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The first sign of a dream approaching is that when you’ve already awoken,
awoken to a strange place with no trace of how you could’ve gotten there.
And the unfamiliar, faces near, with eyes similar to shards– shaded  
you can’t help but notice those feelings emitted were somehow something you’ve come to known before,
but where?
–a notion coursing its way around a soundless observatory only to further dissipation—
A sign of discord covers the room,
all that was allowed is furthest from you,
a parched paper made from what seemed like rugged twine knows nothing but lead between,    you find a face emerging from it,
quickly drawn with detail,
there it stops from motion to undulating surpass,
away from a darkened room up in front of a morning taking.
This conjuring source flairs outward
rising through the outworn canvas
leading it to embers
dancing away along a fizzled plane
for what was despair inscribed in this meaningful dereliction.
To what is empty from emotion is nonexistent,
I couldn’t find the reason to live on,
this dream has died as will I... as will the will of this way this place carries over me.
Yes decay follows me,
unto everywhere will there be the silent breezes to carry me past the concrete terrain into nothingness.
I find myself to live this over,
until the advent of air drowns these lungs to knowing again,
to know exactly what it means to breathe again.
I see no reason for such things as unrealistic as they may seem likely for me to occur in this living.
Again I’m stuck in a room full of my owns thoughts,
such a dangerously sorrowful place to be.
‘For everything as it may have not been
weary am I for looking forward at
The things that never happened’

‘Turning over everyday, repetitively’

Let’s just say that this isn’t personal but for those whom share a common fate. Until overturned.
In its most rawest.

Snow, for me exemplifies a mute understanding from in juxtaposition with various types of sadnesses that branch off into disparately inclined yearnings, to nostalgic preferences, whether known or not. Why it happens is of course obvious but the way it affects you, makes one wonder, if at all— I think I’m trailing off my train of though here, I’m not sure where this is going..

This was inspired by a remarkable composer, as I recalled a dream before, along with the yearning of trying to expose my underlying expansion of myself with my current understanding of things. what it all could mean as much of his cello’s presence affected me during that process. I’m the gray area that needs deciphering.

the cello that wails the loudest, is one that suffers the most. Even so, every tone encapsulates the listener with resonance. And in that, it reaches its utmost vulnerability, showing the many hues imbedded in an infinite sadness, in an astronomical way, a type of exquisite somber, that resides in the instrument’s hollowness until implementation of procedure.
Pauline Morris May 2016
The blue bird of happiness on my windowsill did sit
Singing me songs of sweet regret
But he doesn't know what it feels like to be blue
He's always happy, but slightly subdued
He only greets the sunshine
He's never tasted pain like mine

The blue bird of happiness hides from the rain
He can pretend it never came
We are quite different that bird and I
For I will never be allowed to touch the sky
The rain is my redemption
While the sun is he's deception
For happiness I know is just an illusion
He is lost in the confusion
M K Whitmore Jul 2014
An excuse to hold eye contact with you
Such soft giggles and deep laughter ensue
You take my hand or go around my waist
Dancing, between us with less and less space

Your breath and mine, the only tune we need
I could dance all night to your slow heartbeat
Our feet drag easily through the cool sand
You spin me around, my heart in your hand

The rise and fall of the waves’ trough and crest
Parallels with my head on your broad chest
Much more than rain was our gift from above
Protection, and a sign of God’s great love

Fire between us must remain subdued
I’m falling, sweet Joshua, just for you

— The End —