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Tony Tweedy Aug 4
How many days could I count that I have left to me?
Would I dare to count, knowing that finite they must be?

I know that there are far fewer than when it all began.
None the wiser am I, as to whether it was to some plan.

I find I have come to ponder the complex and the small.
To wonder if there be a purpose or just no point at all?

Why be given to the thoughts and give time to such things?
Looking for answers but deepest thoughts no answer brings.

Why give the imagining to some ethereal immortal goal,
and wrap it up so fragile in such a flimsy mortal soul?

Were there ever choices that I made as I took life's risk?
Or was it all pre-recorded on some universal Blu-ray disc?

I know the day's sun is setting, another day so newly passed,
Mortal mind taunts me, in the tally, will tomorrow be my last?
Why do we even harbour thoughts of immortality?
kate cc Apr 18
Take me with you to your Atlantis
Where hues of blue glisten in noons
For eternity we embrace in its promise

Are days of sober in crystallic bliss
Are nights of glacial comfort under mystic lunes
Take me with you to your Atlantis

Wash me into a tender kiss
Too soft to be witnessed but the full moons
For eternity we embrace in its promise

Beyond boundaries of mortality at this
ocean, through the skies and dunes
Take me with you to your Atlantis

Volumes and arks fill up the abyss
with painted tales of Atlantic ruins
For eternity we embrace in its promise

When love dreamily left only to reminisce
as the ink of Plato seeped in tunes
Take me with you to your Atlantis
For eternity we embrace in its promise
First shot at a villanelle:) (This was hard)
Tony Tweedy Dec 2021
I reflect upon the season and memory of Christmas' past,
and I cant help but to wonder if this may be my last.

A thought not born of this season and its promises of joy,
but rather from the pained reflection I am no more a boy.

I think upon friends and family at distance from my day,
who I love so very dearly though they be so far away.

I find this season lonely, with a sadness now become its gift,
yearly every passing nearer to loathing has been my shift.

At an age now to be more a cynic than an optimistic man,
seeing only greed and commerce and not some godly plan.

A Christmas of my childhood, of love, good will and of care,
forever wish I for you all,
never knowing sadness and loneliness' despair.
Mixed feelings season again.... 60 down.... god knows how many more.
Tony Tweedy Oct 2021
Cast my ash upon the rocks and let them settle upon the sea,
for there upon that rocky shore is the place I choose to be.

Peace and tranquil summer days that I spent without a care,
where sound of wave and salted scents be carried by the air.

Weary are my bones with a soul of torments without release,
but on that shore my soul can rest and finally know some peace.

The lap of wave upon the rocks under the clearest blue of sky,
In the warmth of childhood memory my soul could finally lie.

The choke and mew of seagulls as they pass along their way,
solitary songs of disturbance to accompany the passing of a day.

For I am come to such an age to hear the appeal in this call,
to know both rest and peace and with no fear in it at all.
Sometimes you can be too weary of things
Jay M Oct 2021
There is a story
Still to be written
Told of two bound by soul
Some say it glory
Others say it rather smitten
Quite the perfect roll
If fate were but a set of dice

T'is a tale of an old, mortal soul
Bound to that of which can only be described as an angel
In moments once tired and cold
Burning by the embers of strange coal
Hearts as tides rose and then fell
To linger and rise once again

- Jay M
February 26th, 2021
Yet another thing left in my draft. I wanted it to be longer, but it's beautiful as it is, a piece frozen in time.
Àŧùl Oct 2021
They all seem to fade away,
They drift farther everyday.

One day comes and you are lonely,
Love yourself as you're yours only.

They're mortal & so is everything,
As for me, I don't know anything.
My HP Poem #1944
©Atul Kaushal
L May 2021
Journal entry
May 7, xxxx

She knows I love her, my creature. Of course she does.
There are still secrets between us; there might always be. We haven't decided.
You see, some lovers- they reach a point- where they dance that silent dance, and wordlessly through looks and smiles, will decide that some secrets will always be secrets. Others say everything, and find strength in doing so. We're not there yet. And so, some things remain unspoken.

A secret I keep from her now is- I know what she is, yes, but I can't help but think of her as the opposite sometimes. A thing not with dove wings and a halo, like the paintings, but a creature with thick, rubbery wings. Heavy horns sitting on her head. There is something uniquely dark about her.

There is so much I still don't know. There is a heaven, is what she's told me. It isn't as beautiful as you think, she says. When I ask her if there is a God, she looks away. And I know there is something in my question that brings her pain. She has never answered the question.

She still walks to her lake. (Yes- it's hers now.) She visits it often.
She does it at night, when I'm asleep. But I wake easily in her presence. I've caught her walking towards the wood. I know it's the lake she goes to. It must be. I've never followed her.

She thinks she hides it well. But I can tell there is a rage. You visit your lake in secret, and what would you have to hide, if not the fact that over there you must be inflicting yourself with some violent ritual. Something I should not see. You must have some kind of terrible thing inside of you. Divine grief, or envy, something that must be gnawing at your heart. I can see it in your eyes.

Why won't she tell me? I worry sometimes that I'll never be allowed to help her. I suffer with these thoughts, and she doesn't say a thing.

There are silences like arrows, aimed at you, meant to **** you. Meant to maim the heart. But not hers.
Her silence is the kind that hurts to look at, because you know it isn't a choice. The more I **** the more her throat seems to tighten. It's as if she wants to tell you everything, but physically can't. As if telling you was an arrow. As if telling you her truths and her fears would

  **** her


I want to know why she goes to the lake, I do. I want to know what happened before. What is God to you, what has he done? Tell me please, even if I am not enough, even if I am just the rabbit you tell your sorrows to. I may be from another world, I may be the animal unable to ever understand your pain, but my ears are long and my eyes are big and I will listen and watch you intently. I love you.

Sometimes I think I'm too small. How could a thing like you choose a thing like me? The thought used to **** me. I'm learning not to spiral. Even if you won't help me. I have to stay strong. I have to show patience.
Yes, if she wants to keep her secrets, then keep her secrets she must. I worry about her, but what can I do. I can only be patient. I can only do what I can. I can only love her until she decides to bloom before me.

My angel who howls by the moonlit lake.
I will wait for you.
Àŧùl May 2021
I survived a life-threatening,
Coma-inducing & memory-debilating
High-speed road accident in May ‘10.
I survived COVID12,
The SARS-COV12.
Now I even survived COVID19.
I, howsoever, know what I am.
I am a mortal. Perishable.
My HP Poem #1929
©Atul Kaushal
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