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Willow Dec 2024
How deep does adoration run?

When is something fully selfless?

If the blade had pierced an inch to the side,

If the metal had torn through blood as much as fat,

Would the deed have been done?

If the precious life had spilled like ichor,

If the slitting had ended in death,

Would she have gone through,

The way the blade went through her flesh?

How selfless is selfless, really,

When it comes at little cost,

To anyone other than the others?



When is such harm justified?

What else to we see, and let slip?

How often to we twist and turn the words in our mouths,

Spin them around in our minds until they make sense to us?

How often to we change the core of a phrase,

Puff ourselves up with false knowledge and say that no,

I was in the right all along?

How often are we ourselves Orual,

Shunning the Gods for mistakes we’ve made ourselves?

How often to we like to think we’re Psyche,

Calm and fearless in the face of prosecution?

How often are we, ourselves, the prosecutors?

And when do we let it end?

How many times have we been no more than the Fox,

Scorning those who believe in what we call fairy tales,

Modern magic to which we love to turn up our noses?

How long does an act last, I wonder,

Before it becomes as real as the skin we wear on our bones?

How much of our reality becomes shrivelled,

Hiding in our veins the way Orual hid behind the Queen?

How many times, I ask,

Is that truly safer than the alternative?

How many of us hide behind shallow veils,

Dig the old selves barren graves?

How much of our life is no longer real?

How long will it last?



And think, for a moment,

Of the truth you may believe in?

How often does it shine like the oil lamp,

How often are we revealed and punish?

How often to we destroy when seen?

How many times, do you think,

We spend setting up impassable trials,

To keep ourselves hidden?

How many people, do you think,

Have truly past those courses?

Who do you actually know?

And who, reader, truly knows you?

How much of ourselves is a veil?

Do we even know who we are?
A poem based off of the novel "Till We Have Faces - A Myth Retold" By C.S. Lewis
O, night, why give life to such being
whose existence ends one with a swing of a scythe?
As one lies on a bed that's all white--
food for worms, as they rot in a blink of sight.
An inevitable end:
fate that no one could bend.
A helpless gasp for wind—
as the blue road pumps the last flow of bleed,
the question: what is life?—will be filled.
Yottalomaniac Sep 2024
Simple
Cold
...Spartan

Moments pass
impressions don’t

the Impression
of that Tree Wet and Dead
I so dread

I dread dark, cold and wet
Yet the Night’s solace stays unmatched
A spartan poem befitting a sense of hopeless combat and death as one fights one's demons at Thermopylai.
Maxwell Edwards Sep 2024
Blessed by Aphrodite
Her hair as long and silky as fjord
Her eyes direct gateways into her beautiful and complex mind
Her smile untainted by the hate this painful world unleashes onto us all

Blessed by Aphrodite
Her body curves like the seven sister hills
Her Skin kissed personally by the sun
She is never cold it could be the coldest day of the year but when we touch it as I have ran into burning building

Blessed by Aphrodite
Her mind is puzzle I wish to solve she is loved by everyone around she lacks enemy’s and have friends in abundance
She is perfect in every possible way
No wonder I love her
Bout a beautiful girl
Zed Aug 2024
Experience was without form,
And so I shaped instinct.
Between them was love,
And so they gave birth to intelligence-
But intelligence grew alone,
So they adopted wisdom.
And wisdom loved intelligence,
And honored their parents,
So they created a family.
There were all the emotions,
And all together they built a home.
There was the body,
Something physical to provide shelter.
We called the land Elysium,
And we were the Ethos.
PERTINAX May 2024
I look down from blue skies on high.
Birds fly,
And sing.
Clouds make their rounds.
Shifting shapes,
Take the form of peace,
Content with itself.
The wind whooshes and whirls my hair.
I smile at its gentle caress,
Happy to receive an old friend.
Together we surf the heavens,
Bid our greetings
And farewells,
To the Gods above.
Feeling safe and protected.

Arching across the firmament,
I become separated from the wind.
Frantic,
I search the sky for any sign
Of my wayward friend.
I ask of the birds:
"Do you yet glide upon the breeze?"
"No," said they,
"We must flap and flap
Just to stay a flight."
Worried,
I look down at the clouds;
Still moving,
Shapes still.
...
And dark.
So... Dark.
Lights flashed within.
A terrible boom sounded,
Causing me to loose focus on my peace,
Leaving me to fall downward,
Ever downward towards the raging storm.
Panicked, I yell to the Gods in the heavens:
"Please, I have lost the wind,
And without it,
I am left to plummet!"
I was scared.
Would the Gods save me?
Would the wind?

My prayers unanswered,
I plunged into the abyss.
My hairs stood on end
As electricity arced.
The sound of thunder,
Deafened my ears,
Leaving a hollow ringing,
Screaming,
Thinking it's the end I begin
To sing:
"Above the clouds I knew peace,
Tranquility,
The love of friends,
And songs of birds.
I was free to smile,
And happy with my lot,
High above the human rot;
But now I fall.
The Gods too cruel.
The wind is gone;
And storms duel.
If this is the end,
Then perhaps I will rise again."

As the last lyric left my lips,
I broke through the clouds,
Fighting off hail and sleet,
As I spun out of control.
Rain began to soak me,
Leaving me shriveled
And wrinkled,
As if I'd aged a century.
I can see the earth now;
My sweet mother,
Who had nurtured me,
And taught me to soar.
She too was also sodden.
Rivers flooded the ground.
Trees were being torn from their footing.
Lightning struck repeatedly.
A blinding cacophony,
That left dark scars on her skin.

Humans ran where'd they could.
Some climbed mountains,
Other dug into her flesh.
Parasitic cowards,
Unwilling to face their fate.
Their greed and avarice
Were what led me to the skies,
All that time ago,
When I cried to the great mother:
"They take and take and take,
Yet never do they give to you.
Once they worshiped you
With offerings of laurel
And incense.
Now they insist upon stealing your life."
Warmly, she brushed away my tears,
Saying:
"My dear nymph,
They know not what they do.
Just like you,
They too are searching for peace.
Though, they are not a part of me;
They do not pray to the Gods.
They do not dance with the trees.
They do not sing with the birds.
They do not blow with the breeze.
Much like lightning,
They are static,
And ever racing.
Life is a competition they feel they must win,
Regardless of the cost."

As the memory faded,
So too did that feeling of falling.
Looking around,
I saw light that was bright,
Instead of dark.
Clouds parted to shine brilliant rays,
Pristine,
A rainbow curved over a mountain top,
And birds sailed once more in leisure.
Looking down,
I see that I'm floating
Just inches from the ground.
Then feel just the slightest cool kiss
Brush across my cheek:
"My friend! You've returned!
And not a moment too soon!
For if you had been just a single second later,
I would have reunited with the mother,
Six feet under."
A new smile bloomed on my lips,
Relieved to be alive,
Yet also sad to see the state of Gaia;
Flooded and scarred.
She was unrecognizable.

I whispered to the wind:
"Set me down dear breeze,
For I must commune with the forest,
And help heal the damage
Caused by murderous men."
Unexpectedly, the wind lifted me up,
But not towards the heavens.
No,
The wind raced me to the nearest mountain;
Rainbow still curved over,
Where the humans huddled
In their ragged masses.
Stricken, I fought against the wind,
Wanting only to fall again:
"Those men and those women,
Threw me away so long ago.
They made me feel such pain and sorrow
As they hewed my forest
To satisfy their insatiable hunger,
Forgetting those days of peace,
Where nymphs helped lost humans,
And humans composed beautiful poems
About nymphs.
... And their great mother."

The wind did not listen,
Setting me down in the center of the pestilence.
I cowered,
Wondering why my friend
Would act so cruel?
The humans around me shied away.
Some yelled "demon".
Others "fiend".
I cried then,
Feeling other than,
And yelled at them:
"Stay away you barbaric heathens,
I will not let you cut me again!
Nor witness you harm my mother!"
Then, I felt the wind...
It nudged me towards a crying child.
She wasn't much taller than myself.
I felt... empathy for it.
Together we cried tears of fear,
And sorrow;
Both victims of life's losses.
Mine, in the past.
Hers, in the present.
Sobbing, I asked her:
"Why do you cry young one?"
She wailed:
"I lost my mommy!"
My tears redoubled as I said:
"I too have lost my mother,
But it is not the same.
You see, dear child,
I have been watching my mother die
For far longer than you have lived,
Or will live.
So do not cry.
Instead, go offer some incense and laurel
To the spirit of Gaia;
Pray to the Gods.
Dance with trees.
Sing with birds.
Blow in the breeze.
Find peace in nature as your people once did,
And compose a poem for me,
To read in Elysium.
...
If you do this,
A mother you will find.
I know, because I asked the Pythia,
Long ago,
In a different time."
Hermes Varini Mar 2024
VLTORIS MEA INCIDENS SVVM ÆTERNVM IMAGINE THORAX
DIXIT VNIVERSI MIHI LAPIDE AΠΟΦΘEΓΜΑΤΙ TYRANNVS
DVM SCYTHIÆ SVPER SANGVINE ARDEOR INVICTO
SEXTA RESVLTANS MEA NOCTIS SPECVLO FORMA
CÆDIT SVO PROBVS SIGNATOS FVLMINE POSTES
QVO VASTATIO CHALYBE DICITVR ESSE INDIGNI
VICTRICIS AQVILA TVRMA SACRI CONSONA
PRIMO SIGILLO TEVCRVS NOMINE CRVORIS

VINDEX XYSTO DÆMON IΕΡΩ

MITHRÆO TEGVNT FVLGENTEM TENEBRÆ HOSTES TEMPLVM.
A composition of mine in Classical Latin touching my own beyond-modern, or else beyond the Cogito OVER-CROSS and FEUDOVERMAN new notions. TEMPLVM is “temple”, in both the Greek, or Roman or Carthaginian (or ancient, in general) and Steel-Medieval acceptation, as now related chiefly to the latter. A SUPREME and OVERWHELMING, New Superomistic Shrine is thus set forth, flashing with primordial force into an Eternal Night (MITHRÆO TEGVNT FVLGENTEM TENEBRÆ HOSTES TEMPLVM), and utterly dabbled in Battle-Gore (PRIMO SIGILLO TEVCRVS NOMINE CRVORIS). IΕΡΩ ("through the Temple") is Ancient Greek for this very word as well, as thus employed in the instrumental dative (TO IΕΡON being its neuter singular nominative). Told in the first person.
Hermes Varini Mar 2024
ILLE QVI VNICVS DEBELLATOR PROSTRATO REGE VNIVERSI    
HARVM IGITVR ENTIVM IGNEA CELEBRANTVR SYMBOLA  
VLTIO EXTRAMVNDANI VIRI VENI MIHI ALTA EREBO
DVM BELLI LIBER SCVTO IMPERAVIT IPSE TEMPLVM
  MALA FVLMINE INFAMIA PERIT MVNDI VICTA

VINDEX XYSTO DÆMON ΞIΦEI 

AVSONIÆ TENENS ROSAM CHALYBE RVBRAM.
A composition of mine in Classical Latin touching my own ontology, in now further reference to my own OVER-CROSS new conception. DEBELLATOR means “conqueror”, “subduer”. ΞIΦEI is ancient Greek for “with the Sword”, “through the Sword” (instrumental dative).
bri Mar 2024
Maybe I give myself too much credit: that I am good, I am doing better, I am great at my craft, that I have something to show everyone when in reality I am just average at best. What else do I show of myself that is worth a praise more than just “you did your best”? How bare do I have to be for people to pay attention to me? Maybe I am just having a bad day that has been going on for 182 days. But at the end of it all, I am just a mere performance worth 59% rotten tomatoes, it’s more than half, but barely fresh. At least I did my best? What other ******* do I have to say to myself so I don’t end up crying with a blade in my hand? It seems that trying is just never going to get me far, and the best I can give everyone is this: the mediocre poet who dreamed too high and fell so deep she died on sea. She had wings too weak and dreams too heavy that the only place she could reach was the clouds of 9, where she could only see from a few feet afar before she landed and died. That is the only thing I can offer.
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