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Chad Young Jan 11
Oh eye, of a day gone by in ease
How I used to radiate light, now you are a messenger of gray.
You have a face of winter winds.
You never stay too long in the lighted center.
Don't you remember the dreams we've had?
In the world beyond the dust?
No, light does not come often from the lawful self, but is rather from knowledge or wisdom met with a hundred mercies.
My spirit is too diverse in colors to be seen as one light.
My creation does not lie in the fixation of a white or golden light, rather its creativity is seen in how I design.
My beauty is more than a point, it is as a flower held in front of a point.  Only by its being there does the point recognize the flower's value.
How I wish to be blessed with the point that my flower can hold it.
Hardly a petal is accepted, what an aged face I've become.
My own inner spirit must combine with my body to make beauty, which then must pass through my own acceptance - how hard it is.
Something's always afoul.
I should give up and say there's no such thing as beauty in an eye.
I am to be the saddest face if I behold your seas of bliss repeatedly.
A true smile comes from the Earth beneath me.
With enough shaking, it turns my heart to joy.
But it doesn't show on my skin.
There is no beauty in men.
Meditate
Chad Young Jan 6
Water drips from a faucet
Or it gushes out of a shower head
Sometimes I want to turn it off
Sometimes I want to leave it on
Sometimes I drink it
Sometimes I swish and spit it out
Artifact
What a shame
It is
To be beautiful
But bold;
Making you
Exquisite art
Too unique
And foreign
To understand,
And discarded
Instead

Do not settle
For a storage bin
When you deserve
An exhibit
In the National gallery
She hasten soon left in a streak
and gravity seen hitherto will roar
that glistening  grease in a political chase
that she drove tirelessly across moonlit destination  

only bitten rolling along countryside her waterloo
and  a marvel uncanny as that in a dream
sheer adrenaline multiplied with a tear on her coverlet
Macy Opsima Jul 2016
one day the world
will forget our names,
our memories will be
wiped away from the surface of the earth
and the things we used to own
will turn to ashes with us.
then, we'll be buried underground.
we will become one with the earth
and our flesh will linger through
the wildflowers and sprout again above our coffins
and we'll say our last words to the wind.
the temples that were made for us
will turn into an artifact,
a museum of what we were
and what we could have been.
one day, the last star will collapse
and the universe will be inhabitable.
but we will linger around the
dark and black void that we
once called home.
rewritten version of a poem
Macy Opsima Jun 2016
one day the world will forget your name
but the temple that is made for you
will still linger 6 feet underneath and finally,
you will become an artifact
like those ruins you came to know and love
and until then,
i will love you like the moon above.
JR Rhine Feb 2016
Take me by the hand,
see me through your placid garden.
Walk with me, St. Mary's.

March me in time to your rhythm;
let me wield the mallet that beats your drum.
Sing to me, St. Mary's.

String my sole into the primordial web
within the black walnut tree.
Lay with me, St. Mary's.

Close my eyes and tilt me back;
dip me into the murky pond.
Baptize me, St. Mary's.

Take me down to the fiery shoreline;
we'll linger beneath the countenance of the rugged cross.
Crucify me, St. Mary's.

Sit me by your mystic grave,
cast a silent earthy veil over me.
Bury me, St. Mary's.

Chip me from the rock, free me of these shackles,
rocket me into the heavens.

Liberate me, St. Mary's.
St. Mary's College of Maryland.
Autece Soul Aug 2015
Perfecting the Art of Illusions
I've been told I am a Mystery
A rare commodity
A secret jewel intrigued by my glistering ways
That's good
A blimp I will remain
As my inner thoughts relieve my convoluted brain
But what am I thinking?
Is the question from a thousand tongues
And like a thousand suns
My words burst with molten magma
Melting your mind to a liquid mesh
No longer having a being
Eyes blinded by the over bearing rays
No longer seeing
Shouts from the thousand acres earthquake
No longer hearing
Only a touch remains
To feel a chocolate covered artifact
Formed by the selfish cell fish
Fighting the class of the sea fish

— The End —