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f 44m
home calls for me
in a language i do not
yet i draw nearer.
albinoni:  adagio in g minor
There is a vast green tract

And a fresh bluish course

A mile from here.

There is a big sinewy tree

And profuse green tea

A mile from here.

There is also a groovy human race

And a grabby human face

A mile from here.

But there is no humanity

Nor sanity

Anywhere round here.
What resides a mile from here!
Amanda 3h
I wrap my ribs in blankets and attempt to get some sleep
But I am kept up by “baas” from imaginary sheep
I have counted so many I lost track of the number
Yet not one nudged me an inch toward my slumber
And even in the quiet hours foreplaying dawn
No tiredness is found
My mind races on
I am comfortable like my bed is made of bricks
Turning and tossing as the second hand ticks
Knowing I am not going to get a wink of shut-eye
But optimistic enough to try
Close my eyes to the movie playing outside my window pane
Colors changing
Black to pink to blue
Do not entertain
It washes over me slowly
Like the tide rolling in
I surrender to insomnia
Not strong enough to win
I listen to the rustle of wind sifted through branches on trees
And let my brain be carried away to fond memories
It’s not the same as drifting off but it comes pretty close
If my head must remain active at least it's engrossed
I would like to catch some Zs but they keep slipping away
Hands as slow as the transition from night to day
I'm looking for an escape to ease my weary soul
Some sun to light my insides
Darker than coal
My weakness gets the best of me
Drowning me in fear
Convincing myself demons are worse than they appear
But as the blackness inhabiting my room begins to lift
Something stirs my senses and I feel a distinct shift
I forget all the obstacles in the way of my rest
A weight is no longer pressing on my chest
Just as everyone else starts their daily routine
I finally doze and enter a world more serene
The dreams I wished to visit but were too far for so long
Are now mine to live in
Only to me belong
It may have taken more time but was surely worth the wait
When it comes to sleep no such thing as too late
Insomnia can be a real ***** sometimes
Portraits lying on the old shelf,
Reminds me of a time
I used to do a good impression
Of myself
They say people never change,
It's rather quite strange
That there's a world beyond that door
While I was stuck sleeping on the floor,
Trying to diverge the bold arrow of time
Is in itself a crime?
Things seem unreal
Like a one-hand clappin'
Things take time to heal,
Just let it happen.
The journey of a portrait through time.
Luna Pan 13h
tell me lies under the moonlight
just for a night make up
we are sinners
under this moonlight you look like a saint
god won't forgive us
you are mine tonight under the moonlight
your sweet lies
For those who have no gift to see,
There is naught but cruel reality.
But for those with mind and heart in stock,
The hidden doors of life unlock,
And pour out treasures beyond compare-
Simple treats, like cold, clean air-
Or a sunset ripe with firey soul,
The stillness of water inside a plain bowl;
A flower sweet on Spring's hillside,
The thump in our veins that keeps us alive;
A roll of thunder, and mornings song-
These are the virtues to be claimed all along.
What can't be seen by hurried man
Are things more precious than they understand;
For man may rush and push and live by the hour,
But time is wasted when you dont smell the flowers.
Death never takes too long,
she's always first,
before anyone else.
Born ready.

She never takes her time.
She only takes our one.

She never hesitates.
It's life, which has the second thoughts,
an indecisive fool,
who always waits,
till it's too late.

Death no, she's always on the dot
to make - and break -
the rules.

That ******

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
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
Ana 1d
I've always preferred finding out what time it was by looking at the watches of strangers,
Preferably on a morning carriage where the forgotten time difference from fading holidays meet the eternally shaken bracelets
Strangers, on their way to an oversized office smelling like old tea and leftover birthday cake.

My eyes, moving from one being to the next,
wondering if they woke up in their own bed.
Disparate attires or obedient consumerism, smells of cologne and *****, unironed shirts and loose ties,
Remains of a night too quickly ended or of a morning that started off wrong.
Strangers, burning the courage to face the dread of small talk talk and mindless tasks.

A half hour turnover of faces, smells and stories,
Strangers, unknowingly sharing their lives with me.
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