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Enas Sep 22
A familiar shore

they’ve known before.

A pink sea shell

with a story to tell;

the memory it saves

in the sound of waves;

in wondrous lands

they hold up hands

as love is home

& time is sea foam.

It is love in mist

with a tragic twist

and woven fates

as time awaits.

Their souls are sinking

Listen, they’re singing

euphoric elegies

& resonant apologies.

They close their sight

on broken dancing light

in deep ink ocean

in still worded motion;

embracing for infinity

as their love an eternity.
Ormond Sep 14
.
We trod in steps without spark,
A careful journey one remakes,
With days of dreams' surrender,
O love— is but a promised land.

In our youth precious time reigns
And greetings are met with sorrow,
Maidens and lads, each entertains
Graces above us, Venus and Apollo,
                                                      ­  ­        
Gods on high, who told us stories,
Of the cloud nursery, of mountains
Keep and comings of celestial glory,
Not of gentle caress to windy hands,

Of shy indifferences, the trials of lot,
Nor the endless engulf, still desires,
In this land of lost, unmoving gusts,
Go those who shuffle— souls entire.
.
The building they lived in,
called home,
became their tomb,
became the weapon that broke
their bone,
took their lives.

But their stories have to
survive,
This City won't let you forget
about those
you were meant to protect.

I was actually looking for a room
but found myself
on the fiery streets
CRS batting the flames
as politicians took their seats,
business as usual
but the people stood in refusal
Feminists Familes and BlackBlok
Yellow Jackets Housing Groups
round the clock
only the holiday period
could douse the fires
and I went back to mother
the pressure smothered

How long is your attention?
Remember: this is a poem for the dead

For those who were crushed as they slept in their bed

Merry ******* Christmas
instead.
About 6 people who lost their lives in Marseille last November, 2018.

Shoddy building inspection, owners and regulation.

No one has taken responsibly.

Rest in Rage
Mia Mehnaz Aug 13
Sometimes, the thought of you brings a bout
Of unprecedented, palpable, anguish.
So visible and unveiled,
I touch it and I bleed.
Sometimes, missing you is
Like swallowing broken glass.
Clear shards that rip my flesh
Draws blood and
Ignites a white pain,
Seething and choking and blinding.

Tonight it is warm,
the air is heavy with summer,
With laughter and blessings
And memories. Reminiscence.
My eyes are orbs,
Glassy with tears and
Stinging with the force of
Grief? Or regret.
The breeze is tinged with
Your laughter and
Every time I inhale,
It aches.
An ache that runs deep
It twists in my gut
Like a knife that
Clenches and drains
Everything good from within.

My hands are frail
I grip in them a
Photograph; of you and I
We are young, carefree
Wild and happy-
That moment was captured
And now it burns,
It's embers are the sunset
It's cinders are etched within.
Now, there is no peace-
You are silent in the grave
And I am silent in grief.

I suppose the
novelty of life wore off
Once I had lost
Everything;
Now in this summer
Evening, I
Sit alone and seemingly
Unaware that my life
Is billowing by,
And the years will run like
The stream in which
Your youth drowned.
Grief is an intoxicant,
That I crave and love
And fear and hate.

The sun seethes,
Smiling a polished smile,
Razing down my hope for
A happy, fulfilling
Life.
What life?

I pluck from the bush,
That mother tended to for
Endless summers,
A rose.
Bloodied and yet pure,
It nestles into my finger like
I propose to it a throne,
Of some twisted kind.
It reminds me of,
Your charisma
And joy that once
Shone in vibrant rays
Like the ****** sun does today,
Your beauty that emanated,
In beams and stunned all who saw,
And now these rays of charisma,
And these beams of beauty,
Are hushed.
Still, alone, and quiet.
Like you.
Like I.

And this nightmare
Dressed like a daydream,
Rages before my eyes.
This solitary rose,
That sat ever so dainty,
And gorgeous between
My frail hands,
Begins to wilt.
It's crimson hue,
Like love and honour,
Turns grey, and black
Loses its life and
Before my eyes another
Unfinished life is
Snatched. Torn. Stolen.

I wonder if,
Your soul came to say goodbye
In that mere rose that I
Watched wilt and wither.
As though whilst
Each petal waved farewell
And floated to the soil with
Their brethren,
You too were,
Wishing me goodbye.

I let the tears flow now,
Heavy and unforgiving,
Weighing me down,
Granting me peace and
Wrapping my thin neck
In a noose of pain,
A loving embrace.
So this,
Is goodbye?
I feel not,
The promised elevation
Of forgiveness and release
Instead the
Ceaseless throb of
Darkness and grief.
But she came,
She came to say goodbye,
And that is all I ever needed,
All I prayed for,
Begged for,
Goodbye.
One last,
Goodbye.
Grief has clawed into the deepest parts of me and crushed what little hope or peace I had salvaged; and yet I regret not one moment of pain because it means her memory is and raw and empowering. Fly High baby <3
n-khrennikov Jun 12
On the crowded street in holiday day
The day she met him.
She remember she invited him to celebrate
The day people waving flags,
run, laugh ...
all day up and down
marching friends.

Because it was dusk,
she suggest staying at home
to continue the celebration.
It was accepted.
They were celebrate homeland until morning.

The morning has gone,
He left, and he found her again
on Gorky street from the beginning
“My homeland”, He said,
“I need you”
and “I love you”.
“Yes”, She said
“I'm ready in every sacrifice "
And then
they get married.

Time passed, he was disappeared.
She always finding him
on the same path.
He never remembered her in the morning.
Only in the evening, like midnight
she was worried,
she sleep one bed in her arms
He still left
more and more ...

At least that's ways he appearance
when she was over years
She quit looking for him.
Waited him in the darkness alone, to look
He also stopped lying down
every night ...

And one night he never go home again ..
She did not find out when the door opened ...
Then she closed the door.
She stand before her whole life
a dream of the past, forgotten dreams ...
She tired to cry on her knees,
She stepped into the chest and locked it.
~ NK
Joel M Frye Apr 18
I had a friend;
we journeyed life together.
Down a dark and winding road
we made our merry way.
The trail was long,
with many holes and pitfalls.
We took our bumps and bruises
and we swallowed our dismay.

I had a friend;
we spent our evening hours
playing our guitars and singing
songs both old and new.
And at night's end
we'd shake our hands and promise
our friendship would endure
and we would always see it through

     But time has a mystic power,
     it turns saplings into trees;
     and its river made a canyon -
     separates my friend and me.

I had a friend;
helped me through tribulations,
and I would be there when
he needed company.
But life goes on,
and our two trails soon parted;
left nothing for each other
but songs and a memory.

    For time has a mystic power,
    it turns saplings into trees;
    and its river made a canyon -
    separates my friend and me.

That friend I had,
out of touch for more than twenty years...
I saw him yesterday
in a little place downtown.
His looks had changed,
perhaps a little paler
in his softly padded bed
with his friends all hangin' round.

     For time has a mystic power,
     it turns saplings into trees;
     and its river made a canyon -
     separates my friend and me.

     For time has a mystic power,
     it turns saplings into trees;
     and its river made a canyon -
     separates my friend and me.
Day 18, NaPoWriMo - an elegy in concrete terms.  Every couple years, the NaPo peeps want an elegy or eulogy.  I'm re-posting, for the same reason as last time.  I've written too **** many of the ****** things.

Written in 1974 as a song for my friend and partner in crime for many years, Jay Edmund Burrow (1956-2010).  I didn't find out until 2011...know you're at peace, and I love you.
Jules AA Apr 4
Suns will set and rise again,
but Chytherea hasn’t kept her promise, yet.
You should be my own Cerinthus, I think,
a font to passions, and to sorrowful cares.
A flickering flame robbing me of my senses.
I count the minutes between a fresh glance,
or hearing the harmony of your voice.
Days you are absent feel hollow,
like a flower drooping, crushed by the plow
At the end of a field.
O Venus, when will you sing of my fortunes?
Ormond Mar 30
.
Flowers so rare and fine,
Missing from this dry world,
Lost, unwatered, unseen, yet
No ones and none despaired,
They then planted their garish
Seed in blot sun, most sodden,
Soppy soils sprayed which fell
On the plainest, most commoner
Grounds, such fertile dirt, wrought,
Then, all who came to view where
But gaggles of proud mediocrity
Who arrived to revel and preen,
Unjust, they remade this earth,
Once lively, to be lame, what
Celebrations they now need
What praises they do crave,
Sadly, they could not know,
A flower for the weeds.
.
Ronnie Mar 24
She was a stray airplane in the sea of stars
An imposturous glimmer of hope
With no true end or destination
Destined to float among the lights, alone

Or so she thought as she wrote it down
Sealing the edge with the sad remains
Of wasted birthday candles
The final goodbye to the golden days

Prodigy at first, prodigal at last
A soul lost on the way to find a meaning
Searching for the faintest sign of a beginning
With her writ of passage left behind

The death of the author means
A rebirth for all things familiar
The return to a garden of thought
And the flowers in full bloom.
Attempt at an elegy. I was told to stay away from the abstract, but I couldn't help myself.
Mia Mehnaz Mar 11
Time had evaporated into the dingy air of the hospital
Day merged to night, night to day.
Sleep turned to endless bouts of prayer and whispering into your ear. Whispering that it wasn't your time yet,
That everyone was waiting for you to come back.
All that came back to my ears
were the incessant beep of machinery
Machinery that was your lifeline,
that kept your beautiful heart beating.
Coiled and crimped tubes running in and out of your body
And you looked frighteningly ethereal;
A ghostly angel in the place of my sister.
A tangle of exterior veins; pumping foreign liquids into you
And though I loathed the thought of those cold substances
Stealing away the warmth from your blood, they kept you safe.
They ushered you away
From that distant white shore,
We have come to call death.
Until one day they simply could not save you any longer.
But there was a lingering flame
Amongst the grief that was waiting to pounce
Because? You were fighting.
Like a soldier you were fighting,
With your bare hands struggling against the predator called death.
You fought with every last ounce of will in your body,
Until God called your name,
And you grew your wings, and you left.
Visitors come and go
An endless flurry of desperate hugs
Fairy-like kisses upon my cheek; soaked, saturated in tears.
Because that was the first time,
I had ever felt absolutely, completely, powerless.
I was shrinking back into a shell of myself,
Speak when spoken to I reminded myself.
And through the night I would choke back my fear,
And I sang to you. Childhood melodies.
And they seemed so far away; out of my grasp.
I clutched a strangers hand
Your hand, was delicate and soft
This hand was swollen; foreign.


But I didn’t let go. Not yet.
I ran my hand through your hair,
And I didn’t get the scent, of lavender and soap.
I retched. Inhaling something harsh.
Because as I put one finger to your head,
It came away with blood.
Still.
You layed so, so, still.
Your chest rising and falling; with breaths that weren’t yours.
And I still,
Still, read you stories and talked to you-
In that scarce hope that you would wake up,
And I could hug you for real.
Not having to heave myself over you;
Being delicate, in fear of choking you.
But I still hoped.
God, I hoped with everything in me that you would make it.
I prayed on my knees,
Screaming in a silent room that,
I would abandon my faith- if God stole you from me.
And yet, stolen from me you were.
The doctors were hopeless,
Reminding us- the damage is irreversible.
If not today, you would die tomorrow.
But I would not desert you.
I still hoped.
I hoped.
I kept hoping.
And the next day came.


The day before you died.
The white sun broke through the window,
Embraced the room and clarified.
The shadows that the limbs,
Of the simple oak tree make on the hospital wall;
Stark and bellowing.
The leaves are all gone.
The leaves and the colour are gone.
The tree is devoid of youth and joy;
And in the tree- I see you.
It hurts.
You are the mannequin of a sleeping girl.
But the heaviness of you,
As though your insides have turned to lead.
I believe it is lucid now,
A dying girl.
Trapped in a coma.
Tomorrow, you’ll be gone.

My sister’s eyes are closed.
I pull her closer,
Inhale what remnants of her pure scent is left.
I want to hold her, In this world.
Keep her close,
Let her never to leave- not yet.
Her hair brushes my cheek.
She is still sleeping-
Why is she still sleeping?
And then,
I begin to cry
I do not stop,
And I lay my sister down.

On the white sheet.
My sister,
Her eyes flutter open.
And sees shadows,
Sparrows on the wall.
Flocking to the naked limbs of the simple oak tree.
She smiles,
A small, beautiful smile.
And she points to the shadows on the wall and says


“It’s okay now, look, the leaves are returning to the tree.”
This is probably the most personal thing I have ever written. The most raw, the most real account of my sisters death. This poem doesn't speak of my grief, as my others do. But rather takes on the perspective of the girl I was when my sister was dying, A small thank you for reading, God bless you all <3
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