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Kristen Falzon Apr 2013
I wish I could say,
“Let’s meet up again later in life,
not right now.”

I’m so happy to hear from you,
really, I am,
but I don’t have room for you.

I just don’t have the time.
This is hard for me, please
don’t resent me

I’m sorry for letting you go.
I feel fate pounding on my door -
We almost feel inevitable.

But you’re better off without me right now,
I promise.
Strangers acquaint, announcing particularities.
Thrills run across hungry nerves;
pleasure mounts in rising expectations:
First ruminating, next devouring,
then coalescing into one complete whole.

Gently the wintry chill advances
imperceptible to unschooled senses.
Mirages of fullness fade while realization grows.

Ah, the tender vulnerability of intense gratification.
Discovery of naivety’s betrayal is complete
in the consumption of perfected death.

(Cold as mirrored glass, rebounding time,
numbing fire.) An embodiment of suffocating pain,
The paroxysm climaxes... waiting for release.

(Stretched, drained, quietly entertaining sympathy.)
This sultry expansion - extended abeyance of joy -
turns knowledge of fulfillment into hope that
blends with the waters of insecurity.

(Moments of compression, burning sickness
intensifying with each presentation,
development of indeterminate expectations,
vacillation between stimulating passion and alarm.)

A formidable moment charges toward the funambulist.
Balance seems impossibly demanding.

Abruptly the event ends, time stops, breathing ceases …

        The babe is held in loving arms -
        forgotten pain, dissolving woe.
        Her tender grace, alluring charms
        beget a great, supernal flow.

Kerry Ann Herrmann
SR Nirmal Kumar Nov 2018
Funambulist
Walks barefoot
Crow on a live wire
Aditya Roy Nov 2018
The guide
Kept me in the tracks
Of my dreams
Then I realized nightmares
Bring guides
Dreamier than
A sleeping terror
Bombs bolting
Around an
Avidly
Scary ghost story
Called life
I hid from the canonical
Influence
Of sin
Sin is dark and
A sip of the red wine
Jesus's bloodless life
Darker than rituals
Brighter than the
Faithfully ignorant
A funambulist falls
Whilst
Keeping destiny in check
Vision
Is the
Sold out
Inventory of the
Old
And new
Aditya Roy Aug 2019
You can handle your music better than your fumes
Fury of guitars, and sopranos better than your human
Humean passion Lemmon calls you out of the some
Like it hot as a wire, to be continued
Broken poetry might be a Luddite
Crashin gon the bed or the funambulist
Of apartment fringes, and the crescent crazed steering little
Lintels of the elementary of the crowd, among the militant
Literary of the eyes that see-through in the clashes among the bright guns
Son of the Brixton feud
Pritchard of the meritorious crowd
I band with their hands
I lend cuticles as I crush my body to write these, free light in your darkest meanest face that sheds light how it is logically demented
Pandering to the meritorious merry crowd, felt better when you are cumulus in the inexplicable ineffable lustrous tame floods
Servicemen, and slaves deal with their infested shy rooms, mushrooms
Ask, speak, service, and bleed out in your pen-appended murmur

— The End —