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Passing Through


The city recedes, and in the dim hush of the bookshop, she stands—  
a shadow among shelves, folded inward,  
something bent in her shoulders, a shape recognized but unacknowledged.  

Once, she had said nothing but told everything—  
the stagger in her step, the new weight in her limbs,  
the way she lingered at the edge of the studio light,  
no longer the form he had wanted to capture.  

He watches now, tracing absences—  
the ***** of her shoulders once held tension, a poise  
that suggested movement even in stillness.  
Now she carries herself differently,  
the lines of her frame settling rather than waiting,  
her presence less an idea, more a fact.  

Once, she was all gold-lit angles,  
the right lines, the hush of reflected glow—  
a frequent hire, the form desired,  
an artifact of someone else’s vision.  

She had belonged to the eye before she had belonged to herself—  
posed into being by hands that never touched her,  
rendered in strokes that softened what was sharp,  
every detail adjusted to fit a world not her own.  
She had been borrowed from that illusion,  
but had never been made to stay.  

But too often seen, too often known,  
a form rehearsed until it dulled,  
the lines that once shimmered with possibility  
grew fixed, predictable.  
No longer his vision, only a presence—  
no longer his invocation, only a fact.  

Now she moves with a tired grace,  
her skin softer, edges blurred,  
a body gone through motherhood, through ruin, life—  
the exact silhouette that he will never sketch again.  

She does not see him watching.  
She does not recognize the shadow he has become.  
She steps out through one door. He chooses another.  
Two figures, moving apart,  
the way a vision unspools,  
the way a muse disappears.  

He does not linger, does not reconsider—  
what was once luminous has dimmed,  
what was once rare is now merely seen.  
Yet what is art if not the wreckage and the salvage—  
the ruin and the radiance, the lifted and the fallen,  
the flawed, the irredeemable and the redeemed?  

He will not ask. He will not answer.  
And so, what he creates will never hold her.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 5
September 2024

few love to sing our Anthem,
almost demanding an operatic
persona, a skilled voice, capable
of great range, but it is a story,
about one man’s imprisonment,
and that phrase:

”Through the perilous fight”

always reminds,
even in peace,
we are forever,
engaged in battle
to be a light among the
nations, a shining example,
and the perils thereof
when we err,
mistake the,
of course!
of
our truest course,
and go adrift

but!
look around,
many, not few,
placing their hand
over the heart,
words reciting,
that’s how I
know, we
yet, still,
want and pray
to be a great nation,
a light unto the world
Em MacKenzie Nov 2024
I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate,
I already pulled at my hair.
“It’s normal” he says
I swear just to debate,
cause he doesn’t seem to care.

And I’m bleeding through
my scar tissued skin,
the layers only grew
still I find a way in.

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate,
I’ll be down to the last strand.
Check or fold the plays,
the cards aren’t that great
I’ll be down the my last hand.

And I’m bleeding through
my thick nice sweater.
It’s a shame as it’s new
and we’re reaching the cold weather.
It will stain the soft fabric
I may just grab the bleach,
but I always made it a habit
to always keep it just out of reach.

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate
pretty soon I’ll be bald.
On hot coals she stays,
though she shifts her weight
and watches her soles scald.

And I’m bleeding through
my clogged and blocked pores,
and the remaining few
are becoming septic sores.
I’ll shed another layer
of a non-protective bubble,
and my hair will continue to get greyer,
I think I’m now in some trouble.
Starting to feel my age…
Jeremy Betts Jun 2024
Believe me you
I'm tired of hearing me too
I'm ready for this era to be through
It's sad to see in both you and me that the same resentment aimed in the same direction grew

©2024
Andrew Rueter Apr 2021
I want you to know how I feel
but my words don't reach the extent necessary
to let you know what is real
that I want to be your emissary
but I act so wary
like an actuary
with a knack for staring
judging passing cherries
as cassowaries.

My frustration grinds through a mouthful of teeth
because of the fountain of heat
that lies beneath
my sword in sheath
melting through its protection
bleeding from the rejection
of your outward inflection
thwarting this coward's intentions.

I miss you but I don't even know you
I want to kiss you and hold you
but the issue to that bold move
is that I don't know if it'd go through
like Father Time's sand
passing through my hands
******* I'm an old man
from your cold canned gold jam
I'm sold bland then soul slammed
by Conan
The Barbarian
in my solarium
solitary terrarium
where nary a sum
equals more than one.
David Naumann Mar 2021
Images we hang carefully on the wall,
hung carefully so it might not fall.
Birds of December,
carrying memories of you,
I don't need reminders,
instead send by wings, God's angels, so I can be there with you,
I'm a nobody to anybody,
I'm forgotten, already gone,
down on the floor, face down,
crying out to the Lord,
to make their reality the truth,
I'm a nobody to everybody, in this place,
beggin' you Lord to take me soon,
no need to end this with, 'amen', because it won't end, until the Faithful Amen sends me through.
This is part 1 based on a real experience. A true story of how I got hurt in a place you'd never expect to get hurt. In my whole life I've never been broken in this way. Blessings to you. I hope that you never have to go thorough this. Author Ven J Arnold
Find me on you tube under Jencie Arnold
John McCafferty Dec 2020
Distant dreams and memories
Lost opportunities it seems
To the things that could have been
Reflecting on the past at half mast
Easier with hindsight to look at what might
A contestable question mentioned
How far do we plan with conviction
Experience paves the way
Flicking through past sections
Sets direction led astray on a page
Which ways do we cultivate
To lead the order of our day
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
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