Jack P 1d
\put your feet on the land/

His name, according to the scrawl on the cover of his journal, was Viele. His build, according to everyone he'd ever met, was a lazy mosaic of withered limbs; veins snaking like cracks in pavement.

His intentions, according to hindsight, were regrettable.

\and see/

It is the gospel truth that man is the expert of denial.
As sure as the dead stay dead,
The Graverobber will prefer the term 'opportunist'.
Viele was a "professional",
took pride in his "art".
He dug, dug, dug,
'til the wood did part.

Stripped the cemetery to its bones (or, if you please, of its bones).

\ain't no grave/

Then Viele snags his shovel, about three feet deep.
Somehow the handle asphyxiated by the stalk
Of a Morning Glory, which flowers a defiant blue -
swallowing whole, the rusting spade, as its spiral buds take
their first breaths - against, of course, the tarred lung
of their rawboned abuser.

And lo!
(the image befits the phrase, as does the Earth "empty of form")*
the deadyard stood guard,
erupting
like it was suddenly attacked
by an impressionist's paintbrush.

The deadyard, and Viele
Van Goghing, Goghing, Gone.

\gonna hold my body down/

In Lieu, In Bloom:
Baby's Breath and Bells of Ireland and Daisies and Hydrangeas and Lace of Queen Anne and Sunflowers and
God, ad nauseum they arose,
arching upwards from graves.
Leaving no gravestone unturned,
in the pursuit of the place
where footnotes become headlines
and headlines turn to deadlines
and deadlines turn to soil.

For in the morning,
when Viele returns
and Glory, ironically, stands down
(slash-stands-us-up)
we will know to wait.
Tucked away behind our rejected Heaven's gate,
for the show to return.

Where there's Life in the urn.
leave the poetry to the prose (of which i am neither)
Indigo 3d
I get attached to people for breakfast;
           i get my heart broken for dinner
mk Apr 15
~
somewhere in the world:
death

somewhere in the world:
life

somewhere in the world:
me.

somewhere in the world:
you
~
so many things can happen on april fifteenth.
Vexren4000 Apr 15
The storms passing through,
Bring with them mighty rains,
Waters that have touched the ocean,
The clouds and the heavens,
Touching now the urban places,
Back alleys and side streets,
Falling and flooding the cement,
Filling it with a memory of a day gone by.

©BAS
Aishah Apr 14
I am in

my own kind

of hell


and there is

no escape


until I've paid

all of my sins
am I the only that is stuck in the same cycle?
Cpoet Apr 7
i'll just leave you be,
i'll leave you'll see..
and when i do,
i'll look back at you
and say
"baby, did you miss me?"
None of it makes sense
Why do we create this cycle
That causes our pain
Mystic Ink Mar 26
She asked, ”when were you born?”

I get life
on every systole
and prepare to get a new life,
on every diastole

I keep on
being born
In every single beat

A vicious cycle
Repeats.
Genre: Clinical abstract
Theme: Real Time Echo
[Note: Diastole is the time when the heart refills with blood. Systole is the time when heart contracts pumping blood.]
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