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Amanda Oct 2020
Molding lumps of clay,
Sticky, earthen residue,
shaped to doughy love.
Moulds and mold
Shape it right or let it rot
Meanings to words
As you seek
Ces Sep 2020
The tiny red ant scampers
In a forest of greenish mold
Its bristly legs carrying
Biological modules:
A head with pincers
An imperceptible thorax
A swelling abdomen.

It has nothing but a laborious drive
A pheromone-induced servility
For the queen: the lazy, bloated tyrant!
The sole purpose being
The laying of eggs.

The noble red ant
Moves on to scavenge
Blind and dumb
Oblivious.

To the ruthless cycle
Of its existence.
Ken Pepiton Sep 2020
How much can a lizard know, I wonder,
looking out my window at my rock
in the shadow of my house,
always a glance away when
an I am in this position
and aware there is
there, the rock, the still threaded witness,
in granite,

the shaking that shook up all the mountains
shook them all all up
at once

it was a whole planet shaking at once, rung
like abaodingball

abiding in the echoes we can hear with our augmental
ears,
we know whales sing when no one is listening,
as we know the sound of a certain tree
falling
in
a legend, new and old, a sticky thought,
ancient of days, is this lizard brain,
you still work?

WOW, OLD CODE FROMe ericfrome-ish havingbeing
Tomas Auge, reviewexpress weighting algorythm,

it tipped. 13 years, 327 days, 57 minutes 13. nnnnnnnnnnnnn

Any time this happens we yoostasay selah,
now we breathe,
once to be
once to have
once to hold and look around. are we dragging any fool
to madness?
The game is afoot and boredom is pushing all my seldom used stoner buttons to occupy time in an entertain ing ing in way with no ads.
Pockets Aug 2020
There’s mold in the attic
Next to the instillation and between the ears
so many people wanna condemn this place
Yet they have never lived here
They didn’t see it when it was new and beautiful
Before the outside world formed cracks in its foundation
Before years of storms leaked in and rotted memories
All the world sees is foreclosed eyes
That’s why they are so blind
Always trying to tear us down
Instead of building us back up
Then they wonder why we put locks on are doors
And plywood over the windows
They only wanna see something new
Even if its not there own
Some people houses look just like mine
Some peoples minds are abandoned homes
Hold me in your arms
     Til my broken pieces
             Merge into something
Worth your love
      
Since God made us in His image
   you were made in divine soil
While I was formed in clay
           And you can mold me
To the best man
                 You wanted me to be
Amanda Kay Burke Jan 2020
I used to believe loss was part of life
That isn't quite correct

Losing IS life

The losses what make us who we are and mold us

The wins just the incentive to keep us in the game

So I am learning to embrace the suffering and let it stretch my soft parts into something stronger
Instead of wishing bad weather away
Lalalala
Jonathan Moya Jan 2020
I am a Vitruvian Man
marked out like an anatomy lesson
in black and green dye,
something to align against the mean,
a mold made of sheets and plastic
to aim the mechanical eye
to revolve its rays around.

I can’t move because the machine
requires mathematical silence
to perform its cure, so the nurse
must tug me into place.

I get lost in the hum of the circle,
lonely bagpipes playing a dirge,
maybe Amazing Grace,
maybe Scotland the Brave,
maybe the last graceful notes
of my own dying world,
maybe it’s just noise.

Somewhere there
is a small echo of God
that almost gets lost in the creation
of algorithm and code,
smothered in my general deafness,
the unbelief that He would touch me
at my weakest point
like a biblical character.

The scan stops.
The mold is done.
The nurse lifts me gently up
making sure my feet touch the floor
before letting go.
She smiles and reminds me
that the end is just 25 treatments away.
Madison Greene Jul 2019
I will not exhaust myself for the sake of making ends meet and let my dream wilt away
I refuse to settle, to find myself engrossed in a mundane life
in a town where the people are all pretending to not be miserable
I have spent too many minutes trying to fit the mold of what I thought I had to be
I want to believe I can come back to myself
like an old friend at a corner booth, caught in city winds
a foreign place but a feeling all too familiar
I'll meet her in a coffee shop, writing with ink stained fingers
this is the me I've always liked the most
Mark Wanless Jun 2019
the mold on the bones
of a wolf ****
600 years ago
a good try in my opinion
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