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kevin wright May 10
The samurai fingers opened
In recall the bow floated forwards
Feathers freed its deadly path

Flying through the thermals
Spinning in its own vortex
Beckoning my soul

Both eyes opened
Cherry blossom floated across its path
The arrow parted life and death

Its point struck home
No escape
A fleeting pain of renewal

Pinned at the center of Adinkrahene
Civilisation awaits
Farewell, my demise is draped with its philosophy

A second arrow strikes deeply
Tainted by Eros poison
Love conquers all
The world today is a place of reality. The world of the past was a place of philosophy. A marriage of eastern and western philosophy.
Summer May 2
The dragonfly
that perches on your finger,
on the wall, at the doorstep,
like still life human history,
on the page, close to the vines,
balancing atop that blue teacup,
fanning steam

as time slips, whistles, rips
like stitches twisted, which
unravelled, like a wish
you made last summer
when horses snickered, reined by
steel knights sweating and kissing
gloved hands, ladies laughing
over earl grey tea and shipped silk,
the dragonfly danced upon
melancholic waters

what is skulking in the moist darkness
must come forth and answer
how one equates infinite and none,
vain, like history, snow, and gold,
before sung poetry from the old —
to live one’s life for something, you say,
is to live one’s life alone for something

what is repeated,
wars and manipulation,
mutual destruction, human reproduction,
drilling and penetrating,
with rhythm and with force,
Is intrinsically obscene,
the mechanics ancient and ******,
beastly brutal and brutally simple –
the human wheel of time

dawn broke
over churning waters, a cycle of
chalky, foamed flowers grew and died,
quivering is the white fish washed ashore
twitching, pulsating, then stilled

the dragonfly, sensing death,
skitters away
Summer Aug 2020
Map
Looking at the map,
my eyes find their way to the unnamed borders,
the many lines that divide the land
and the sea,
the civilised,
and the savage.
I dimly wonder
if those lines are truly the ends of the earth,
or are they beginnings of a new world?
RVani Kalyani Jul 2019
Crystal clear sky of Green,
And that red coloured stream.
If the trees turn to blue too,
Will that seem beautiful to you?
What's wrong with this happening?
I've fed up with u people changing.
Blinded by progression u don't see the crisis,
I still wait for the day u admit that Nature is the basis.
A plea made by the nature's messenger/ nature's part to find nature's lost self.
We people have become so worse that we don't feel gratitude for nature anymore.
And we are not humans anymore either. In a par of civilisation,we are only focusing about the things that profit us while ignoring the nature's saddest cries.
Josie C Jan 2019
When the sky sheds tear
and the up-creek of the city water
ripples beneath your shoes
this and the green man
flings you forth
onto pattering stone.

you bob with the other umbrellas
I wonder what its like for them
to see a sea of beautiful rainfall
and the creatures, hiding beneath -
too weak to take it.

They move like a sea as if one,
despite each having their own trajectory
marching as if they chose it.
The metropolitan man thinks of himself as a freethinking individual, rational and autonomous. Unaware of the patterns and streams he follows like a flock of birds.
Ivy Collins Jan 2019
suffering Clots in my gut
humanity gurgles In my throat
holes drilled into the Veins of the earth
as i taste a country drenched in colonIzed blood on my Lips
a melting arctIc leaks from my eyes
weStern destinies fester in my chest
as the fissures in its surface smoke my lungs out like burning gAsoline
i can Touch each pole with the pads of my fingers
and shake the glassy world
one day i will lay flat and press my tongue agaInst the world
and feel it dissOlve in my mouth
like the fizzy tablet of Nothing it is
Nico Reznick Dec 2018
“But maybe your real job is shopping…”

Sleepwalk through stock footage.  Life as
documentary.  Soundtrack of horror movie score:
ambient electronica, bubblegum nostalgia and
**** love songs.  Everything becomes
visual metaphor: blackbirds, barcodes and
birthday candles; Big Pharma pick & mix;
lipstick ritual; pigeon superstition; fraying flags
of fading empires; migratory patterns of
shopping trolleys; special offers; fantastic prizes.
Worker bees are vanishing - they all want to
be queens - and our hives overflow
with honey, but are empty and dead.  We got
infected with aspiration, with individualism.  
Generically unique career consumers: remember
when you were more than your credit rating,
more than your demographic, more than your
market-driven self-diagnosis?
HTR Stevens Jul 2018
Of the most modern technology we can boast;
One volcano blows, the world stops, and we are toast!
People think that they can say whatever they please…
Talk of global warming, Nature sends her deep FREEZE!
Nature laughs and enjoys being all contrary
We think we can read her, but be very wary!
The human race is not so clever after all…
We just happen to have a lot of pride and gall!
Volcanic dust of glass, breathe it in; makes us bleed…
From within! A curious joke, a dastardly deed!
We are but pawns, we know not, on earth’s timeless niche;
We are manure when we die – we smell like dead fish!
What remains if anything is our memory…
To find PARADISE when we lose our sanity.
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