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Shamas Hereth Sep 2014
(On her canvas, brushes will cross;
he, the art of loving the loss)

At the break of her ego's regard,
invite insight --in slight, reveal
a glimpse of past, the skin of real:
the scarred survivor turned cautious bard.

Let her wonder, let her ask,
then let her outline your mask.
Let her hands combat the task
of pains that guard passion's cask

as her reach exposes chest,
thieve her strength, become her nest.

Be the moon, she: the sun,
chase the path of day and night,
****** duel outright:
bite her bullets, strip the gun.


And when your cask has been unsealed
feign fear, hesitate --be revealed.
The Art of Loving the Loss (Series Poem, pt. 2)
Shamas Hereth Sep 2014
Oddly enough, my first conversation with God (I call, for lack of it's true name) came as I began dating a non-believer. I recognized the voice, so I carried along,

She's onto something.
Think so?
Know so. She's onto something all of you should know.
How many of us do know?
Not nearly enough.
A great deal then, that I want nothing but all of her.
And think.. what to want, when you lose her?
I'd prefer not to ponder.

Our second came as any might expect. I took to the call,

Hey. Floating around still? How's the kids?
Humor is a fine coping mechanism.
Oh no, just the opposite.
I didn't believe I'd need to know. I didn't want to. You know?
I know.

The third came a year after,*

Is it too late to give my answer?
When is it ever too late for answers?
Never and always.
After it all, I really just don't know.
But I want to, and the world as my partner I will try to.
I don't think knowing is the point, you know?
I know. And it's splendid that you think so.
Now tell me, what is it you want for yourself?
You know, I don't know.
I thought so.

And right before the silence returned (as it always does), I could've swore I heard a whisper...

He's onto something.
Why it's okay to say you don't know. And why it's never okay to settle in that ignorance.
Shamas Hereth Sep 2014
I never liked the sun
how it suggests one can be both
bright and above things;
how time is measured
through a predictable presence;
how humanity projects unto
a divinity that eludes
itself.

When will
the three eyes
see the light
within?

I never liked sunburns,
how submission leaves a red sting.
Shamas Hereth Sep 2014
(On her canvas, brushes will cross;
he, the art of loving the loss)

Notice, nod, smile
make strange worth her while.

Stand, wink, wave
break poise,
misbehave.

Give first free of charge
and by last; indemnify.
Attain room without barge
-wend, strain, stratify.
The Art of Loving the Loss (Series Poem, pt. 1)
Shamas Hereth Sep 2014
Come to go,
the flux tastes
of salt and iron.

I? Then, a  
bitter-flavored fool.

Yet by moment
decide, oh Epitome,
that a stillness should
live, red and violet,
against
my threshold obsidian:
Let that selfishness wend.

I, now apathy
and you to wither.

— The End —