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Days' number and my value decays
So I set out to seek that of eternal worth

At a focal moment, the map now walks before me
So I move closer for better inspection
Still, I am treading on foreign lands.

I do not want to be in darkness
I keep myself close to the lighthouse, and my beacon always in reach
Curiously pondering over a reflection of myself

I am convicted and the turbulence of escape has exhausted my potential

I trace the course as each nautical mile pulls me further away from the typical reality
I am afraid to lose

And yet by myself, there is no point to prove
Keeping myself afloat has drawn all my energy
And I am frozen from not being allowed to sink
This is inspired by the idea of being withdrawn from society without actually burning any bridges - hence the lighthouse. The beacon can be a cellphone - the quickest way to call for help. Yet I am exploring. The picture of the reflection of myself is very important as it inspired the idea of being out at sea but I am not searching for myself rather, I am searching for like-minded people.
For Better, or For Worse,
I am blessed with a curse,
with each verse spoken,
clouds dance the skies to heaven,
mountains move, as mother nature is awoken,
she is pleeing for world peace, on her knees- begging
rain trickles down trees,
and off leaves,
into running rivers.
feeding the diverse universe
effie ebbtide Oct 2019
all mirrors serve a purpose
set me reverse a mean law
all mean men serve a ream list
send me reverse no meme law
all mean ones serve a reed nest
send me reverse no meme law
all mean ones serve a reed nest
poetry instruction:
you will need audio software capable of reversing audio, like audacity.
think of a sentence, phrase, or other series of words.
record this slowly, and reverse the audio.
transcribe what you hear as close to existing words as possible.
record your transcription and reverse that, transcribe again, and repeat as much as you like or until you reach an equilibrium.
effie ebbtide Jun 2018
saturn's interior is probably composed of a core of iron–nickel and rock.
saturn's interior is probably composed by
one of those big-budget cinematic musicians who abuse the cello -- the soundtrack's coming soon.
saturn's interior is probably composed of a core of iron like the statue of liberty
saturn's interior is probably composed of a core of copper like the statue of liberty (i forgot what the statue
of liberty was made of, i apologize, it's hard for me to keep track of these things
like what statues are made of what and which state capital has the highest population and who my state senator is).
saturn's exterior is probably not composed of a core of iron–nickel and rock.
saturn's interior is the only part that's solid;
my interior is the only part that's solid.
saturn's interior is probably composed
of a core virtue, patience or compassion, the same virtues hammered in in elementary school.
i remember when i was in elementary there were these seven posters showing the core virtues (i forget what most of them were.)
i was confused over compassion and respect, thinking they were the same thing.
the poster for self-control showed a boy looking over a table of cakes --
i suppose the point was that he was not eating them
but i bet he started eating them after the picture was shot.
saturn's interior is probably not made of cake.
saturn's interior is probably not very self-controlling.
saturn's interior is probably composed saturn's interior.
expanding upon a simple notion
Lemon Tree Jun 2018
Sometimes,

And only sometimes,

The walls crack and

Burst forth



Blessings, an ode to the Silent—

All who see it—by which all do see it,
See its sound, round the feet that start to tap, to

Symphonies, to newer worlds than ours.



Resonating upon these empty halls,

Orchestrated by voices,

Never slurred or sharpened or slid so often:

Elegiac or elegied. We are uncertain.

The walls break, though,

And burst forth bounty

Letting ring amongst masses
(That which we whisper afterwards)


Originating light, itself, beaconing



Overheads, above

Newspapers, narrowed eyes, nocturne night-owls

Across, around ticks and boxes, circled, crosses, texts, and line-borders

Resonating upon our empty halls, walls, all;

Poco a poco, almost piano, punctuating,

Odes to joy and a chorale for something—

Sometimes



and only
some
times.
We break down our own walls

and bring forth
blessings.
A simple exercise involving the simple concept of music as a metaphor for something, and how we are all connected despite our differences.
Mark Wanless Apr 2018
"Why Even Try"

Why even try to name the nameless
Why even shape any shape
Only to ungrasp the form created
Tainted with conceptual suffering
From the root throughout eventually
Holding no thing when it happens
In an unpredictable flash of moment?

To ease the pain of healing
Anne Jul 2017
Perched atop a table, surrounded by some jazz

Sits a pink rose as glamorous as

A golden age Hollywood starlet  

This rose is nocturnal, resides in her own darkness


The rose lives in shades of grey  

Like the remnants of cigarettes in a nearby ashtray

With the occasional ring of cherry red lipstick  

Her intoxicating perfume makes men sick


The fragrance of a pink rose

Never does as shes told

Circulates the room like a cloud of smoke

And dances around as if life were a joke  


Almost transparent in the full moon’s light  

A breeze knocks the perfume out of sight  

Natural Beauty is an oddity of her own

With blush pink petals, this rose stands alone


The fragrance drifts out of town  

Near some trailer parks, waiting for something to go down        

Traveled along the highway’s long, slick road

The fragrance belongs in a dream world of her own


Some dare to bottle her, capture her essence

Fools! Will they ever learn their lesson?

Somethings must remain untouched by man

For they have been beautiful since their lives began.
This poem is inspired by  

Josef Breitenbach’s artwork, “Fragrance of a Pink Rose”,

New York, 1945.
Morgan Gail Jun 2017
VI
i've got bandages over my rib cage
just beneath the skin
a thick, foreign material holding it all together
the silk ribbons i've tied over soft bone
in my attempt to compensate for the lack of
beauty in this frame  
this heart is so worn out i wonder
how it doesn't stop
even when it's breaking
it is beating
it's keeping rhythm
it's got the names of everyone i'm missing
tucked inside it's valves
i've got spirits of lost love haunting all it's halls
let my chest cavity be the church
the resting place in the body
i hear low voices singing sad hymns in unison
echoing against it's walls
bury me beneath the dust and rock in the mountains
so my God can carve me out of the marble
and i can start again
maybe i could make it through
without my bruised up skin
martha Jan 2017
each solitary shell encasing each glowing miniature bulb
embodies a memory
a feeling
a blur of seasonal rememberance associated with someone whose face you can't quite put your finger on
blue : sadness
red : anger
green : jealousy
yellow : happiness
concocted and connected through a dense cord the colour of coal we neglect to remember holds each lights hand and ties their souls together
Reflecting shadows on shards of broken glass baubels and the cheek of an ornate angel too delicate to cry
Their colour coded combination presenting a haze of neon and cheap affordable replicas of essential festive decor
But deflect your attention from detail and analysis
Caress the sight as a whole and take care not to delve too deeply into the secret each dull glowing ember might wish to divulge to you through whispers in a dark room left empty for too long
Before the dimming is inevitable
the loss is unnoticeable
it's secrets
unattainable
At least it faded before the power went out
I find myself staring into
the mouth of memory,

wet cotton, fine needles
and wine

my mouth turns wet at
the thought of it

to hold such history
in my mouth

and twist the knives that
my teeth make

into it
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