Such are the mysteries of love
that people surrender without giving a second thought...

though having none,
yet giving all to the person ~ they love.

Oh, stupid love!
How many shall ye slay,
before thy thirst is vanquished?

Oh, stupid love!
How many will go amiss,
while searching for you all over the place?

An old one, back from the days when I started to write. Rewritten.

Oceans of thought provoking reads
sends his mind sailing as he drifts off and dreams.
Words come to life, creating abstract scenes, activating DNA.
Dimensions stretch, never again be(lie)ving in the same things.
Rose colored glasses cracked, hit by the truth, leaving such a painful sting.
When it all subsides, night vision eyes will be what will assist him in his dreams.
It's the desire to seek out these mysteries that keeps him intrigued by intricate things.

Alva Cardona Jun 15

__________

I had no control over my birth. But I remember
what it felt like to be born. It felt like dying, as I was
being pushed through a tunnel and toward the light.
I heard a scream. It was me. I was screaming my lungs out,
and it hurt to breathe because no one taught me how
to take my first breath of air. I just did, and my lungs
were brand new, unused, and filled with the liquid
of the amniotic sac in my mother’s womb. I was
drowning again, crystal-clear fluid that tasted
like salt leaking from my eyes, like river water trying
to find its way to the ocean. I was in shock. I was
confused, as I felt hands all around my raw skin, but not like
before, when they hit my back and cut the umbilical cord.
They were comforting and warm, not like the hands
of the ones that drug me out of my mother’s uterus.
I might not remember how it happened, how I came to be,
or how I came to this world a shiny new human, with
ten fingers and ten toes, and a head full of hair
(I heard my parents counting each tiny digit sticking out
of each limb, and tracing soft hands around my dark curls),
but I remember that feeling of warmth covering
my trembling little body like a cocoon, the low words,
whispers and coos, and the melodious lullabies sung
by mouths with hot, sweet-smelling breaths.
I was the center of so much attention even though I
felt shy and naked, and did not understand what
all the fuss was about, why I was suddenly the most
important person in the lives of two strangers that were
apparently expecting me, and wishing and praying for me
to be healthy and perfect, and theirs. But I could feel
how much these people loved me, even though they
had not met me, and the unspoken promise of unconditional
love and affection that they were going to shower me with
during the duration of that thing we all have been gifted
with and are lucky enough to have, that cosmic accident
that feels like it was meant to be, that phenomenon
many philosophers have spent millennia trying to explain:
the one that conscious, rational beings call life.

No one taught me how to open my eyes and see the world.
No one taught me how to keep my eyes open, to feel
awed by this planet, or wonder about what’s beyond it;
I just did, the same way I obey gravity and
the many other laws of the physical world
and the known (and unknown) universe
without anyone asking me to, or without
defying them. But I still have many questions
about the serendipitous realm we inhabit,
where our lives are as fleeting and bright
as a comet, looking so mighty in the night sky
when seen from Earth, even though they’re
ice-covered rocks and dust particles floating
around their orbits, in the vacuum of space.
When I go through that tunnel and toward
the light again, I’ll try to remember my
so-called life, the lessons I learned, and
the souls I met before I go through the
wormhole and break through the spheres,
into infinite arbitrary dimensions
and unparalleled realities.

Cam Apr 20

You can leave wires alone, hidden away
and they still get tangled, tied up in knots,
twisted around in angry coils, like a pit-full
of leathery snakes.  Everything appears to work still fine

and it looks nice and shiny, like it always did.
Dusted off every week. Our visitors admire it,
and family don’t notice it anymore.
It’s part of the furniture, there every day;

useful and pleasurable though it is, in its way,
if it broke, it would be replaced. So why,
though untouched in anyway
are the wires in such a state?

So, moving the furniture, you try
and release them. You try and follow the trail,
from where they used to run straight and true,
to where they now entwine and choke

each other with their tiny knotted fists of flex.
And you think this is beyond the laws of physics,
That an inanimate object can come alive
With such malevolence.


You look for explanation, such as
spectral interference or evil black-eyed
midnight fairies with sharp pin-teeth,
who, in glinting moonlight, spin and prance,

Whirling the wires around, as if in some frenzied pagan dance.
Rather, though, (and you know) it’s the small
unseen twists of time that, uncorrected in neglect,
have snared the wires in their own catch net.

However did it come to this? I ask her,
and she looks at me, as if
I shouldn’t be surprised. For so
it happens every time.

How and why do untouched wires entangle themselves?  It's so frustrating!
Timothy hill Apr 9

You lay at the hem of dirt.

Decaying rot and smells have begone for century's.

Vampire haven and alter high grade of appeal.

Worm's jump as bird''s approach.

He he, you will not succeed for we are specialy made and protect by our creator so hi.

The birds perch of the dead bark growing amber.

Whistling as his friend, path is full of head lights as night tilt's on-wards!

Last second, from those berry on the lawn of his favorite landing.

They were laced with dmt too seed his constuct.



Before words his movement where advancement of a plain

Dark with a twist.
Timothy hill Apr 9

You lay at the hem of dirt.

Decaying rot and smells have begone for century's.

Vampire haven and alter high grade of appeal.

Worm's jump as bird''s approach.

He he, you will not succeed for we are specialy made and protect by our creator so hi.

The birds perch of the dead bark growing amber.

Whistling as his friend, path is full of head lights as night tilt's on-wards!

Last second, from those berry on the lawn of his favorite landing.

They were laced with dmt too seed his constuct.



Before words his movement where advancement of a plain

Dark with a twist.
Apollo Hayden Mar 28

I was right behind that mountain,
now I'm just above its peak,
able to see things for what they truly are and not how I wanted them to be.
In hindsight the sun has shined its light on life's mysteries.
Out of the darkness we must rise; with resilience we will shine.

Rutendo Mar 19

My life is mystery
A question that wants to remain unanswered
If l find the answer life changes the question
Life is PAIN

i wonder if l will uncover something someday
Letahbo-lee Feb 15

He is
a slow laborious
poem...
And I read it
every night!

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