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Nik Bland Aug 26
Lack of breath
Scared to death
No defense
Don’t even know what’s wrong

Feather in the gale
Existence so frail
Please don’t blink
I’m afraid that you might miss me

Unorganized at best
Yet behind nonetheless
Minutes written down
In a ledger I will see too late

Run down
Try to keep together
Sinking ground
Trying to be better
Catching up more and more
I am not afeard of the thing hath called death
       N'r yearn to testeth mine own m'rtality
I’ve nay feareth of the possibility
       N'r bethink of tom'rrow’s last breath
Graveyards holdeth nay myst'ry  
       Just a place of tranquil beauty and peace
I am not afeard of dying in the least
       And yon the part that scareth me
@LadyRavenhill 2018
Part of a collection of Shakespearean inspired language poetry,  I am working on posting here called:
W'rds of a Nimble-Footed Mistress
eng jin Jun 25
jīvitaṃ aciraṃ hetaṃ, āyukappaṃ sududdasaṃ;
mayameva pi ye maccā, tattha paññāya paṇḍito;
appamādaṃ ca bhāveyya, khippaṃ pi kusalaṃ kato.

Indeed this life is short, it is difficult to see the time limit of one’s life;
we are only those who are mere mortals, having fully understood thus, the wise one;
would cultivate heedfulness and also have done quickly good deeds.
Pāli is one of the Middle Indic languages
Sam Tate May 19
The crystal ball grows dim

And shadows being to form.

Swirling into darkness,

They slowly **** the light.

The prophecy is broken.

The chosen one is gone.

Fallen prey to Hades urges.

We are now alone.

Tread lightly with your mortal soul.

Don’t let temptation break you.

If you submit to their desires,

Salvation will forsake you.
Giving her the choice
He drinks her like chocolate
A first and last kiss
@LadyRavenhill 2019
Haiku 101
Mane Omsy Apr 22
Say something sweet
Beautiful and blind
Caressing my heart
That wonders to fall
In to your arms

Sound melodies that harvest
Love for an angel
With broken wings that bled
Dreaming to fly back
To heaven

An unpleasant surprise
When it all stays the same
But you, leaving this mortal
Behind, lost and doomed.
To leave behind the loving heart is the most hurtful of all pain.
what is it that I seek
here in the dark hours
the spirit's time
I awake to fingers dancing upon
the nape of my neck
and whispers of a lost soul
seeking connection
to it's once breathing consciousness
to me
why am I drawn to your realm
perhaps the answer resides in the truth that
I was not intended
conceived against doctor's orders
avoiding certain death
many times
including my first hour
perhaps this is the reason I feel closer to you
than my mortal self
counting the breaths
as I edge nearer the kiss of death
my birth
Mark Upright Aug 2018
|“lead into gold, good into dear, mortal into immortal”
(where poems come from)”

you charged me
with crimes three times three,
sorcery and witchcraft and doing god’s work

plead guilty three times three
not that I was successful,
but a complex, candied marvelous failure

not in my possession, the sorcerers spell,
my dross and wordy dregs all sit sidelined,
perchance perhaps,
if you search with a leaden patience inhuman,
you might just find a minuscule golden vein there’d unmined

turning good into dear, an “anyone can do it” miracle,
when you whisper with just one kiss those forever words,
don’t be afraid, say it low and slow, I love you,
“I only want to be with you”
and dare it to be become dear

mortal into immortal, an order tall, for one knows his
hiding places for all too human pockmarked weak,
but having been charged and found in guilt,
no one proffered evidence but they wanted a unambiguous
unanimous verdict and proof is such an old fashioned truth notion

happy accept your accusations and since confession is
the best soul medicine, with glee, here and now reveal
how immortality is achievable

breathe poems  constantly instantly throughout
the orifices in the skin cells and
pore’d orifices you were god given;
it is how we immortals communicate
with what cannot be seen,
yet drunken heard when spoke aloud

taste the poems in and on tongues you can’t comprehend,
the sounds fly skyward after infiltrating your eyes,
then you can see your own immortality anointed rising

all nonsense you plead,
only immortals truly cherish and envy the
human ability to create
nonsense, the place
where poems come from

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