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Ylzm 2h
My tongue's not my own neither the deepest longings
And neither these for pursuit nor grasping but to know
Of promises unknowable in the flesh but will be
For which given only glimpses of their shadows
And to know that before Time and for all times
Not futility as seeming for the Teacher is present
And so too the end's the beginning and vice versa
But to hear the Voice for in the dark the ears see
H AE MZ Sep 24
I look out, to see nothing
Only shadows that refuse to speak.
I look in, to feel nothing
As if my soul forgot how to breathe.

Once, I held hope in trembling hands,
A flame that flickered in the storm.
But winds of sorrow snuffed it out,
And left me cold, without a form.

Now i drift, untethered, unsure,
As a stranger to life I knew.
Is there a path beyond this dark?
Or is my fate to just pass through?

I've made the changes, stitched the seams,
A patched up heart, but no relief.
For what is better if hope is gone?
An empty vessel that holds my grief.

The days move on, yet I remain,
A drifting form, caught in between.
I reach for light beyond the dark,
But linger where no hope is seen.

So I exist, without a dream,
No spark to guide me through the night.
I wander through the haze of time,
A fading star, devoid of light.

Will hope return, or is it lost?
A question I may never know.
But even in this endless night,
I'll keep moving, slow and low.
"Where Am I Going" is a deeply personal poem that captures my own  sense of being lost, both internally and externally. Using imagery of shadows, storms, and fading light, I express feelings of numbness, grief, and the absence of hope. Even though I've made changes in my life, I recognize that without hope, those changes feel futile. I'm still searching for meaning, drifting in uncertainty, unsure if I'll ever find the answers I am looking for. Despite the darkness, there's a quiet resilience in me, as I keep moving forward—slowly and without clear direction. The final stanza leaves the question of hope open, reflecting my ongoing journey.
Jamesb Sep 10
We have spoken of tacking
Our ships away,
Changing our divergence
From one mile
For every sixty sailed,
To one mile every mile
As we part at ninety degrees,

Having sailed close aboard
A few years with
Turbulent waters between
Our hulls
Offset by occassional beautiful
Moments of sunrise
And reddened dusk,

The sun is now more often
Obscured by storm clouds,
Black and angry,
Unfeeling and irrational,
Lightning-full and dangerous,
With fewer sunny moments
Or even any forecast

The wind is picking up,
And the waves have
White caps on their heads,
Spray bursts more often
Over my bow and the rain
Is freezing now
Time not to tack so much

As wear ship,
Turn away from the wind,
Give up the beat to windward,
Accept the futility
Of a fools errand,
Slamming into a sea that
Does not forgive nor want me,

Turn instead south,
Away from the teeth of
A gale driven by spite and ADHD,
Sail south and hope to find
A sunnier clime
Before my ship

Finally

Sinks
There are times when one knows one should give in, knows that one is causing oneself pain, knows its unlikely to change, can see the smart move is to bail, yet keeps on anyway. This poem looks at the moments immediately before a dramatic change, where the hope of better things has not yet quite died
Ken Pepiton Sep 2023
Autobio. Belief. Cautious ****,

dear, the cost, of time lost, while aching,
after sitting as still as you can imagine
for as long as you can imagine,
ignoring bowel and bladder,

yawn, and feel the stretching, think again
any work in progress
works best with conjoined minds of the kinds
one finds in old texts, and sometimes, illustrations.
Suddenly life has people init intuitive arting on letting peace be.
a fly, bloated, buzzes
trapped between the window and the curtain

i hear it bump against the glass
the wings crumple
the fly falls
landing unceremoniously on the windowsill

after a moment, the fly is once again airborne
returning to the window
to continue its exercise in futility
the trouble is
sleep doesn't
ever seem to last
long enough
no matter how many
hours are lost
to its nothingness
discarded willingly
to the vague
and the vacuous
some might say
for dream's sake
but debate remains
around the benefit
relevance or reverence
to be found
in that logic
waking up always
brings with it
a desire for more
for a return to
a form of non-being
where presence
and nullity
have equal sway
to be
and
not to be
ego
     id
        superego
free of interference
from that backwards
rationality
   of consciousness
Annatman Oct 2022
Comforting possiblity
That, still, you suddenly recall
The ultimate futility
Of doing anything at all
The best possible outcome
neth jones Sep 2022
sap life's might                                                                                           ­      
sweet meat played against its decay
fertile pocket of the grimace death                                                        
                                         meat sweet pocket baby of pacing matey death
pant my way into the afterlife                                                        ­
                                   punt one betraying thought after-naught
nutritious carriages rattling a plenish                                  
                 gatling across the brains warlord terrain
                raided til pointless                                                        ­  
by the desert fetching in on all sides
a verse far removed from its misplace in a longer work

MARK
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