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Ylzm 6d
every breathe a praise
every sight an insight
every utterance, life
and every act, faith
of those who gather not
nor reap but live
as in every beast
who dwells on this earth
there may
   or may not
certain colours
that the human eye
is unable
to see
an insipid
an unpalatable
each said
to be impossible
for our eyes
to process;
if seen
it could appear
in all manner
of forms
but would remain

they say that
butterflies can see
the ultraviolet spectrum
and that
the honey bee
sees in infrared;
and so
it would not
be too absurd
for a person
to dismiss
the "impossible"
to believe
in the possibility
of the as-yet

the only way
to perceive
these "forbidden" hues
is through trickery
and constraint
by forcing the brain
into seeing both
antagonistic colours
without reprieve
until the border
the opposing shades
finally dissolves

there may be
a truth
but it is hidden
somewhere between
the plausible
   yet impalpable
and the proven
   yet proselytised
among the skyscrapers my mind wander
how narrow my sight was
to only surmise what one might feel
realizing there are more to conquer
so i take a step back
revisiting another possible tracks i could take
JKirin Jan 12
I’ve been feeling blue
searching for a while.
Love eluded me—
Such a cruelty
can’t be wished upon.
Autumn days drag on.
Must lose hope, I know…
I’m a fool,
it’s true—
Under this first snow,
I can’t hide a smile
at the sight of you.
Don’t need love,
just you.
about longing
CautiousRain Jan 8
Do you really know me like you say you do?
I don't like existing in memories of others when I cannot remember my own.
You can't possibly remember me.

It makes me so angry when you tell me that,
angry that I can't verify it,
angry that those ideas of me still linger,
angry that my past exists at all.

I want to purge this dissociative self
I used to be from all consciousness,
and it isn't fair that you can still remember her.

I am so mad that you can compare me now to me before
and that you can clearly recollect all the signs.
I am so envious that I couldn't have seen the signs myself when it was happening and that I still can't now.

I envy the way you can tip your sight backward to how I was before and that you can see the progress.
I want to see it too.

I am so angry
and this feeling burns my throat
when you remind me of what you know.
I just regained my ability to feel anger, and it's a doozy, to say the least...
pilgrims Jan 2
Oh! How the Sun is bright!
A shiver from the piercing light.
Although eye try with Earthly might,
eye stare on
with awe and fright.
The art
will tell you
about the pure soul.
It is not only
about the feeling
in suffer or happy
when we create it
by ourself.
The art
will show
the other sight
when some people
The art
is not only
about the work.
It is about
Indonesia, 17th October 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
Elaenor Aisling Sep 2021
Born to the veil
peeled out like a peach with the old iron knife
rose quartz, slow flesh, thin newness in January air.
His grandmother kept the caul for luck
pressed between the pages of her bible
and the old ways.

His silvern eyes mirrored the tarnished coin his mother slipped in to his fist
at christening.
Droplets of hope, heavy on small lids
and when he lifted them
he saw his first ghost
over the priest’s shoulder,
her gauzy lips grazing his cheek.

His luck was the vaporous three-legged dog that followed him everywhere.
Its dusky warmth on his feet,
the comfort he could not sleep without
for there were too many nights
his dreams had the flavor of ash and mire
and he would wake, panting,
the heat of his fear snatched by the cold nights.

In the village
the girls asked him who they would marry
until he told the raven-haired her sailor floated somewhere in the Atlantic,
the ring he bought her in Portugal
resting on a finger of coral.

The white heather his mother tucked in to his cap
stayed green, even past the dream of her prostrate in the market square—
He warned her against buying apples In autumn,
but in September, he felt the tell-tale jolt of loss,
keen as raven’s wing through cloud
dropped the plough, sprinting through the fields of winter wheat.
His gasps matching hers
the viscous pump of blood through ventricles
one stream running dry.

At the apple stall
the copper eyes of the butcher’s wife
burned holes in his heart
as he watched his mother’s soul
drift from her breast into the ether.
It slipped by his hands, goose down through fingers,
formless, aimless love that would spin itself into grief
the cloak woven from its threads
one he would wear
for the rest of his days.
In Western folklore, children born with cauls (amniotic sac still on) are considered lucky, and sometimes the ability to see ghosts and predict the future.
declan morrow Jul 2021
touching what is seen,
seeing what is touched:
i cannot see you.
you cannot touch me.

my love.
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