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jǫrð Jan 2021
"Behold," what a phrase,
Uttered the kind, the crude, and
An unlucky few
The History: Golden or wrought-iron? The gates that await you are foretold with a simple word, "Behold" and you create the rest.
I was never told
To behold

The tears
Carrying all my fears

To let them flow
For the glow

To pay the price
For snatching the prize

To let someone die
On the mere roll of the die

I was never told
To behold

The dance of the fairies
Amongst fires in the prairies

Of the sacrifice
For the fool’s paradise

I was never told
To behold

The danseuse death
In her fight with fate

The glory bequeath
With the fory dead

I was never told

To prepare myself
To fight herself

To wrench my prize
From someone her size

I was never told
To behold

People’s fate
In someone’s gait

To let the decision
Be forsaken of vision

I was never told
To behold

The dance of the dead
As if they had never bled

Their waking up again
Out of deign not disdain

I was never told
To behold

The history being rewritten
And the mysteries being smitten..
I was never told.
Lawrence Hall Jan 2021
Lawrence Hall


A story requires an occasional “Behold!”
Merely to see the magic is not enough
The children do not merely see Aslan
Nor does Uncle Andrew merely see the witch


A story requires an occasional “Behold!”
Merely to see the Truth is not enough
The Magi do not merely see the Star
Nor do the shepherds merely see the Child


A story requires an occasional “Behold!”
Or else the magic isn’t truly told

A poem is itself.

Along with the morning mists
The tender leaves gently  uncurl
Soak in the first rays of the Sun
Listen closely to the dew
And its translucent views
Up in the mists
Rolls the voice of the soul

A heart of gold
Silver is sold
Bronze is told
What diamonds behold
another ("populas")poem where each lines describes a person and then the last one kinda sums it up
S I N Dec 2019
Peeking through the morning haze
Moon in its a-waning phase
Gazes with ever placid face,
Not devoid of any grace,
To behold, observe and mark
Every flutter, cry and bark,
Every drooping of a flower
Bending under dewy bower,
Every ripple in the lake,
Every plant, the true or fake,
To the beholder doesn’t make
It any difference at all;
The dune, the creek, the waterfall,
So different and yet so strange,
So alike to waning Sage
Karisa Brown Sep 2019
I'm tired of "understudying myself"
(The just in case syndrome, the worry, the not good enough,the anticipation of failure has got to go.)

Its time for me to be the Star
Dylan McFadden Jan 2019
We’ve been slowly sinking
Into our own thrones –
Permitting an unwitting
“Thinking” alone.

At evil, we’re winking
Without any Eyes –
Unshrinking, no blinking,  
We see not the guise.

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