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Izlecan Jul 31
Attires of a closer regime,
Closed in on the muddling assets
of a light,
Flickering.
On a dead end street,
Through a meandering
There’s an eventful animus.
Past eleven,
P.M.
“To lobby is to redeem,
Apparently(!)
For I sin and repeatedly sin.”
Only by 1 and only through one
Single flock of wind-blown sediment,
man acknowledges life and
It’s dreadful stripe,
Laid upon a landscape;
Full of faux images of random schemes.
Well, there the ongoingness goes
Of moments that are no way chronologic
Where one plaster over another
Seems like a perfect match.
When the clock strikes to 3
A.M
Merely a sigh passes along,
Yet another minute,
On the cold street
The light knows no acuity at all.
It means for another tick,
Yet does not wait for the tock;
Tick-tock(!)
Tick-tock.
There lies 3 hour worth concurrence,
Confronted for each tock, for half a minute,
But only the seconds pass.
And with each skip that matters,
and only that matters nevertheless,
The clock goes back to
Eleven
P.M.
There(!) the gutter calls for another drink,
For another trace
On another strike.
However mournfully,
Escort of a humanly maze,
The muddling sort,
Births confusion.
The attires seem gone by now.
The heaves; quite impeccable,
The path adopts another protest,
For a much tackled breathing
Time overlaps,dreamily,
On a spectrum,
Laying as a single faceted imposture;
Mocking a postering of shed upon the pavement.
For another street that seemingly differs;
where the marching will always depend
(Regardless)
Solely on the counts of seconds
By the potency of motives
That merges as to defy
The years accounted
On the flesh and bone.
Now there goes another strike,
Audible over the plane
And
It carries on as
“To lobby is to redeem
For I sin
And sin
And sin
On a 3-hour worth strike,
Starting at 11
P.M,
Over another man’s bearing.”
60
59
58
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3
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1

Feel the pain
Genre: Dark Abstract
Theme: Tik Tik || Countdown
In the blink of the eyes
It ended
Without a beginning

And sometimes
We must travel
The journey
Alone

No way out
Just like a dream
Genre: Dark Abstract
Theme: Later that night he/she concluded while conducting a better human project, he/she died. || Pray for peace
Laura Mar 2018
Memories exhumed like creeping camisados

are out here stalking once more. A cacophonous attack

of unsuccessful repression, screaming

of the foregone,

of the degredations you spat from profane pulpit,

and of my tongue, jarred, a malign antiquity.

And of what you left, burning from inside, that was

to emerge, in time, from what you liked best about me.

A fruit blossom blooming; a rose potted in ****-

I put that out after thirty-nine moons.

Tip toeing towards tremendous plains,

a few times tripped, but never tumbled.

The cacophony’s eurythmic now, now

that I recall where the screaming first stopped.  

A blossom, a rose (or something greater)

given to me to put things right.

My black turning blue, improved and renewed,

a parturition extinguished through love.

And now I bloom, faintly, in the shade of you.
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