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Harley Hucof Apr 29
I am gazing at a shining portrait as my desire is announced by distant bell chimes. I merge with the paint and feel absorbed into a different timeline.

In the painting, the wind carries a scent of a familiar tree assorted with the melody of its leaves. It all brings back the memory of a song that I love, that reminds me of a woman I met in a vision from a dream yet I don't know the language it is made of, nor I can sing it for I am dyslexic in the ear.

This is an illusion, I see it. Still, I deem it to be real, similar to a scene that I keep reliving as I wander the mystical golden desert, I wonder is fulfillment an insult or a compliment if attained outside the ordinary strains of sensual accomplishments?
Disconcerted by previous arrangements i think it through to realize this is an illusion is just a tattoo .


Words Of Harfouchism
deadhead Apr 6
Look at the hourglass.
In the sand, time is limited.
At least, according to a modern analysis.
However, can't the hourglass be flipped endlessly?
Why should a concept be measured in grains of sand, anyway?
Raven Feels Apr 2
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, sometimes a dream can flip your stage scenes and make them decorated;}


                              
                                            thee heavens come clean

                                 across a kiss untold unbound unseen

                                            with dismals and dears

                                           follows discretely situated
  
                                from leaves unintentionally initiated

                                        things ascending to the spine

                                      nerve striking its dim its shine

                                         horizons skirt down faded

                                              feet sand permeated

                                         on fine arts been not made in

                                             a sheet to be fabulous

                                                mis-shaded
  
                                             like my insides

                                           like my pen slides

                                        been piled overshadowed  

                                           been dark uninvaded

                                        she beauty on the purples

                                             majestic manipulated

             are them those of these the things you can see not face it

                                               I saw the heavens

                                                  I saw the hells

                                                  water colored

                          wet come to a collision I say come compensated

                               on highs and lows rays of foes impossible

                                      converge  a split second for me

                                         an undeniable to the invisible
    
                                             feet sand permeated

                                              on fine art I name it

                                           ****** by the devils

                                            by the angels sacred

                                    for me in my selfish kingdom

                                         my so called salvation

                         a place my nights breathe annihilation

                  even better than them those sent in that teleportation

                                   mere those moments of gazes

                               scrapes buried for future destination

                                 on the whites of my imagination

                              left to my unconsciousness a decision

                                              a piece of my mind

                                            an official declaration

                     a moon arose from the dead to my incarnation

                                            not await for another

                                I state a once and for all deprivation

                                          despite the lunar bothers

                                             something for me

                                           I owe no explanation

                                     moon me so light so bright

                                                so dim so dark

                             to the bits of the ends of the marks

                                        the places I cant reach

                                                   they afar

                                       stay there but stay near
      
                                      to me my moon my fear


                                                                                    ------raven feels
Kayla Mar 28
A beach day is a great day the bright hot sun beating on the smooth white hot sand the sound of the waves swooshing and slamming into the shore the feeling of the wet sand under your toes the pungent smell of the salty water yes a beach day is a great day
Svetoslav Mar 13
Flowers are melting
hands grasping snowflakes
dry wet life from sand.
Snow turns into sand
Payton Feb 24
Tell me, what is it like,
to crooked-roll the dice, to
always get snake-eyes, to keep
slipping on  ice?

Tell me why he talks, tell
me why he walks, the
way he does, like he's barefoot
on the coals.
He's barefoot on the rocks.

All those dice sit in your cup.
"C'mon girl, just fill 'er up."

And tell me why he laughs
at all those broken hands,
          and broken hearts,
      and palms of sand,
and crooked dice,
that fell, through
cracks, and on the lines,
out of their hands, into your eyes.

You said, "Sometimes, I see better,
when the sand up here is wetter. That girl
tried to take the gritty pain away —I didn't let her."

"The sand I put there, in her eyes," he said, "reminded her
of all her lies, and I never did forget her."
This dream poem was written in 2016.
Honestly, I don't even remember the dream this was based on, but it has a neat rhythm!
Man Jan 31
it was a cuckoo who flew the coup
took wing from his nest
off to push out eggs, like ***-pa
just another everyday coup d'etat

leopard leaping from his perch
pushing onward toward his prey
a small friend to no feline
trapped in a quick sand
left only to bay

you are these animals
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