great,
doth make darkest heart
than cotton to be whiter,
dressing man up again to the nines
with heaven's glory nice.
I would suggest
Staring blankly at the wall
Matching socks or playing cards
(Something like that)
Something important
Until I'm gone

I would suggest
Turning your heart over and over like a turkey on a rotisserie for three days
Until it's burnt all the way through and the nerve endings are too charred to feel anything for me anymore

I would suggest knitting earmuffs for the antennae of your tv
Because it gets cold at night
And I want you to get reception to your favorite Portuguese children shows
Maybe I'm a saint for wanting you to be happy
Maybe I'm a martyr for wanting to be the one that makes you happy
I don't think happiness and my soul can co-exist in your heart

I was made for something a little bit darker than the stars of your eyes
I think that much was proven when I fell from grace into the hell-scarred arms of another
I am a creature of darkness

Because you are light
And I have been driven away
I find myself sidewalking everything
So Silverstein was lucky to know where it ends
Will I ever be privileged to discover such a thing?
Too many trivial needs distract from its pursuit
But how am I to know?
When it's time, I only cared for my toys
The way the sheeple only care for their handouts
Do tell; if the Pentagon lays off 800,000 people
Will we know they're telling the truth about unemployment
When their words flow between mouthfuls
Of stolen fruit and gold
At the table of the elite
So tell me, who is John Galt?
I sit at a table with a mind that knows how to think for himself
And can't help but think this is the purest form of elitism:
Until at last the time has come
For the imminent end of all serfdom
Brought by the brawn of the brainy
How are we to keep our heads when the others ***** us over
Take our heads clean off to see the contents
Only the strongest can withstand the attempts to skew ideas
Upon who's minds the lying flies
Forced off by intellect
The simple last defender of God and liberty
Big Brother would have us not discuss such things
At times, I feel that we are the last in the world
So, tell me- if this paper is the last in the world, have we written something significant?
I've no doubt the world will see
The mistakes of society
Time then, will bring forth a new renaissance, with us as creators
And they, as the readers of some disconnected thoughts
Written at a time when the end of a page was a good stopping point for poetry, but not for the limit of government infringement on personal freedom.
My friend and I passed a paper back and forth across a table at Rumbi Island Grill; we each wrote three lines at a time and only let the other person see the last line.  This is the poem that came out of it.
Dusk

The flowers unfurl their petals
Towards the dark Night sky
The roses smile up at the Moon
Which shines happily upon the sleeping world

The breezes blow the muslin curtains
Which hang at my open bedroom window
And the shadows of the Moon
Flicker across my room, the floor, and me

The sounds of Night come softly
Through my window and hush me
To sleep like a lullaby of music
Which sends me into a world of dreams

And such is the enchanting Night
With it's glorious Moon
Which watches over all
While they sleep at Night


Dawn

Sun rays come dancing through my room
And greet me with brightness and joy
And the smell of flowers
Come blowing through my bedroom on the breeze

The sky is a painting of beauty
And of colour
Pastel clouds of pink float through the
Blue watercolour sky

And the song of birds wake the
Sleepy world with an anthem of praise
And of life and sunshine
Such beauty is beyond my words

Silhouettes of pine trees and furrs
With the back ground of God's sunrise
Make such a lovely picture of too much beauty. . .
That would take such a long time to describe
With pen, ink and paper while relaxing in the caressing breeze


~Hilda~
.



I've loved you in secret
since those first
unspoken
words


<3
Amazing how poetry can do this
Raw
Holding a red, flowing scarf
                                    on a day of all days
                when leaves dance in circles
                in corners tuckered away.

Enchanting weather today
               with a gathering protest of winds
                against an acrylic sky, opaque blue
                                    grasping to steal sway a streak of red.

Laughter stumbles over and down
                on a night of lonely nights
                to be had over lost scarves
                                trickled away by cloy, boiling bathwater.

Phase in blackout, flickering lamp lights
               where past looks back on future
               and memories shift like the earth below
                                                       in constant motion


                                                        ­                                                  she cries
                                                           ­                                                           


   ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                  *help me.
© copy right protected
Arrogance of autumn winds,
mighty trees shake in fear,
on the hillside, wind's playground,
dead leaves are given
a new lease of life,
like a flock of tired birds,
they fly in a pathetic mirth induced,
downwards to the valley,
to their final, certain, death and decay.

The old horse, abandoned
looks on, with faint glow of hope,
lighting its eyes.The evening light,
fades slowly on its face,
Darkness reigns.

This hill station, alive only in summer,
looks desolate.Totally abandoned
tragic in its isolation after palmy days.
The visitors have gone down.
past all 33 hairpin bends,
to the plains, anticipating
a long  bitter winter.

The old race horse,
looks like the quintessence  of the gloom,
for a week stands there unmoving.
The valley slopes
in to a ground, near the market.
Cricket matches that electrified crowds,
stopped long before.
The racecourse is so still
like a house, death has taken over.
The crowd dissipated hurriedly
like tired migratory birds.

Once a cynosure, the race horse,
old, weak and abandoned
feels the onset of the worst winter
in his old, tired bones.
The chill spreads
from the hoofs upwards,

Buzzing of bees,
nowhere to be seen,
is incessant in its ears.
Its eyes don't see light anymore,
A winter with a dark message,
soon would arrive,
he waits, shivering, mute.
I don't really know what to write anymore
I've got bits and bobs and puzzling pieces of poems
Floating through my mind
But I can't put them to paper
I know what to say and how and why
But cannot
I could write about love and life,
But I'm tired of that
I can write about butterflies and doodles of
Flying cheesy donuts or a land whale
But nope. That's too boring for me for now
Lethargy and apathy are taking over for now
So my inspiration tree is a little wilted.
So here's to another lack-of-inspiration poem
And another ode to boredom.
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