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Carla 1h
Forgive me father, for I have sinned
I have drank from the sacred cup, tainting it with the atrocities of my mind.
Forgive me.
For I give you my life today and confess my faith in your son.
I dread the loss of heaven and fear the agonies of hell
Forgive me father
For I am not truly seeking forgiveness.
I have every intention of sinning again.
Letting it's sweet taste fill me up,
Allowing me to drink from the cup and experience salvation once more.
Zee Nov 14
You never asked.
For this burden.

To be their salvation.
To salvage the light.

You grew up in the dark.
Yet you never dulled your spark.

They look to you for answers.
They look to you for hope.

You nurturer you're mind.
Found another way of life.

You learned long ago.
Not everyone can be saved.

Still somehow.
You hope.
You're wrong.

You are a boy.
You are a saviour.

Finding the faintest light.
To keep the spark of hope.
Alive.
Another character inspired poem from Arcane. This goes out to Ekko.
aleks Nov 8
another hopeless doctor visit sees me down a long dark hallway.
the elevator doesn't ping when it arrives.

there's only a button to go down.

the doors start to slide into closure,
but an old woman and her gentle-faced son race the door.

her arm, wrapped in clean new bandage is bright under the condensed light.
her son, gentle-voiced, repeats the doctor's orders calmy, without ire.

"he said to gently exercise your wrist three minutes a set, two times a day," he reminds her.

"but you can take it two minutes at a time, to make sure you're taking it easy."

she acquiesced wordlessly at his soft-spoken counsel.
i don't move from my corner nor do i pick my head up.
i don't feel like i'm allowed to disrupt. i bask in the slow light.

the box staggers for a moment before the doors give way to another, darker, hall.
the elevator's light befalls the twelve or so shadows,
their crowded presence marked only by the glint of overhead LED in their flickering, resigned gazes.

the elevator, such a synonymous and direct application of the phrase 'one way down',
sighs and wobbles as i disembark my weight, as if freed of the weight of my sin of thought.

the old woman and her gentle-faced son go left, i go right.

when i glance back at the elevator, the box flickers with dull orange light inside.
the only button to go up is struck repeatedly and violently before the doors close.
read once for rhythm, twice for rhyme,
don’t skip the title—it’s part of the climb.
A dark clay raven hung at a windowpane
to ward off bright songbirds from glass.
It never spoke a word, nor did it feign
to know of a departed late lass.

I asked it my questions, expecting more
conversation than it had on offer,
but plainly it found me a tedious bore
for it stayed quiet. Not much of a talker.

The brief encounter left me po-faced
as I’d been led to expect more from him.
So I turned away, belying a trace
of disappointment weighing within.

Then I heard the wind, and nothing much else
except the song of birds who’d survived
thanks to the clay raven who hung by a belt
in front of a window to keep it disguised.
Inspired by an old-fashioned clay raven that hung in front of a window in Mainz Old Town to prevent birdstrike. Having a bit of fun, too.
I'm not as soft as a swan gliding into the poet's lake. I'm not as graceful as a ballerina waltzing in the arena. I am not as calm as the trees attending to your whimsical needs. I am built on ruins; I am something that has been running for decades, and I still think about the house keys I abandoned near the forest; they open the portal to your house. It was my favorite.

I am full of words,
Rotten poetry,
Full of work,
Empty memory.

"I don't know what to write anymore," I whispered. I was a romantic maniac. In me were growing daisies and burnt coffees, orange juices and promised salvation.

It's a funny little detail; now, it's all mishaps and mishandled poetry.

Through the shallows and the shadows, I screamed in horror, and then I felt the mockery of longing.
as I age, I spend less and less reading books that will keep me at night until dawn. I am slowly forgetting how to form words, and my love for writing is nothing but a fond memory kept inside my favorite box. now, every poem that I write is just as empty as me; it’s lacking. it’s boring and awkward. it’s a dream I keep repeating on and on. it was once my favorite escapade, a heaven; now, it’s all nothing but frugal chaos.
 
it’s cruel, isn’t it? I was once promised a salvation. silly little me. my innocence’s gone.
 
it can never be regained. unless I stupidly long and yearn and long and yearn.

if not for nostalgia, I would not write anymore. but I was just a girl who happens to be a slave, and it hurts to be the one who remembers.
Lemon Black Oct 4
When tiresome rowing takes its toll,
Brings dare to care for what's beneath.
Long lost memories emerge from darkness,
Like the drowned, following surface call.
A cry for help, left with no answer,
Now meets our dread, begging release.
Reunion with those we once held dear,
Only to recognize their faces,
Their silhouette, their traits. Identify them,
To call old sorrows by their name.
We know them truly, to their core,
And wish were spared from this truth.
We close their eyes, bring them ashore.
A rescue arriving long overdue.

But the final push has yet to be made—
To find room for love in a grieving heart.
Where we can lay them to their grave,
Bid farewell, before we part.
With each epitaph, every tombstone,
Each pain brought where it desperately yearned,
To end the suffering, rejoice salvation,
Our own anchorage lessens weight.
Encouraged, we’re back to the boat,
To keep on making the heroic choice.
One day, unburdened, we too will float,
Feel pure, cared, loved, and rejoice.
Our lives act as harbors for all that happens. Without a witness, what would it matter if anything happened at all? Yet, comes a time when these stored experiences become too heavy to carry. Some of it we do not want and push away. But this only drains us, unloading no weight. As we grow tired of merely coping, we start to seek true relief. This process of opening up opens a way for the rejected, the pushed-away, to rise to the surface, longing for our attention and care. To be relived - to fade away. The task might feel daunting, the challenge insurmountable. But it is forgiveness that initiates the healing; it is ourselves that we are ultimately caring for.
Left on Red Oct 4
Jesus came one day
to decapitated me
and said, "You need
to run the race and win."

"Okay," I said,
"I'll try if you
put me
back together."

He acted
like he didn't hear me
and left
without saying goodbye.

"Thanks for nothing!"
I yelled at his absence.
Are you in search of Happiness?
Do you want that state of Eternal Bliss? Then, begin the Journey from Yoga to Moksha
And you are sure to achieve this!

Who am I and why am I here?
Have you pondered this, are you clear?
We just live and cry and die
We don't discover the Truth, we don't live with cheer!

We listen to many, the right path we don't choose
And the valuable Journey of Life, we lose!
We wander through Life and soon we are gone
And then, we blink and we are reborn!

Is it not certain that there will be death?
Every living creature will lose their breath
But we don't discover what brought us to earth
Why did we take this human birth?

We just live through Life and face trauma
We don't realize that it is just a big drama
We don't know what is Yoga and Moksha
And don't discover that everything is Karma

It all begins when we start a Quest
When we put all our beliefs to test
When we become free from this material world or Bhoga
And learn to live as a Yogi, in Yoga

Then, we are not perturbed by this earthly show
We live as an observer, watching people come and go
This world is nothing but Maya, an Illusion
We discover the Truth, attain Realization

After we are born, we all learn and earn But then, ultimately, we burn and return Those who live a life in Yoga
Attain Moksha as they turn and yearn


We live in this world with desires and greed
We don't learn to be Happy as we fulfil our need
Our passion makes us seek everything as 'mine'
And ultimately, we lose the treasure Divine!

The fact is that we are nothing but Divine energy
We are not this body, or Mind and Ego, ME
But because we don't embark on this journey
We live like slaves, we are not free!

The biggest enemy is our mind!
It is the one that makes us blind!
And although when we search, the mind we can't find
It causes ignorance and makes us leave the truth behind
We must learn to decipher what is wrong and right
Activate the Intellect and see, black and white

We must flip over from Mind to Consciousness!
Then, we will be free from all misery and stress!
Our ultimate destination is Ananda, Eternal Bliss
It is living in truth Consciousness
It is living like a Yogi and seeking Nirvana or Moksha
It is moving from one state to another, of Yoga


Can everybody attain this Divine Realization?
Can everybody attain Moksha or Liberation? Only those who start a Journey of Purification
Will be Enlightened with Divine Illumination

Because we are lost in this material world or Bhoga
We don't live in Divine Union, in Yoga!
We experience pleasure and pain on earth
And then to suffer, take another rebirth!

The truth is there is no heaven and hell  These are fairy tales that scriptures tell Heaven and hell are right here on earth We experience them, as we take birth!

The only way to attain God is Realization
Going from Self to God-Realization
Then, we will attain Moksha or Salvation
So, let's start with Yoga and reach our destination!
O Land of warbling Nightingales across
Th'Atlantic pond where golden Daffodils
Dance for the sheepish Clouds that shade the hills
And trees are emerald green with clinging moss,
My Heart is griev'd for thy most grievous Loss
Of Liberty as Tyranny fulfills
His loathsomest Designs and swiftly kills
The Speech that should be free, however gross.
Despair thee not.  The Lord of Love and Might,
Though he doth try thy Patience, He shall yet
Shatter the Teeth of Tyranny and set
The Captives free, the broken Bones aright.
Father will come (have faith, for God is just)
And resurrect the Tongue that tastes the dust.
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