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Zywa Mar 19
Let us just enjoy

this late evening together --

After us the spring!
A final farewell

Old Chinese poem: "The farewell", 1908, Gustav Mahler, based on the free version "In Erwartung des Freundes" by Hans Bethge from 1907, after "Su Ye **** shan fang" by Meng Haoran [690-740] and "Songbie" by **** Wei [699-759])

Collection "Thinkles Lusionless"
By the Spanish Arch
a few kind crusty folks
talk in the March sunlight.

Soft incantations of sweet trad
spill from a concertina, tin whistle
and fiddle, sloshing out an ambiance.

An old fella' makes a poor man's black velvet,
The ladies drink Estrella Galicia and San Miguel.
Another lad jokes: my grief counselor died last week

but he was so **** good I didn't care.

A motley crew, good-natured and friendly,
Drawn to session like moths to a flame;
Always I wonder whether I belong.

"I think in his heart Frodo is still in love with the Shire:
The woods, the fields…little rivers. I'm old Gandalf.
I know I don't look it, but I'm beginning to feel it"
Lines Fourteen to Sixteen from The Lord of The Rings.
Zywa Feb 16
In evening twilight

everything shrinks, the street noise  --

the houses, myself.
Collection "WoofWoof"
the scars that skies paint,
on my face are stains,
that i preserve to show my soul.
i am a sucker for strong ffelings,
that often weep and get back up,
to paint colorful billboards in slums.
eyes are just nomads, they only see
the flame that is burning but the flame that's gone
is stored in aphorisms that mother's read
to their children at night, hoping
god will save them, from all above and below.
i seem to find solace, in tying up my body, using words
as knives that tear apart organs piece by piece.
it is better to die in honour, than masked radioactivity,
consuming you, like water in an ocean, like glaciers that do not want to melt and yet are subdued.
how long can someone play hide and seek, how long can u seek
shelter in the reality that often hides it's counterpart.
are you trying to smell the rose, or sacrilege the thorns?
these days will only end, in disbalance, like the ticking diving and
crashing of all the times, where forever was a noun in dystopia.
just stop listening, and start absorbing, time has lost it's crown,
humans have lost their endeavour, and
the only way to be truly sane, is flowing ever eternally like
the shape of water, succulent in all forms.
we are not one but many, scars that will draw out roads for us
to follow, roads that will lead us to meaning to we caanot comprehend with the five senses.
nobody is ready, nobody ever was.
tell me, how do we mourn such a privilege, one we
cannot touch, or feel or sense,
because what lies withing is forbidden to all of us,
case study on humans.
George Krokos Jan 31
As the sun goes down
and day is all but over
a new world begins
Written in 2020
Kora Sani Dec 2021
i found the most solace
in the mornings
as the sun covered the sky
and the evenings
as the hours of daylight dwindled

these two moments
slowly became
my only
reliable constant

the only thing
to accompany
the darkness
that engulfed me
Anais Vionet Dec 2021
Stars spark from a deeping, clear, blue winter sky as
the moon prepares to enter the scene, stage left.

A breeze sweeps away the last blushes of sunlight and
evening caroling-bells, ring like wind-chimes.

The evening chill makes students walking back from
classes seem to walk a little closer for warmth.

Students, huddled to nail down evening plans seem to smoke,
like the exhaust of cars exiting campus in bumper to bumper traffic.

Wet sidewalks, like dark and winding mirrors, twist reality, inverting
and reflecting lights - bending them into pointing the way home.
a fall evening walking back from class
neth jones Nov 2021

     the sun rungs fears
     pusher of its inquiry
     ringer in of chore
     and civil obligation

dissolving this days events              
jonesing for the eve                           
    when poaching the social solution
will bait me into the night snare
Nat Oct 2021
The old neighborhood is a labyrinth
Of second-story windows, lamplight and
Distant smells of pencils and dryer sheets
Of a Sunday dinner that never ends
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