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J J Aug 2019
(To Emily)

On the bus
I've only the blank eyes of my
     reflection
to study, and the heat of a bitewound
on my lip
to accompany it.
       Rattling
back and fourth
   in my seat
Your face
Resonates
In my thoughts,
thru my eyes;
You keep me safe.
Written following a bus joruney home after one of the first meeting's with my future wife. She entered my life at a very depressed and lonely stage where I needed someone to cherish and cherish me back. I was gorged in Ezra Pound's early works at the time.
Bruce Demos Feb 2019
A bird perched on my chest last night.
You should have seen me jolt awake,
How it remained so near my face!

I stared at its gem blue, stained red.
Yet when I touched its bloodied plume,
A storm of black consumed my room.

With lightning’s strike I could perceive
Sweet-scented subversive coffee
Among French dreams of Liberty

Followed by sounds of clashing arms
Between brothers of blue and gray
Over the fate of the enslaved.

At once I felt the long struggle of
Tenant farmers now freed from lords,
Working mothers who dream of more.

My child ached from days of work.
His stomach starved because the Board
Deemed him something they can’t afford.

Too much! Too sad! I couldn’t last
A second more, and so I seized
The beast as my new centerpiece.

Such bright feathers but such a bore,
Now gawk with me and wine some more.
Tarik Aug 2018
Isolated I stood at the shadowed corner
illuminated only by the street lamp
across the decrepit road.

Deafeningly silent I sat perched
at the bench awaiting my vessel
to deliver me.

Coyly he drifted into my universe
wearing a cloak and a smile
that would charm a Queen's guard.

Stiff like a board I stared at him
existing at a medium between
the end and the beginning.

Puzzled I was at a loss of how
to approach this drifter and his
exceedingly charming demeanor.

Thunderously my heart thumped
waiting anxiously for my vessel
that could not come soon enough.

Do I dare succumb?
Torin Nov 2015
When the light
Is to bright to see
We go blind
Believing its darkness

We go blind
Running through the night
Hoping for the best
That we can

When all me need
Is each other

We are lost
Wishing for the best
Expecting the worst
We are lost

And all our love is wasted

When its dark
Too dark to to see
We need to feel
To know what is real

We are blind
Running through the night
Wishing for the best
That we can

And all our love is wasted
A song I wrote
ghostsax Feb 2015
the previous listener, who did so faintly and in a manner foreign to me, sat reasonably as I do now, or perhaps lain starry and jaded on some soft lawn riddled with the paused movements of those who watched, clouded with distraction, the life of a sweet nothing drown in descent from above as they cheered and screamed for it, for that meaningless treasure tainted by the vanity of their own desire, ignorant of the listener, of her own treasure then forming, as something warm and enduring in the seat of her chest, something to brood, to analyze, to cherish for a length, at great odds with the fleet and trivia that so dominated the struct of their noire.

but the listener had none of this, gulfed from the shaking and pressing, shielded the same from its symbol and write, opting to push for those few golden moments most certainly approaching her as the rest wraithed past, softly and shyly granting the scarcest and most shamefully starved of treelines, roadways and ballparks and wire staff, knowing but keeping that the few she would most deeply and fondly remember would be just these.

and so the listener and her lover stood past, sweeping over the artificial earths with little concern, not pausing or skipping for a moment to witness the wonder in the world around them and to soak up some indefinable fraction of its infinite offerings. from lain block to patch grass they strode, searching for their one moment, for that which so surely stood staunch and unmoving at some near point in their passage, but which always seemed to elude them, to taunt and hang and cackle in the face of their steadily growing contempt.

and then, as the crowd deserted their peaks for the safe and steady and trough, allowing those moments of elation to slip from them with ease, the listener let likewise all that was precious to her from her grasp, and fell into a similar place, one of deserted lows and recollections of the brightness that lay behind, of those very moments that felt their way independently into her heart and her soul, and left her love beside her, forever looking up into the dark.
written about a fond memory and the importance of loving the moment.
This mortal vein
These mortal eyes
This mortal skin
These all will die
This fading light
These fading dreams
This fading hope
These hearts that scream
This burning lie
These burning fears
This burning soul

I shed no tears
Who are we to weep for the dead? Their souls are no longer their own.

— The End —