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Tin 5d
The soul that loves to find itself drained along the way
The intense energy slowly eating you up
And the only way for you to get out is by cleansing your soul
For how long you have been soul searching
There you have the truth
I have been soul searching. Along the way, I met new people and see what is to unleash more with someone you already know. And just right then, it slowly eats your soul for digging deeper into everyone's soul and having the truth you want. The more to seek, the more you wish for your soul to cleanse and get out of it for not everything you find is worth staying for.
Chelsea Rae Oct 2021
Maybe we cry sometimes

to be able to see with fresh eyes.
Jonathan Moya Jun 2020
This soul is not a drip-dry thing.
It’s needs constant washing and wringing
to function cleanly.
It needs to tumble on high heat
to wear just right.
Hand wash it and it will shrink in protest.
Line dry it and you might think
it will smell of heaven but
it is the rancid smell of tussle and
toil that will stink the neighborhood.
And, oh, by the way you should never
bleach a thing that is already bleached.
Don’t use stain remover for that’s its job.
No starch, please.  Stiffness is not needed.
The same goes for heavy or light ironing.
Follow these directions and
the soul will last your lifetime.
It will protect you from
all the stains of the world.
kevin wright Jun 2020
Civilisation the destroyer of homeostasis

visitors smile on the philistines
how poor
how cute
how primitive
unintelligible Gaels
no soldiers cross to bear

they wear no shoes
they have no ornaments
they eat the poor wildlife
Kildian pose with me

knowledge eras now ignore  
fashionable tweed needed out
no doctors
catch my cold
upgrade the crofts
build them chic

bait those of young age
away to lands a far
remove the labourers
taunt with silver purses
starve the islanders out

oversee the clearance
the navy are here
take only what you can carry
drown the island dogs
the sheep pay the Kildians fare

a good book deposited in each house
to bring peace
protect the souls of Hirte now marooned
secrets of a culture now destroyed
a church, a classroom, a post office now decried
grow now wrack and ruin

Hirte haunt those pleasure seekers
guard the islands for the future
simple ideology now derided
watch the islands fade on the horizon
don’t cry
a cutting-edge society lies ahead

now its time to saviour the gains
too much sugar
too much alcohol
too much smoking
too much crime
too much poverty
and much more in isolation
part three in the series of poems: St Kilda a winters tale and St Kilda a summer tale. St Kilda an isolated island whose culture was disrespected and wiped from the map by a better society. In 1930 for better or worse the population as moved, this represents how many poeples of the world are relocated for a good reason but for whos gain? Also known as Hirta which here represents an ancestral plane.
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
by Michael R. Burch

Now darkness ponds upon the violet hills;
cicadas sing; the tall elms gently sway;
and night bends near, a deepening shade of gray;
the bass concerto of a bullfrog fills
what silence there once was; globed searchlights play.

Green hanging ferns adorn dark window sills,
all drooping fronds, awaiting morning’s flares;
mosquitoes whine; the lissome moth again
flits like a veiled oud-dancer, and endures
the fumblings of night’s enervate gray rain.

And now the pact of night is made complete;
the air is fresh and cool, washed of the grime
of the city’s ashen breath; and, for a time,
the fragrance of her clings, obscure and sweet.

Published by Poetry Magazine, Poetic Reflections, The New Formalist, Carnelian, Little Brown Poetry, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, Net Poetry and Art Competition, The Best of the Eclectic Muse 1989-2003, Romantics Quarterly, Sonnetto Poesia, Poetry Life & Times and Trinacria

Keywords/Tags: Sonnet, night, darkness, violet, hills, rain, fresh, cleansing, fragrance, perfume, clings, clinging, obscure, sweet, concerto, dance, dancer
XPY Sep 2019
The rain descends
like a velvet curtain.

I use that steady
pounding, thrumming

to cleanse my skin
of your touch.

It fills me up, and I spit you out;
wring you out of my hair.

Thunder crashes
lightning flashes
and I
© XPY 2019
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