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Tragedy bestows the widowed sufferer.
Lustered in the cause of sheer beauty,
forlorn masks are shared generously.
when a widow suffers the remorse of tragedy, they have no choice but to share the same masks of the peers who present their condolences at a funeral.
Kyle T Oct 12
Will there be a time when
All this technology ends

When the screens go down
We all mute the sound

Will we return to a time
Not forged in financial design

When the ROI and the GDP
Big money banks we no longer see

Or the interest rates and credit lines
Hidden fees and holdback fines

And tell them, when I turn my shoulders to the night,
I sent you to discuss the market's yield's human right
It was better when it was better.
Kyle T Oct 10
There are tiburones off the Fla. Keys
Believe me, out there in the aqua deeps
Sometimes they swim up into the sandy shallows
But not often;
And usually only at night while you’re on a veranda sipping a
Glass of red wine,
Safe in the glimmer of a tropical neon beer sign
Underneath palm trees.

These tiburones swim off shelves and under cantilevers
Continental shifts in deeps
Sandy bottoms, they cruise by
Like missiles
Fired from dusky deep ephemera
Assimilated by the amorphous ocean infrastructure
Flotsam and careened ships off gray coasts
Rusted and dead steel under the raining ash
And the sea foam that pools around their husks they falter, canted, and tipped
And lost as quick as were, gone, betrayed to the deeps again.

But, sometimes, tropical shallows
A Latin lover's osculant kiss
A fumbling of the belt buckle
Swimming dark waters under moonlight
Dark eyes, red lips
Surl breath dlipped wet
Held in ocean's gentle soul
Pearls aligned distant metaverses
Transcendent, therefore, only Beautiful

They don’t care to bother with you, mostly, the tiburones.
They’re curious, a dorsal fin to cut the surface, an indifferent pass
You are not the wine they seek to drink.

But if you find yourself afloat;
Lost or hurt,
If you venture too far from your shore,
Carried by the gentle waves, the inverse gravity of water
When the ocean seems benign...
...They’ll come cruising.

It won’t take long.

Doll-eyed and mechanical, they’ll swim by
Just to say..... Hello.

I have not seen many tiburones but they impart,
Even to those who have never seen them,
This unspeakable fear:
Not so much of the Oceanβ€”Few ever enter the Ocean
But of some assimilation of thought
Where it passes by from dark end to dark end
Sunrise to sunset, and a portentous silhouette beneath you,
If not of the wry toothed smile, and the porcelain ghost…

Then of what?
Could it be of the thought of teeth?
Or of a malicious ghost agnostic of your importance?
Of the specter that cares not of your potential,
Disregarding your position in this world.
Something that treats you with true Equality-

Could it be the things in this world that say Hello with teeth?
There are abbreviated bits of flesh rent in life.
I wear these battle worn scars.
And not instead of love but because it’s the only way
They know how to smile at you.
It’s how they say Hello.

I only have seen their reflective eyes in the shallows
Off the verandas where I have sat and drank
Drunk myself into a stupor, a vibration in my fingertips, in my mind
No sommelier am I.

The red liquid fills my mouth and paints my teeth an indelible red and drips from my mouth from my ****** lips
I have bit too hard,
And spilled my red wine onto the table
Watching it drip viscously off the table and stream to the floor
And pool in great deep redness on the veranda’s floor
Drops and drops and then, restless, I drop back into the depths
In the dead, burnt-out center of the wine’s pool
And watch it assimilate into the porcelain.

And the deep darkness of the red miscegenates with white porcelain
And it all fades in and out standing on that perfect precipice of wine and violence
The wind and flux of ocean waves and darkness
Those eyes down there, refracting moonlight, deadened orbs
The wine deliquesces from veranda’s precipice to waves
The great adulteration, the miscegenation, it all goes flux.

And I drop off, assimilated into darkness, there:
Where the bits of flesh torn from teeth and I swim away
Dismembered, deformed

And a flutter in the shallows,
A quick, precise splash,
A perfect torsion
Writhing bodies.

And those black eyes roll over white,
And those archaic teeth descend,
And pulled under the dark ocean
Without even the moon to give me my light
And in my breath’s last seconds,
I’m perfectly assimilated into this structure,
Deliquesced, relaxed, and gone into the depths,
Swimming in the sulfuric bottom
Of my glass of red wine.
This hurts to read, only for me. Enjoy.
Kyle T Oct 8
Fluorescent uplit lights
Throws no shadows
Shows no life
No vestiges therein

Monitors' frontward glow
Radiates no future, no past
Well lit death
No matrix destination

The rows and cubes behold
A conformed neatness
An oppression
A regime built against creation

The soul flutters above
Unseen but seeming
To hold life
The inexorable dullness of life
Had to write this while sitting in my office trying to find the beauty in modern things.
Kyle T Sep 22
These youths, they keep me young
I sit and watch them play
They dance before an older soul
In a lovely kind of way

They speak no words to hear
And yetβ€”
Their volume is prodigious
Their eyes see beyond the realms
With deeper intuitions
My first poem to be published here. Wanted to start short and sweet. Thank you.
Spadille Aug 24
I longed for someone to talk to
As my mind is filled with worries,
But there is nothing new.
It has always been like this,
And I eventually got used to it.
But it doesn't mean I'm not tired of it

I try to vent out but I remember I only have myself
All of this is bottled inside of me,
And I fear that I might explode
Nobody knows what I am going through, For I am forsaken

Everynight I battle with my demons,
And it whispers into my ear
Reminding me that I am desolated
No one to guide me.
No one to scream my frustrations to
No shoulder to cry on

And as the night deepens, as the air gets colder.
I find myself getting lost into the abyss
Frightened by the darkness
Praying for a miracle
Might contain some grammatical errors, English is not my first language. I'm open for corrections and constructive criticism, it will help me improve.
CC Aug 17
My heart got entangled
In memories of you
She returns to you always
You are her home
Kanika Chugh Jul 3
My voice doesn’t reach you there
But I know you hear it
My screams get numbed
But I hope my silences scrape you

a forlorn attempt to hold you
a whimsical endeavor to outgrow you
my memory poisoning my dreams
your absence obscuring my senses

when sunlight enters, I see
the bright light mocking me.
A voice always calling out to you
doesn’t matter it’s day or at night

Morning is meant to illuminate
not to succumb to dark.
Collecting souvenirs of wretched soul  
my voice eventually chokes to death.
The charmers are playing their game of glamour and deceit.

Every move of theirs is a blend of trickery and enchantment.

These beings of sophistication cast a dreamlike spell on the forlorn.

Charmers complete the incantation by whispering a traditional ritual.

They have held captive the minds of the forlorn.
They can either rupture the mind or can create one of their own kind.

Meanwhile, the forlorn cry out in surreal pain.

It isn't too late.
The charmers are not so perilous as they appear to be.
This hypnotic reality is creating boundaries.

The forlorn must step forward to change the game.
Change is the key in this game, or else it's just a cycle of unbearable emotions.
Isabella Mar 17
A sweater I put on, worn and worn.
To keep me safe, to keep me warm.
The outside soft, the inside thorns.
Tempting is, my love forlorn.

The sweater stays, ripped and torn.
For lost labors that I mourn.
A love has died, a love is born.
Hopeless is, my love forlorn.

To be so close, yet all so far.
I cannot reach, yet here you are.
I cannot leap, the jump's too hard.
Forlorn love tears us apart...

Disdainful tears, that mark my cheeks.
My helpless world, is far too bleak.
Without my strength I seem so meek.
Forlorn love makes me feel weak.

A sweater I put on, worn and worn.
To keep me safe, to keep me warm.
Love is pain, and love is scorn.
Wretched is, my love forlorn.
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