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Man Jan 2021
there was something i wanted write
some thing i wanted to make right
but in the end, i lost sight
and moved on

there were many things i wished to do
many a thing that would've borne fruit
but nearer the finish, my light grew dimmish
so i moved on

you told me there was never
an answer to the question "forever"
but death knows different
because we move on

and there is no trying now
no sense in staving off the dying, anyhow
a distance merchant comes to pick up his purchase
of a bid you can't out
Sanjali Aug 2020
Oh, hello there adventurer!
Won’t you check out my wares?
I have everything you need,
If you got coin to spare!

You want potions and spells?
I even got ingredients to brew.
Some steel? Bah!
I got arrows too.

You want some bargain?
Use enchantment or a spell,
Or chug a concoction
It’s not like I can tell!

Now, don’t be shy
I’ll buy everything from you!
Those -stolen- borrowed goods you got?
Friend! I’ll take them too.

Ah! You’re broke.
Well then, off you go.
Guards! Thief!
It took all the sweet rolls!
Dedicated to the npcs
Harley Hucof Apr 2020
Spirits and shadows living in obscure extremities
I move freely among them since i was a litlle kid

I am familiar with their world just as they are familiar with mine
Funny mysterious entities looking out for me in the most critical times

And they stare at me, but not with their eyes
Just as i see them without using my sight

And their voice springs out from my belly
Telling me to chase my desires endlessly

I obey and i am awed

For i traded my senses to a merchant disguised as a god

I chase the serpent and i consult death to my left
My time has not yet come , the spirits smile and i know i am blessed.

Words Of Harfouchism
Meaning nothing
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2019
“I am a warrior, so that my son may be a merchant, so that his son may be a poet.”

John Quincy Adams, 6th President of the United States
a bad weakness, mine, mess with the perfect of others,
unsure what to add that will addictive illuminate further,
but as homage, a tribute, a salute
got to
got too,
no middle class delayed gratification for me, none, whatsoever,
read the words and my own hands choke me
as if to pull out, to free
the upsurging words in my chest-forming,
to uplift me up, from the floor where I am roiling in
wonderful wonderment at a prophecy come true

my recent family history,
about 400 years worth, got it written down someplace,
escapees from a Spanish Inquisition,
a Roman one before that,
meandering Jews who found a respite, a small welcome
in a small village in Germany

(the irony does not go unnoticed)

from villager to merchant, from tiny town to big city folk,
we went, warriors if any, kept secret, best unheard,
attract no attention, but do what survival doesn’t
always politely request

here I am child of the proverbial wandering jew,
fancy me a poet with, at best, a very small p,
one of three children, historians, book writers, scholars and even
and so a President’s words, hammer my cells
upon an anvil for human skins,
the future shape of me foreseen
and I think to myself,
alone and out loud:

This, This!

is what makes America great, 
welcoming the stranger,
even predicting their
possible pathway to a peaceful existence,
giving their descendant’s generations liberty,
liberty to become poets,
free, who can stand upright
neth jones Apr 2019
Tattle calls
Curses amongst the Merchants
They hack of new seasons
brided with ill weather
These social breaks
that cement their business relations ;
A ****** of Tongues
A Jinn
A wit that flees port
Fleas to the ears that scout town.
Adam Whiles Aug 2017
With sterile thank you's we say our goodbyes and set fire to our feet as we walk. Illuminating the opposite directions we now travel.

A hollow end to a race that never truly started because neither of us really know how to run. Though I would definitely like to pretend that I can, boasting of my previous wins and marathons, urging you to the start line as I stand next to you unable to move myself.

I am a masked hollow giving advice that I want to hear, obsessed with finish lines with no plan put into the journey, no realistic way to go. Moving not an inch while I stand still at the start.
I am ambitious beyond myself, I'll peddle fanciful tales of my dreams and the life we could lead, shadow checks that I have no intent of paying out.

My feet are on fire now but through no will of my own. I run in the opposite way using someone else's flames to push motivation into my legs. It will maybe get me halfway, if I'm lucky, before I stand around waiting for another tourist who will be easily manipulated into believing my fantasies and selfish promises.

I am a salesman masquerading as a running partner, with no intension of making it through the race.
You were right to say goodbye, never fooled by my disguise. You escaped before my faulty products and cheap knock offs poisoned your soul.
I hope your fire caries you to the finish line you run towards, leave the merchant's at the start before you go.
Righteous squib
direly free
with kindly
merchant must
hither upon
his brow
the brand
that may
fulfill any
desire though
with butter
in toe
made greed
wither which
to inherit
safely here
his treasure.
Ghost Relics**

where Main intersects Main
you'll see the last living tissue
of a breathing bazaar.
They weighed down her chest with bricks and girders.
It's a wonder she breathes at all.
Wander too far in any direction
and you're sure to see the husks
of once proud and bustling businesses.
Abandoned sanctums of mortar and majesty.
Scars of the Midwest etched as constants in our mind.
Dusty and silent since the cradle.
The theaters are bedeviled with dolled up haunts
who just wandered over from Greenwood to catch the matinee.
Management still leaves the lights on for kicks after hours
to throw off their sleep schedules while they wait for the feature to start.
Up all night, sleep all day; they read by neon and slumber under Sol.
Here I am, left lounging in The Devil's Chair. Crickets keep quavering.
Underneath the Franklin Street overpass sleeps a family bound by naught.
They watch in dawn's light as the few pedestrian that traverse Cerro Gordo
advert their eyes as some sort of silent symbol of respect for their situation.
It's as if the very stare of a privileged man could drain 'til depleted.
They never ask for anything, they just wade it out and listen to
the cars overhead, the train-clock's trumpet, and the heartbeats in between.
Leaks are patched, potholes filled, and yet
we're still loosing blood; becoming beguiled.
So many stray cats in the civilian savanna,
aimlessly seeking names and second chances.
"This premises is under police video surveillance" -
hanging like ornaments from streetlamp poles.
Guarding the gates
of a dwindling dominion,
as the armies of Union and Grand
wait in their camps
for the rust to take hold
of her iron veins.
Turn your head to the right for the skyline to come into view. Rise and decay. Rise and decay.
Shoulder to shoulder you bands of brothers landed.
Code name Operation Neptune was underway.
You noble breed, not knowing what lay ahead
Just knowing that your duty was called upon.
The bugle sounded, you all answered the call
nobly you waded those waters for all.
06/06/1944 was the day.
The largest seaborne invasion in history.
Yet, you brothers in arms were not caring of history making
Just making it to the beach, alive.
I can but humbly thank you for what you all did that day,
you that lived and those that died.
What thoughts must have played in your mind.
A lone piper played throughout, what courage you all displayed.
No wonder we that came after you, leave you feeling dismayed.
Many wars have been fought since, their courage is also undenied,
but, you, you thousands on those beaches showed the world the meaning
of pride, respect and warrior.
On the beaches of Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno and Sword,
you carved a way in. To end the war.
Nobler people I doubt exist, and soon this 70th anniversary
will fade in time, but not that date of June the sixth (1944)

— The End —