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JL Jan 24
Engineering change through creativity,
Is like giving a fragrance its own flower to go by,
A vessel for the intangible emotion.
"Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens."
- J.R.R. Tolkien


The irony of it all is the loneliness of a star.
Not noticed in the nebula, she glances from afar.
At her neighbor’s neglect, even in nature of quasar.

The irony of it all is the silence of the owl.
A lot in the gloom it used to hoot and growl.
Prior to the onslaught of looks with a scowl.

The irony of it all is the frostiness of the blaze.
A fire that only freezes surrounds me in haze.
My friends, the flames, their stare a cold gaze.

The irony of it all is a bird that wants a cage.
Astounding is the absence of his own faith and sage.
To acquaint with his habitat, he is afraid to engage.

The irony of it all is a knight with no one to save.
To issue a kind aid, insignificant it is to crave.
So the importance of his ideal is dug into a grave.

The irony of it all is an unbreakable heart.
Tired of trying, it is an insatiable art.
That Heart’s betrayal splits the soul apart.

The irony of it all is the kissing of the hated.
Love was hostile, but the exes again dated.
And my heartbeat for her was hasped and gated.

The irony of all ironies, a phantom of tangibility.
Roaming amongst humans, champion of inutility.
Is the ghost of an emotion, the dust of heart’s fragility.
This is the first poem of the fourth chapter and it starts this last section of the anthology with a somber tone and a tight structure to reflect the ghost aspect of the speaker, bound to be unseen by the people around him and emotionally and psychologically unable to free himself from the prison he and others put him into.
annh Oct 2020
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I write to right the write-less, the unvoiced compendium of my experience. A

panoply of shadows between each line and behind the fumbled words miswritten

out of loyalty to the fiction I maintain. The letters which move beneath the page,

scintillating with suggestion, leaving their impression - a glimmer here, an echo

there; they are more honest than the fraught narrative that I deem fit to 'save'. I

write to right the write-less, to balance the unwieldy, to illuminate the intangible.


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‘Every act of reading is an act of forgetting: the experience of reading is a palimpsest, in which each text partially covers those that came before.’
- James A. Secord, Victorian Sensation: The Extraordinary Publication, Reception, and Secret Authorship of Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation
Kyle T Oct 2020
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.
Anmol Mago Nov 2019
Not all that you see
can be put to words
Not all that you feel
can ever be expressed

There is something
S O M E T H I N G
hidden behind
the corner of your eye
and I haven't
quite found
the word for it yet
Can it be (love)?
Anmol Mago Nov 2019
They say-
(love is intangible)

And yet
each day
I could see
your tears
calling out to me
That which is lesser understood is often the most important aspect of our lives.
Rumi or Kabir the examples are endless. Love is in a way passage to the ultimate.
James Oct 2019
Like time, are we found through serendipity.
Minutes, a mere tick to unfounded revelation.
Past, are the days when we go subtly by, dissipating into the night sky.

Like time, our corporeal spirits aloft into the pitchy sky.
The tender kiss, a gentle stroke, nuanced by the caressing love of the lunar above.

Like time, are we imprisoned in our own conscious. A mere abstract picture, blown into the winds, caught adrift, and veered into the dark streams of reality's heavy rift.

Like time, we are ethereal wayfarers: youthful beings marked by ephemeral nature, merely to trance the universe's wake.

And like time, our departure ticks till the last grain meets, and the sand flipped, to start all over again, and again, and again.
ms reluctance Apr 2019
Incomplete beauty –
a photograph of a wave –
shadow memory.
Poetry form - Zappai
NaPoWriMo Day #1
Pyrrha Jul 2018
Be happy they say
As if its a command, a switch, a lever
So simple to them
They do not see
How intangible it is for us

The ones who refuse to pretend
To lie to ourselves
To lie to everyone

Be happy they say,
Be happy
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