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Every step I take towards living,
I'm stepping away from my calling
I'm stepping everywhere
end up getting nowhere
in search of stepping stones,
to move up the ladder
without grasping the idea
that these stones,
in due time,
will be steps I climb
up the downstair.
Am I trying to climb the ladder to nowhere?
Am I stepping up or down?
Am I kicking myself around?
annh Nov 2020

СНЕГІЅН
what you have;
the sticks and the stones,
the brittle bones and the names
you call yourself out of disappointment,
frustration and contempt. СНЕГІЅН it all; the
rituals and the struggles, the battles lost and won.
Eventually, those positions held so uncompromisingly
will be surrendered, by choice or by chance, to the
nothingness from whence
they came.
W
H
E
T
H
E
|          |          |          |          |  ­        Г          |          |          |          |          |
you are at one or at odds with yourself, whether you like it or not, they are a part of what has made you who you are - informed your choices, shaped your present. Return them to the bedrock of the earth, the ether, or the ocean, if you will; but do so with grace, fond remembrance, and a care for that which lives on within you.

‘I have had to experience so much stupidity, so many vices, so much error, so much nausea, disillusionment and sorrow, just in order to become
a child again and begin anew.’
- Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha
Seranaea Jones Oct 2020
-

That ******
Mirror—

the thought of faces in humanity
showing scars of cast'd regularity
now mutes my expressions ;
~
jovial faces display smooth contours,
riverbeds of smiles and amusement,
a'flow— gleefully downstream

sullen faces carve heavy heart canyons,
white rapids pushing difficult rocks
in opposing directions
~
all of this scribbled down
in short-hand by the
Surveyors of Time.



i now relax my
composure
to this—

carefully drawn maps of
experiences, upon glance

face to face, year by year,
smoothed and unfolded

ever so slow melts
my candle, abreast

whilst smiling my bones
with an approval
from Death...


© 2020


.
if only for guidance,as this poem is
more metaphor— dependent,

noticing the Scars of Time
upon my face, almost a
reverse, epiphany.

a comparing how they were
laid out over my years—

either by periods of
happiness, contentment
or by
anger, stress

then deciding how to finish
this map on my face that
i must wear in my
diminishing years


hope the helps !

28 Oct 2020
s jones
.
Paul Idiaghe Oct 2020
here, time is a truck
with waxed wheels. but it
keeps pacing, keeps paving the path
to destruction; in dreams, I pluck

myself from its sheath, let it sweep
over me like a tide; on the
ground, I gather my garments,
as stones and seashells, slip

into their ethers, where eternity
waits. here, pyramids don’t converge
as they taper; they tunnel
like a lair that has lost its lucidity

& I’m wandering within their walls,
clueless, clouded—a captive child
eager to escape into enlightenment,
or another dream, where bliss befalls.

this is a paper-dream gobbling
reality—down to its
bone, bruised bare & bleeding.
Amanda N Skaggs Aug 2020
A secret placing.
Finding, seeking, an ending.
Pathways in our minds.
Bongani G-kay Jul 2020
Pillar of my stones( mom)💕

I pray her soul to keep
All the way above they made a choice...
My voice cut...i won't speak....cause you can't question God...why?
I guess its my turn to carry the load....i pick
From now on...
My effort is to always make you proud...
I will take care....of me and them...and...
I will try to even the scale at home...
Even though life isn't fair.....

i feel alone..
You gone....
Until i see you again...
When its my time...
Pillar stone of my life...
Collapsed...
I love you mom🌹💔
Dedicated to all beautiful mothers and those you have lost their mothers....the facts is they love you and they loved you💕
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