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Safana Sep 17
I have a dream
to be like a dove
to fly on a giant
ostrich to strike
up around the sky,
my hand to touch
the cloud and my
lung to inhale the
space air, for some
hours to land on a
landing station
where the snow is
fallen, sweaters are
welcoming, warmers
are warming, freedom
is loving, jobless is
burnt, rules are obeying,
leadership is giving a
pity, followers are
I want travel to North Western world
Carlo C Gomez Aug 19
Avertable impact
Ripped open lid
The fuse lit
And die they did

The harbor a carcass
Their treasures sunk

Tufts Cove
One last gasp in the sun

Wretched captains
As kings who fought over
Duchess of Aquitaine

Everything to lose
Nothing to gain

"She may one day queen it
over that fair demesne..."
mothwasher Jul 17
Silence is now. The sun is risen 5 hours where you are. It is the deepest twilight here, traffic lights disrupting. My window is playing a videotape of an invisible sunrise. It was directed by viking film students. They included your paintings in the credits. i hate to spoil the ending, but i leave you. The soundtrack was going to be radiohead, but Yorke’s record label yanked it. So silent film. Silent students acting like they never learn for my benefit. If it isn’t already obvious, the film is me. And you’ll never read this letter, as i’m already loading it into the movie reel and projecting it into snowy pine trees somewhere in Canada that i’ve never been.

Previous Lover and Grateful Friend,
K E Cummins Jun 22
Restless Ulysses calling seaward
Wave-crest and trough on water
Bark seal slap rush
Carve one sweep, two sweep
Push and the wayfarer
Boot, back, and shoulder
A life neatly bundled going on
On and on and on; wander
Because no god is present
Without vastness, surrender
Fire lick crackle burn driftwood blue
On the sand in the gravel
And restless sailor calling seaward
Take the horizon to break
Spine and sinew ironmonger
The old and elderly will fondly remember
These days when we were strong
And the stars unobscured by smoke
Sunlight shines past the blinds
And illuminates the face of the barely awake ghost,
Who sits there on the bed
With his bear in his arms.

That day. Again.
That was all he could think about.
His brother ran right past him.
His brother ran right through him.

He truly was a ghost.
He truly wasn't there.

Nobody could see him.
Nobody could hear him.

Sometimes he wondered
How his country is still on the maps.
Well, I guess the 'ghost Canada' thing is an entire AU now.

A poem about Canda from Hetalia.
Found this lying around in my drafts and decided to post it. It's unfinished but sounds neat so far, so I guess it's fine.
Maria Mitea May 18
I plainly could see your infinite demure.

I understood your yearnings for bluejays and loons.

You cuddled me with all your splendor and virtue.

You loved me as your own child.

Today, Canada
I am crying with tears of joy.
We are all dreamers and long for exploration and challenge, and yet it can take some time until we find grounding in our new home.
manas Apr 18
Castle on the hill

A lot lies in this valley that hide,
secrets in woods and stream reside.
Dying tales of history here persist,
protected like a mother by dazed mist.
Holding head high, you see past go still,
standing with pride, a castle  on the hill.

It stands tall, it stands bold,
look and you’ll find every story it holds.
As you adore this breathtaking view,
it slowly reveals it’s chronicles to you.
It yarns of glory and pride tranquil,
telling it’s tale, a castle on the hill.

But as you reach it’s forgotten  threshold,
it’s old scars and welts you behold.
To cruel history it’s gratitude it owed,
to fangs of revenge alas it’s head it bowed.
So it breaths it’s last, at outskirts of belleville,
dying of ignorance, a castle on the hill.
that's how time hits..hard and ruthless
the AskIt's have no answer

nor do the heads of the snake

of the state-scene.

they pretended they did the

same way way back

in 1918.
دema Mar 31
thank you for
looking at me
with such kindness
in your eyes,
love in your veins
and warmth in
the wrinkles
your eyelashes.
Jackal Mar 28
I knew a boy, who flew a kite made of clouds.
Some might call that feat magical,
Impossible, even.
But to him,
it was nothing more
than a reminder
of what
he would never
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