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Juno Balder Apr 5
How long has it been,
Twelve months and a moon?
My hook an’ line
Where are you?
Caught tight between tickings

If only I were swallowed whole
And not the clock
Whose arms twist to hold
And release me over and over again

In the seeds of my core
In the folds of my matter
Timidity embraces me
As I traverse the surface
Where is my divinity?

Visibly aged
Like a reversed Dorian Gray
I remain, in ash
Where be my Phoenix?
I’m waiting I’m waiting

An escapee of darting visions
And startling dreams
Of Nymphy myths and Goatboy ploys
Which I keep safe in the forests
Of my black mirror memory
Maria Monaghan May 2018
I would wonder if there be
A hidden portrait there of thee
Which bears thy sin and guilt and shame
While outwardly, thou art the same.

If this not be, then let me write
A poem to bring this all to light.
Let these immortal words then be
That true and twisted sight of thee.
a ****** unfinished poem about the first, last and only boy to ever hurt me.
Sabrina Mar 2015
My dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are the really shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I call either lethargy of a custom or their lack of imagination. Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect- simply a confession of failure.              

                                                                        Lord Henry Wotton
                                                          ­              The Picture of Dorian Gray
Sabrina Mar 2015
A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look.


                                                                         Lord Henry Wotton
                                                                        The Picture of Dorian Gray
cynthia Jan 2015
crimson light fills his irises
siren wails urge him to tell
ashes fill His mouth
advising to yield
smoke fills his blackened heart
horror crawls in his brain
like pale maggots
panic reigns
when the time to reveal gets near
this is based on one of my favorite books "The picture of Dorian Gray"

— The End —