I often sense the stick hanging over my head. Like that vile, razor-sharp sword of Damocles, my existence would be cut off fatally, my chestnut-clad neck would be cut off - just like that -, for its own pleasure the melancholy wind of October, the smell of wilted, musty wreaths around the ongoing life, resounding sorrows flutter like a dance of petals on the canvas of the inner personality, because something is always left behind under the manipulable superficiality of human souls.

What the distorted reflex of instinct has done with the Universe - perhaps - could only have been a false-lying illusion; because bitter-beaten it would have been so good to return home-to-harbors with dignity, to faithfully preserve the waterfall-sounding laughter of the Dear One. It would be good to gather from broken hearts the invisible pearly stars, which only heroic lovers can feel as broken parts of a given moment.

The endless metabolism of eternal things revolves above the driven head of man, as if in a spiral held captive; because now outside the houses are increasingly flocking together in packs of scoundrels, waiting for their easily obtained prey. Because even more trouble and trouble than prisons of existence, than vilely built execution trees, is that one should live. Nervous wrecks of people would trample each other and rush after ideas, which a governor's century would finish off like a pillar.

Guilty hearts would crowd together, since only destructible monuments of hope could remain; a crypt-like silence strains its strings from within, it would be good to huddle around our breathing human-like dreams and warm ourselves. Like old-fashioned upstarts, they practice themselves endlessly in duplicate roles, like stunted actor-saplings, seasoned celebrities and influencers. Antitoxin-fueled and a sufficient amount of exhibitionist dilettantism is the bittersweet reward for everything.

Hellopoetry.com is a wonderful poetry site
Hello Eliot, this is excellent: this oasis is out of sight
Let’s keep it running and excelling
Let’s do a major fundraising or something
To keep it well, inspiring, exciting and alive
You all deserve a big high five.

We are willing to donate
Or to contribute. Please set up a date
We can also publish an anthology
Since there’s plenty of great poems
Published at this site, the very best in our country
Please smile : la crème de la crème
Let’s keep hellopoetry.com at the top of the summit
Hello hellopoetry.com. Hello Eliot.

Copyright © October 2025 Hébert Logerie, all rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.

It could be confidentially, honestly, slowly to redeem with feelings, not just in the universe, not just for the sake of superficial coastal darmus appearances. It could be a bundee jumping from the soul depths, even as a parachute jump, and wisely climbed up to the cross -section of manipulated faces, and recognize who is reliable and who is better to neglect.

Or, with a little loser-naivine stupid pop-ups, returning from the martyrs of memories of memories of the martyrs of cell-molecules, with the righteous stimulus of the cell-molecules, whose wishes have no idea to be fooled, disgrace, to be constantly rebellious.

Only here at the near -earth zero point should not everything should be made a small object of our examination with a detailed precision on the spiral and death of the spiral and death; Because only the uncertainty distance can be the only home-breeding, alamus noise, because in times of crossing, the average person can be less and less accessible if he cannot afford his travel ticket.

The deficiency - feared - can only give a delay in exceptional cases before a fatal fracture occurs; The mere existence also became reality before the stretched. From the bottom of crowded steps, it should be up to a concrete plan, until it could be, the shallow cork plugs of the shallow cork of the tiny promises cannot be built soon. Every person, as a lonely island, makes their own existence continue to live as long as he lives. As a falling iron ball, it breaks out of the continuation of history, scattered, like many creeping, useless memories.

HE
MADE THEM 
High to touch the Sky
And stretch the souls of puny Man!
Mountains! Mountains! Multitudes of matter!
Shimmering and soaring Up to ten thousand skies!
Eagle proud and hardy. Majestic and mighty!
Building blocks and playthings for the Lord most High!
The golden mountains of the Moon! The scarlet mounts of Mars!
Ten zillion soaring alpine peaks around a zillion stars!
Dressed in snow and thunder, wild flowers and wonder.
Heaven fire and lightning fire and rainbows  and wind!