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Sindi May 18
I took time tick
The broken tock clock
I hung it and sat down
Then I turned to look
In amazement at the tick tock clock

It ticked and tocked
When it stuck half past one
The morning was gone
And I realised
I touched nothing but the tick tock clock
~
The disruptor,
whether digital or analog,
strikes the bell,

bioengineered automaton
—a manufactured life form
given little agency or dimension,

mnemonic to the finitude of life,
and subtle muddling of humankind's
supposed moral transcendence.

~
LC Apr 24
the minutes roll past her like tumbleweeds
as her eyes meet the melting, setting sun.
but in the blink of an eye, the night falls
and the hour wraps its arms around her,
keeping her warm and safe in time's embrace.
#escapril day 23!
bubblyflower Apr 5
When I was just an innocent child,
Unlike others, I wouldn't go wild
I would swing in a cherry blossom tree,
And no other children would notice me.
I was a shy child, very timid of socializing,
But a boy with wings was approaching,
"I can be your friend, dear one,
We will explore every corner
Of your rich imagination
We will fly beautifully together"
Time passed, I felt amazing,
But the clock was ticking,
The boy said: "It is time to go, my love,
It is time to let go, we'll be together
Even after the end!"
Raven Feels Apr 2
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, this number keeps haunting me---nice:]


spaced in faze spaced in shock

waiting for the hit of the clock upon us

jaded in here scattered in there

falling deeply into depths of despair

piles of threes and stashes in seven still unspoken fourteens

into the floors and walls of the magnificent heavens

count of one then a skip of a spree down

into curses of minutes in a bunch of twisted twenty threes


                                                                            ------ravenfeels
Waiting for no-one it surges on
No pause for thought,
Or batting an eyelid,
Never generous. Almost gone.

The evidence is left upon your face
Though the eyes deny,
Chances not taken,
Regrets mount. We cry.

It doesn't cease but endures
It's reach is long,
Steadfast through the seasons,
Ticking on. Ticking on...
©️ 2021 Joshua Reece Wylie. All rights reserved.
Inspired by the film 'Age of Adaline'
Past Mar 11
This is the end.

The end of what?

Time.
Tock
In a distant future not so long ago, it was a dark winter morning as the sun shined brightly in the sky. A man sat on a park bench as he stood among the chaos of people surrounding him. He peeked at his watch staring it like a wall facing a statue. He seemed to have all the time in the world yet he was running out the clock. Far away a bird shrieked a soft cry of joy. The moment his ears caught the sound, gently in a flash his mind came out from imprisoned memories that roamed freely in his subconscious. Is it too late? Am I doing it too soon? He simultaneously battled with the truce he reached with his choices separately.

On the other side of the city within the same vicinity she laid on her bed as she sipped her coffee on the couch. Tears had made a futile escape as they triumphantly ran down her cheeks. A soft breeze charged from the window bringing in green autumn leaves. The room had dim lighting from a single bulb that shined brightly on the ceiling. It gave an ambiance of calamitous exuberance. There she was; coffee cup in hand staring at the painting on the wall rich with myriad of vibrant colors as dark as the heart of a pitch-black night. It seems like the right path?  Isn’t it the wrong way? She separately battled with the truce she made with her choices simultaneously.
Out of deep sorrow for the loss of my muse
The machine stops to recapture its stasis
Stolen by the unrequited idea of this mirage,
The scarlet tic toc craves pristine amuse

The pump of the sweet amorous concoction
Tastes **** to the disused forlorn tongue
Maybe the machine leeks this viscous fluid
To purchase desire at the body’s auction

This nature’s request for the suitable mate
While the soul of the failure still remains,
Cranks the contraption most vital gears
As a mismatched tic toc at hearts gate

The betrayal of knowing the truth and never
Ever leaving the past wholly shatters me
The Sunlover wants to bloom when the light
Shines darker than the doubt of forever

That is the heart’s betrayal

Viewing the sunrise through my wasted eyes
unfold as the tears of my broken dreams,
I remember the beauty of my dear beloved
The ultimate ambush to my lonely skies

The hangover of rejection lingers for eternity.
The addictive touch of tenderness I want
While the robot engines cannot cope with it,
The tired heart goes for failed shot infinity

What is this web which I was woven into?
Falling for eight, then nine, bonus ten
Tic toc the clock; pump, pumped the blood
Wild need, whispers required to ensue

And whilst I dig the grave where I shall lend
Haunting me is the ever burning question
Will ever the craving for love be truly done?
Hope is said to never falter, to never end

That is the heart’s betrayal

The never ending brush of desire swirls
A portrait of novel passion; her soft
Features, angelic voice, immaculate lips
And this issue prevails with all the girls

In the mind’s museum, they become a bust
Of hard intangible romantic interests
And as a collection vice, the gallery will not
Stop letting in more miscellany of lust

Appreciating the astral beauty, bemusing  
In the details, worshipping personality,
Requiring such unity to expel the loneliness
This hearts motives forever bruising

The interest in a woman thus take shape
To form the most ethereal phantom
A ghost that results in dreams of icy mist
A myth of warmth, fleeting escape

That is the heart’s betrayal

Once betrothed to be my suitable mate,
Wishes my dream fairy granted me
Far and wide we would venture, brave souls
Only in my fantasy, this surreal bate

Thus, the later ultimatum comes unexpected
When company the moment yearns
This muse’s portrait matures into sorrow
We were genuinely never connected

The cold from this epiphany ardently churns
The blood that petrifies the machine
“She is not the right one,” an echo of misery
Even if elusive, she hurts me; it burns

Passion may come and go, a scar of flare
A tempest of feelings of the unruly kind
The spark is a mystery to solve, misguided
The hurt of a hollow kinship and despair

One day the soul its mate will find, the heart
Will have a home to call in the light
But now the frozen pump in darkness lingers
Waiting the mistake of love to depart

It all goes back to the beginning

And that is the heart’s betrayal
The last poem of my original anthology had to be its namesake. My nature was to love, get rejected, love, lose that person, love again, be rejected, and on and on in an uncontrollable and destructive cycle. It had to stop, so I had to finally understand what was happening to me and translate those impetuses into words. To do so was to acknowledge all the pain and distress of loss and rejection, and for a long time, I just could not do it. Poetry helped me open up and learn about myself. So, this was actually one of the first poems I ever wrote. The sense of cyclicity that flows through and ends the poem makes rereading the whole collection a new experience. All the pieces inside of it have something to do with how the heart, in all its emotional saliences, controls people's every thought, even when we think we are in control. We can love, hate, fear, yearn, and at the same time, not want it to happen. Nonetheless, the heart will betrayal our countenance, our adamancy, our will to resist within different degrees. So, to feature all these ideas sprinkled throughout the anthology into one poem was the best way to end it.
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