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  Aug 17 Samara
André Morrison
When the sun is down
The moon comes around to try & hug her
Night & day are lovers
Forever chasing each other
An endless endeavour like no other
They are meant for one another
Hiding their feelings behind the Earth's cover
During dusk & dawn, they blend their colours
It's their love they utter
The moon adores the sun more during summer
In awe of her in her element
Surrounded by stars, he stays celibate
Astounded by her being above par
Far above, yet still with benevolence
No one comes close, they're irrelevant
Shines so bright, she must be heaven sent
Samara May 7
strands of imperfect love
stretched long to reveal array of colors.
buds bloom through amongst their dead,
remains of a rainbow just out of reach
grand evolution playing the part
passing through time for the art
that outlives us.

the water that surrounds us and becomes
fills our lungs with its weight
even so, air escapes as we exhale
and lifts protected in itself rising
as proof another world exists beyond.

frictionless yet not a vacuum
we become what we consume
but in a water-filled room
what else can we assume
but to fear the unknown
hoping answers reveal after long we've grown?

shine the light of awareness
spotlit with intention upon darkness that shrouds us.
justice is the seed that grows
so too are we who reap and become what we sow.
the might of the machine is matched by light green
that serves not to deprive but to live and be free.

helical thread traversing on the back of time
spiraling through matter to create indifference
satiating the thirst of balance
that will be all ours in due course.

please set me free from the shackles
of this pig-headed society.
free will comes at a cost
to look in the face of what can be lost,
disregarding through life times
surely coming home
to the eternal sunshine.
Samara May 7

fan the flame
wick to wildfire
all the blame
to unjust liars
- - -
clinging to comforts-
my thoughts are shaped like death:
shortness of breath,
bringing about sudden sedation;
abrupt cessation.
vanishing back into the collective,
never knowing what it is to live.

reminiscent of the baleful days:
when the plagues sweep,
the emperor sleeps
on the bed of providence-
& there they lay, collecting dust.
- - -
clearing in the sky,
do you ever wonder why
full moon stagnancy
conceals the throbbing moonlit scene?
when can we reemerge from underneath
this adamant cloud cover?
while
waiting for the birth
of the mane in the manger
to blaze the way on earth
and make kin of all strangers.
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