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Àŧùl Jul 2022
Looming here since forever,
Death now seems much closer.
Guzzling oil hovering over,
End has struck the hour.

In the cockpit, the air is stinking,
Reminder of an unwashed mind.
Trick or treat with enemy calling,
Killing their unsuspecting selves.
Oh Satan!

Wretched enemies of humanity,
They unleashed the zombie army.
Why don't they go out to fight?
Left that role to the zombies, yeah.

Father Time will settle scores,
For this Father is a log keeper.
Exploiting civilians for gains they do,
Taking them just as junk in the room.
Wait till they all revolt, yeah!

When in darkness, put on the lights,
Shadow play from childhood calling.
Dropping explosive ****, these birds,
Hand of Doom has struck the hour.

Night of Finale, Satan waiting,
Hide deeper, the nukes come calling.
Burning homes, factories & inns,
Satan shying, wraps His wings
Oh Satan!
Even Satan is scared of the human violence.

My HP Poem #1955
©Atul Kaushal
Ylzm Apr 2021
Today is the third Day
Even as everyday is Sabbath
When the Son rose, the world
received the promised Ghost

      First of firstfruit blessed
         day after the Seven
         when it was still dark
      And the kingdom came
         day after Seven Sevens
         yet hidden to this day

For a week, Israel wandered
For a week, bread is unleavened
Evening of the Seventh approaches, fast
But time shall divide, till not one is lost
Ken Pepiton Sep 2020
Art is the signature of man,
wombed and un;
the creature or construct of time and chance, which
thinks and uses things to make things, ****.

Okeh, mere glance away, we see
two yellow feathered birds, in a bush, but
the body of each, surely delicate,
creature, is not
all yellow, even the yellow
part is graded,
more or less yellow where it fades
in to white, or nearly white, which fades to fully
grey, graying gradually to black,

but seen, closer than Audubon could,
though he did
imagine, who could help? who could stop
seeing how deep the beauty of almost, almost, almost
perfection of graduated choruses of color
shades life at every level?

GK Chesterton appeared in my feed today, as he has done
in yourn, ye'll note, on this line.
I happened to have heard of him, so I listened and he said:
Art is the signature of man, and…

I felt the tug, not the hook, the net, is closing
as the fishing forces draw us closer.

Mere reality.
Signature effect after exposure to one's own kind.
Swans are never merely black and white,
no line, in living things, is sharp,
merely graded to reflect in
angles as waves,
from distant shores revolving spirals in spirals,
seen from the surface as
as near perfect circles pulsing from many suns.

Nothing more than this, nothing less than that
mere perfection,
in these little, grey birds, now, outside my window,
far from the maddened crowd,
I thank goodness you may freely call a name,
the goodness is the same.

I thank the cause of time and chance that I may
watch the dance as if this is my task,
my reason to exist, the act
of my being merely real.

Mere, as a word deserves, as a friend de-
serves, and becomes familiar,
a friend that sticks closer than a brother, in a word;
mere serves no man,
mere is free to mean more than idle minds insist when
calling any word or man or living thing, mere.
Pure is mere's sister. Wisdom is wit's mom.

Mere reality, if we agree,
in realms of only words, mere feathers on thoughts,
form fins we fly with to escape the net,

and see,
this is life, at the edge of all that was, it fades into ever
ever after, as the breezes draw bats back to their
already to be as any bat is in the daytime,
as the world turns…

yes, child. The world turns,
and winds return, long-I, short-I, wound around
a reason, winding threads from
a merest of whys, wist ye not?

Grave decisions, are cuts. Cessions in skins,
letting go the tie that binds
this thread to that,
this point to that,
ripping tides,
mere reality.
Minds wander, much as winds and rivers, meander.
Art is the signature of man, wombed and un;
the creature or construct of time and chance, which
thinks and uses things to make things, ****.

This is that, man as we agree we are, as a species,
a kind, like no other kind;
a kind, with whom we procreate and imagine
mmm who
are you, if you are not me, at the moment hearing an
insistent bird, seeming to wish
my attention, then at the mention, it flies,
I think I felt it laugh, like

Sapience, mindfulness, sense, to the degree
given birds in my mind,

save in a formation of birds, like starlings or geese,
each bird flits or swoops or soars
at will, on whims not pushed,
nor pulled by winds, but
lifted, it appears by will of the bird, not the wisp.

Whisper hearer, hearing me, have we any wool,
have we gathered, since the summer, all the holly held?

Shall we sit and twist it into thread and take
a sabbath's journey
sitting in the shade
of this great rock our home sits upon? If we agree
we may,. any may, any one, may
imagine might-as-well- be tales to sweep away lies left to seem
as true any tale a crow can tell,
when she's in the mood.
At the core, we age gracefully or rot. Mere reality.
Pockets Aug 2020
Black Sabbath baptist
Sings heavy metal gospel
Every Sunday morn
Chris May 2020
A foolish people has forgotten my light
I said , " Here is the Way, but they would not.
I said, "Pray for the Sabbath, but they would not
I said , "Do as I do, but they would not.
I said "There remains a  Sabbath for my people, but they would not .
Therefore their peace and their faith is taken away from them and they will walk in darkness until they acknowledge me
For anyone willing to hear or see
Cyg Xanadu Feb 2020
Eat the meek,
My favourite feast.
Feeding on the fear.
I play my silent symphony,
One youll never hear.
Warping your reality,
Ive known many of your kind.
Leach into your sanity,
And seep into your mind.
Slip and slide into the night,
The darkness is my lair.
I serve my lord and master,
His one and only heir.

Dream demon
Nothings what it seems.
Dream demon
On deaf ears fall your screams.
Dream demon
Theres sickness in my stare.
Dream demon
In the darkness, in the air.

Hear me whisper in your ear.
Thoughts are getting dark,
Mind no longer clear.
My roots will penetrate your soul.
My parasite is hungry,
And begins to take control.
Oh, you fight hard to get free.
Your just a thought inside your head,
Your body belongs to me.

Dream demon
Nothings what it seems.
Dream demon
On deaf ears fall your screams.
Dream demon
Theres sickness in my stare.
Dream demon
In the darkness, in the air.

As the lesions fester your skin,
Teeth fall out and eyes grow dim.
Mind is frail and bones grow weak.
No one heeds the help you seek.
No one no one anywhere.
No one here is left to care.
Ylzm Sep 2019
Rest is Reprieve
   from the burdensome curse of futile toils
Rest is Restoration
   of the perfection of life freshly bloomed
Rest is Return
   from Edenic exile to its fullness of beauty
Rest is Remembrance
   of Seven, an artefact of Mind
   a Mystery and a Measure of Time
Rest is Today
   for as long as its Today
   until the Eighth Day dawns.
Ylzm Apr 2019
Every Seventh is a Rest.
The Day after the Seventh Sevens, a Renewal.
These are the Sevens of Days and Years,
Of Time marked by the Sun and Earth.

The Sevens of Moons is a Recursion
Every Seventh, a Seven, and is Half a Time,
The Fullness thereof, a Twelve.
And every Seventh, a Sacrifice.
R Dickson Mar 2015
Palm Sunday is upon us,
Christ's triumphant arrival,
A week before his death,
With no chance of survival,

Jesus died to save mankind,
On that Easter day,
Risen on the sabbath,
Risen from where he lay,

Doesn't look like mankind cares,
For what he did on that day,
With all the wars that's warring,
The world's in disarray.
marquida May 2014
allowing to
be pulled
flesh from bone
bone from soul
flesh being selfish
flesh being
eaten up
by God

— The End —