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Allyssa Nov 2018
Skin on skin,
Tracing each other’s bodies with gentle fingers,
Grabbing with needy hands,
Wanting each other a little less.
Emptying our souls,
Light being cast away,
Love wasn’t here.
No,
Love was an illuminating star.
Our definition of love was like the crumble of earth,
Letting it fall through the cracks of our fingers,
Dissipating.
Diminishing.
Delirious.
We didn’t make love,
No,
We made numbing promises within our bodies.
Our temple,
Our beloved temple,
We forgot the structure of which it sat upon and now,
Crumbling like the earth,
It collapsed.
It fell and it caved and it hurt.
It hurt like hell.
Our bodies continued to collide,
To touch,
To grind against one another,
But we did not complain.
Feeling physical was the only thing that kept us feeling at all.
*** wasn’t apart of the deal but I guess it is now.
Lyn-Purcell Jun 2018
Vain in their minds
Hearts filled with lust for darkness
Not all tongues are wise

Temples not sacred
Turn the sweet into sour
Numb, enslaved to vice
Vanity. Pride. Narcissism.
The deadliest sin of all
And it rules our society, more so now than ever...
Sad that it's now our culture.
I'm not saying I'm perfect or anything - I'm human. I've ******* up,
but still...
Be back soon
Lyn ***
Stanley Wilkin May 2018
When someone dies their thoughts
Die with them,
Their bones absorb their words-
After a summer others cease to remember,
We fade and then are gone.


Each person is replaced:
Vast cities shrink becoming grass-beaten mounds,
Shining cultures wither,
Their intricate palaces shatter,
Temples decay under interminable suns,
Religions flounder, sacrificed to time.

Philosophies expire like sunlight
When night falls, wise words unravel,
Tortured by inconsequence,
Decay dripping from each syllable
Like uncollected wind-driven *******
Running down a lonely street.

In the alley the dog howls,
Amongst the discarded boxes the
Raven sings.
Kris Fireheart Feb 2018
In dryest desert
Lay hidden jewels,
The monuments of days gone by,
Beneath the holy
Sands of Time,
Where altars to the Old Gods lie,

I found myself
Without my faith,
And could not pray, for I would die,
When I awoke,
Beneath the palms,
At the temple of the Ceruni.

To see their Gods,
Such power and fear!
For I've felt no presence as I have felt here,
So strong,  so pure,
So rich; Alive!
The Gods have felt so near this night.

I wandered in,
Through sacred gardens,
Which no other man had yet seemed defy,
And came upon her,
Her robes as the snow,
The Goddess of the Ceruni.

She beckoned me
From silvered dome,
Where she was seated,  upon silver throne,
I passed the great hemp
And red poppies which shone,
To lay my eyes upon her.

"O Dear Goddess," did i cry,
"Have the heart to tell me why,
When I have spent my days and nights,
Not quite dead, Yet not alive,
Am I shrouded in your Holy Light? "

She gave no words,
But simply smiled,
I, gripped by silence all the while,
Could find no speech
Nor pause for thought,
As she whispered lessons which one time, were taught.

You may think me mad;
I swear I am not!
I'll point out the towers if we find the spot,
Such silver and gold,
Such wonderful shine!
To be in a place where the Gods would recline.

I've witnessed the spires
Of fallen empires,
So proudly they stand in desert dry!
But I've no recollection,
Upon sudden reflection,
Of where the Holy Temple lies.

But when I die,
O, take me there!
Where hemp and poppy kiss the sky!
And on my slate,
Let them write,
"Here lies the last of the Ceruni!"
I love Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and I've always thought about experimenting with the extremely visual and often ***** tinted Romantic style.  I think it came out pretty well.
Erin Suurkoivu Feb 2017
the edges are stained blue

and no matter
that spring is holding out its hand
in a promise,

spring becomes summer,
summer fall,
and winter again,

and the hours and the hours and the hours

and cities rise
and forests fall

once, gods
are now falling into disrepair,
temples on the verge
of imploding.
An old friend of mine is dying. He's on the other side of the country. I wish I could see him one more time. Money is nothing to some people, but everything to me.
Sally A Bayan Feb 2017
...the dusty road, wearing a sombrero,
i saw a chained monkey in the middle of
the road...under the heat of the sun,
its eyes seemed numbed, as visitors
gifted it with bananas and other foods...
was the monkey bored?
tired of watching people come and go?
day in, day out?
what if it rains? it has no roof above its head...
where does it sleep?

i wondered why, from the door jamb
where i stood, there exists
another door, smaller upon sight,
and another...and another...and another....
i was accosted by an endless series of doors...
what lies at the end?
is there an end to these succession of doors?
what could be its purpose?
i wondered about that reason....

i wondered...why the pathways
ahead, left side, and right,
involved going high, then low,
so you go up, then down...
you get used to its rhythm,
to the  practice of going up, then down,
holding your breath,
grasping for a post to hold on to,
if and when you lose your balance...
you assume on what is to follow,
you are about to take a step forward
and you'll be surprised....your next step,
...............could be fatal....
you would expect a set of steps going down...
but, there are none...you're inches away
from the end of the ledge.....you stare
at the ground....from where you stand
......there's nothing there
........just an assumed fall..
............if you had been a fool...

these temples, with countless, endless
steps and doors, radiate with wisdom,
offered to us...right in front of our faces..
we just have to be keen...be perceptive...
be able to discover...and learn, before a fall
occurs...

i walked away from these walls and stairs,
tired...sweating...my knees aching......but,
with my wonderings............waning......


Sally

Copyright January 31, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Manisha Uniyal Aug 2015
My small hut of dreams
surviving all alone atop of hill
covered all around with huge deodar trees
of muddy wall and slanting roof sill

Ginger and cardamom tea
near the orange fire place
reading journals
I will live , capturing the first snow in days

freshly baked potato in oven clay
sprinkled rock salt with melted cheese
fragrant leaves of corainder
lingers on and stays

sweet and sour taste of wine
from the close by farm of grapes
friends and family gather everynight
over dinner and United prays

bells echoing mystery in the air
far from the temples on a difficult mountain
where path to heavens looks reachable
trekking the rocks in sun and in rain


Manisha
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