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Trevon Haywood Mar 2016
I lift my heart as spring lifts up
A yellow daisy to the rain;
My heart will be a lovely cup
Altho' it holds but pain.

For I shall learn from flower and leaf
That color every drop they hold,
To change the lifeless wine of grief
To living gold.

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933). 3/23/2016.
shahzeb k Jan 2016
Since the making of time
since the blowing of winds
the one thing that lurks the mind
what is it that makes it sane
the doubts the fears and the pushing rage are
all the peaces of a rotten clock
the mundane and the specific are
just the ingredients of the
retreat you call home
a place in the chest or the head
doesn't matter
a place safe but who can tell
what if you are not to be in there
but some where else
is there a home
a bliss of the unknown
the rigid morph is now a year old
it rots and it smells but it will not
be taken away for its decay
is the proof of once a man
who lived inside it
and now he is but a vision
a behavior guided channel for the
zombies to guide them to his last resting place
he is but non so sad in fun he is but past the ugly tests of truth and dare
a long lost vehicle in the depth of the lake
a silent ****** and a blissful bate
a sickening tone to the whole drama and yet no escape
a shadow lurks and ***** the life
the nurtured one is now lost
he is but a remain of the  what there might be when the winds and the
moist and the ants and the algae have done their part in the add ons
a sure signs of age
you age not my friend
you just get experienced at the injustice of the love
you wishfully hold in the heart the
guard are foever down when you had them forever up
no body sleeps in side no more
no saint no monster no eagle no panther
instead a ruin of the premature
larva from the cocoon
neither fly nor wound but lay smitten by the
master disguised enemy the worst of them all
vanity
the alchemy of ****** is simple
you poison them little by little
and it becomes a daily ritual
you die inside and long for more
that is the beauty of the heart
for all that is
is all that now will bite
a path of the path
the rage of the rage
sing with me my dear friend
a paradise lost is better than the thousand
in place..
this is my first take at this i, am these days very low and it might show clearly in it but i prefer to write hopeful and blissful words. amen
K Balachandran Sep 2015
This precisely is the secret hour, that brings to an end
of the long wait of patient bats, now let them ecstatically mate,
mind, wakes up from stupor,in creative instinct,becomes a ******,
though peering in to own hidden shadows, from a pantomime past.
Silence of many shades reign in the mansion of magic beyond space,
along the labyrinthine inner corridor, lighted seldom or even never.

The dark nimbus clouds above, purge, thunder roars,victorious,
outside the cave rain in torrents lashes, winds whistle like possessed,
heart fills with an urge urgent,words fumble to express with verve,
blind bats, hanging upside down, wake all at once, shaking wings,
they arise creating a cacophony,then the transformation is quick,
what results is a frenzied ****** fight for colored words to mate.

The pairs suited most, in the crowded cave , intuitively selected,
commandeered, brought together, merged perfectly, without effort,
blending with the rare beauty of light filtering in, striking images
of different hues appear on the screen, moving pictures of creation.

Everything is still here except,a fecund sense, awareness in fire,
thoughts are in a churn, turn towards the starlit firmament,
and fertile red earth doused in the scent new rain roused,
blue water expanses, rippling moves as waves after waves
all finally settle, mind's creative pool now, is a placid reservoir.

Astonished he is, by the immortality of words, that acquire
an escape velocity to project, shoot up through the clouds,
it's payload, is carried by a  fuel, alchemy created propellant,
that ensures poetic transcendence,the fused golden words live long.

The creative moments, are pure  wonder, when within the folds
of primordial sound,he waves silk blending it with golden threads,
The poet becomes the word first and the word speaks through  him,
poem is a canal perennial,for the flow of desire, hope and pain concealed deep,all projected by the  mind continuum that never sleeps.
Ever did attempt, to try and  explain how poetic stirrings, begin and ooze, becomes trickle , becomes a flow, gushes out..
Leaves skitter as shoed feet
fall silently, wind clinging
at clothes in the death
                  of summer.

     A once-verdant echo
          sighs into place
      clouds weigh heavy
            warmth is savored
                  the grasses die
                       instinct stirs.

The world dies
      to be renewed
            in glorious flame,
      changing to stay
the same.
(igne natura renovatur integra)
prompty Sep 2015
"Alchemy is the rainbow that bridges all that is earthly and ephemer to all that is heavenly and eternal. It's the bonding of matter and spirit. The desire for a perfect life that can only be achieved through knowledge.

Alchemy is the union of life and death to fullfill a more fundamental purpose: that of the creation. To create life from nothing."
Based on Stash Klossowski's definition of alchemy
A proper kiss
can contain all the
secrets of the universe.

~ z.s
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