Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Fheyra Jul 2020
Festive morn, I crossed with thee
Embellished silk shines with whirling elegance—
Of translucent textures and fine fragrance
The royal formation— that anticipates a chance—
A romantic browse of catered acquaintance.

As I swipe to slant,— Thy arms braced my shoulders— and uplift me—
In awe of my still,
Slipped palms of thy distant longed—
In the halls of hide and seek—
Despite the fragments,— Thou aimed to break the lines,—
Chasing this harmony,
Unravelling the elflock sway;— to clutch the Orchid; Until she stays..
In a prestigious ball, where all has started. They met gracefully.
Simon Oct 2019
A conundrum that can't be tested, even how hard you try to exercise every specific. Just ail parts on a spinning axis with no conclusion! The conclusion to test the bewildered expression of pieces without there own thoughts. Feelings resort to compassion. Excluding the taste all together. It’s messy how something exists, which has no theme to what they are, and how one is tested. Tested to take your parts and find some commonality with more existing parts that urge the taste of compassion. A taste with its sense of propriety. Justification to mount moral terms with oneself. Oneself can’t tell itself apart. Only pieces trying to organize itself while spinning their connections down the rut! Permanent desire to fetch them out of the phase that’s established its original premise. Originality has no qualms with the likes of compassion. Setting up without any discernible corrections. Meant for outsiders within themselves to judge, plan, and exercise, without mercy to anything but oneself. Spinning axis burns desires upon urges that breakdown over time. The spinning pace doesn’t stop, until you stop and learn what truly is happening. Pieces remain in the rut. The rut full of many spread out phases too much to take in all at once. Plans don’t go to your agreement. Something outside oneself has yet to appreciate yourself, and what you have to offer. Except how does one do that when many pieces are too spread out for one to notice? Every specific is already radiating like a charged particle. Charging too much friction between one another. Trying not to lose one another in the constant spin of irony. Irony devoted without practice. Practice makes time for oneself to finally notice the originality of its premise isn’t truly spinning on its axis. It’s actually strolling for one’s interpretations to finally notice its static charge. The different pieces are holding on. Fetching the obvious back into circulation. Circulation outmatched not by itself. But by perception of a fully established sense of self.
Pieces aren't social by themselves. There social when spread out radiuses can't discern the label of what one has to express. Lagging out transmissions to judgeable by pace alone.
Ken Pepiton Jun 2019
it's a mere wink from the waning moon,
it's two o'clock, in the after noon, post

in to night, it feels

It always does, be not astonied, it's a trip,
you did not stumble,

you are not fallen.

Astonishing is what stoning was in my realm,
we never imagined
rocks used as apes use rocks.

Astonishment, we meant.
Show the fool the truth, let'm

imagine what they saw,
samesame what
we all see as we 'come round
the mountain,
when you see,
you know you saw

the fools say
they see, after
the fact.

There is some way, where there
seems no way. Some times take days,
some take no time at all. Change what you know.

In merest of minutes, the moon shall slip
below my horizon and my
spelling trance fail
to make sense
from in or
of darkness, this time of day.

Redeem the lunatics,
this cult culture made made our children mad,
for noreason, but gravity and
matters of time, some
an imbalance in the way
words reach round the world,
as fast as a spell spoken

in the beginning. Bang.
You're dead. Too bright.

No, you did not anger the gods,
this is an old thing,
under the sun.
Augmentisism is a shock to the system,
so no mindmob sees this without being
Upgraded to use the tech.

Now, wait for the tech,
we always beat them to the finish.
Artisto Informo Archeo Typo
whiteout, blame the paradigm shift,
they insist on punctuality.
---- life goes on, we always win in the end. True.

A new voice added to the choir,
preached to
the lie was law
among men imagining

only evil, continually.
Catastrophic morphic
resoundings ding ding ding

Do any American children recall air-raid
sirens announcing noon?

Do they know how to hop a freight,
and twist the rails into
an idea for a
based on an origami swan taken to the nth?
An a musing day, June 27, 2019. Historical and all. For unknown reasons.
Time May 2018
It poured and poured,
The clouds were relieved,
trapped for so long,
Felt burden less as it splatted,
Creating a ripple
as it landed on the water
or landing softly,
On the green grass,
Making it moist,
Or crashing on to the compacted concrete,
Forming the pitter-patter sound,
Petrichor smell spreading everywhere,
It fell and fell,
Until the clouds realized,
That after the rain,
There was always sunshine,
And that was how her story began,
With a bit of sunshine,
And a bit of rain,
But she was the rainbow that was created,
In that beautiful combination.
Izlecan Feb 2018
Ecstasy mire in its own sorrow,
As if a ghost makes love to its shade.
The wooden door merely holds the knock;
Instead it punches out within the walls,
Dispersed as if a blow of clay.
There the sound hauls up a craft:
Foul of the wooden scent.
Just as it intertwines with cloisters,
The curves are lined into a  silhouette.
The mountainous fogs are sharpened,
The apex is buttoned and round.
The matter it is that shapes the core:
The mere marriage of soul and dust.
How a flesh can tease its craft,
As it gnaws on a clavicle(?)
The ghost sips on a river,
As if making love to its shade.
K Balachandran Oct 2017
As if one  moving with an intent,
the flock of birds,of same feather,
with out any flight plan whatsoever,
or navigational chart,all approved,
change formations in lightning speed,
in to shapes none can ever imagine,
breathtaking to view, different each minute,
they do this in mid flight, reminding the quicksilver
dynamics of ocean waves,each minute day and night.
Shawn Oct 2017
too many souls
live life like
it's a test
always rushing
to absorb the
i n f o r m a t i o n
nothing is
in  f o r m a t i o n.
Nathan Box Aug 2017
Broken glass in various forms washes up on ocean shores.
Edges smoothed by the violence of salt.
The water was never meant to be home.
Again, they find themselves in unfamiliar territory.

As I stand over green, blue, and brown pieces, the sun breaks through.
Gathering warmth, they shine in the winter air.
Here, before me is a metaphor for my life.

I am broken glass in various forms.
Made of varying shapes and types, I have found myself on unfamiliar shores.
Beached for a while then taken into the grips of the vast, I return again to where it all started.

Now, people comment on how out of place I am.
In the same breath, they compliment my beauty.
We are products of our environments.
Time moves us into new directions and places.
When uncomfortable, we shine.

Looking up from the glass, I feel a calm come over me.
Epiphanies come to me in the strangest places.
K Balachandran Mar 2017
Sparrows in brisk flight,
divide, avoid the tower
their reunion seamless!
Nature teaches every creature the laws of avoiding conflict
Next page