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I flew into the sun once and it was beautiful.
He filled me with a warmth like I've never known before.
So great was this warmth, I only wanted to draw closer.

Wherever he went, his light shone and lit up every crevice and place eventually freeing my heart from its dark tomb.

I can say that I truly loved the sun and would dread each night he went away.

You see, the sun was so captivating, he caught the eye of many and they, too, fell in love with the sun.
He was aware of his beauty so he used it to his advantage.
During the day, he'd stay, frolic and play until the dark would make herself known.
This is when he'd leave to be with the one he loved, the one he couldn't live without.

And so is the lesson I learned the hard way…
Never fly too close to the sun for you will get burned.
Rim Aug 22
In Mother's womb
We were swaddled in soft rosy layers
But let us not squander time
For once we hear the closing clock chime
We will find ourselves against all prayers
Asleep next to Mother's tomb
RhettlvScarlett Oct 2018
A Roman poem written before The birth of Christ, inspired the title Gone With The wind
with Scarlett and Rhett Butler

But here you see only old
confessions of a man's true love for his beloved who is all gone
(Or a woman's true love for
her beloved runner wishing she could have chased.)
Last night yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! Thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
  Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
  When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! Gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
  Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! The night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
  Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

By:Ernest Dowson
All rights reserved

Ernest Dowson (1867-1900) died of alcoholism at the age of 32. His downward spiral began at age 23 when he fell for an 11 year old girl who would spurn him at 14 when he proposed marriage.
The following year, in 1894 his father died from an overdose. Dowson's mother
hanged herself within a year of her husband's death.

Soon after this dual tragedy Dowson left for France before returning back to England in 1897. Curiously he lived with the family of his unrequited love. Penniless, heartbroken and filling the empty voids in his life with alcohol, Dowson would spend the last six weeks of his life in the cottage of the Oscar Wilde biographer Robert Sherard who had found him
drunk in a bar.

Speaking of Oscar Wilde, he wrote after Dowson's death of a,"Poor wounded wonderful fellow that he was, a tragic reproduction of all tragic poetry, like a symbol, or a scene.

I hope bay leaves will be laid on his tomb and rue and myrtle too for he knew what true love
unrequieted love was."
Rhett Buttler might have married other women but he never stopped loving Scarlett his true twin soul.
lenore Jul 6
poem is
a pharaoh's tomb:
the i interred in immortality.
Niki Gray Jul 1
What's the point of it all
learning to rise
yet then again fall.
Falling into the abyss
the clutches of hell.
Until I've had enough
of this cold, dark well.
Sick of the gloom, doom in this tomb
I cast off my doubt.
I feel my fiery soul
burning its way out.
Made my choice to burn bright
igniting the light with in.
Knowing that when I fall
darkness will beckon me again.
It is my decision to embrace defeat,
to quit or stay down,
or rise to my feet
regaining my crown.
I starting writing poetry a year or two ago and have shared it with very few close friends.  They encouraged me to post some of my work. Thank you Christian Love, Favour, Sheela and my little sister. So here it is and I hope you enjoy reading it.  I have more work to share if you enjoy it.
Poetress2 Apr 22
When she was but a child,
she built a man-made shell;
And there she would retreat,
on her many trips to Hell.
No animosity or strife,
did ever reside there;
She was at peace within it,
no expectations or cares.
She felt peaceful and secure,
as she rid herself of the Beast;
Who tortured her, every night,
before she went to sleep.
There was no chance for escaping,
for it came without a sound;
And in the quiet of the night,
her teardrops hit the ground.
At least she had her tomb,
a place where no one came;
If not for her safe place to hide,
she might have gone insane!
Jon Thenes Apr 1
(not ringing)
Bringing shrill
in a sense vacuum
a violence

Mewing, gut string taut
shock shell
instrument strung
along the centre of a tester tube

Abused sense-fully
with over leaden silence
packed tomb
provision tank
a violence

admin crowding
crowning grin
audience of labcoaters
a tinny able
a stint completed in this pressure test
out come;
all fists and winning
soldier born
a re-spun sinner
Guinea Pig
I scream, inside the tomb
they placed the bomb

that used to beat and left it rot

wondering what was the cause

of such a breakdown.
Denial is great, when people  refuse to blink into reality and admit permanent damage done to souls that have survived incomplete wreckage of spirit. Denial as a mechanism of spiritual stagnation, impedes possible progress and progression into acceptance and resolution of problems; forgiveness. Denial morphed into a coping mechanism for the weak, covering mental instability.  Inevitably, those who have been let down, rejected;  in darkness their insides that has been unwillingly painted by others. Some still suffer mentally inside their little box, accepting what has been done, the past that has been and the current battles to overcome.  The blackness is there in a present term, and  hope as well for the ones who scream silently, but carry no sign of it in the morning. The scream of the child buried and the smile and promise of the grown up to itself, never to become an example of the ones who are in denial. Never to cause physical or mental harm that is untreatable, to bring light to those who have been through the same. To never forget, but learn to expect everything from people; not imitate sources of malice, be vigilant and learn that denial and not taking responsibility can only lead to a progressive spiritual Disintegration.
Chris Jan 4
I found a pretty apple tree and dug myself a grave,
In it I've left my body, words and a sad mind,
All those things in life to whom I were a slave,
All will in the end be gladly left behind.

On every face I see, the same old tired smile,
That always hides a riddle, a story or a myth,
Always full of secrets, always full of lies,
That turn around the smoke o'er the fire pits.

Through rainy eyes I see the dawning of the day,
I admire sun in its morning glory,
I feel its healing beams carrying me away,
And the final darkness- the end of my story.

I picked a snow white flower, and saw in it my death,
In every petal written the end to my pain,
I've crossed this cursed field the path to my last breath,
My soul thus has left me in the light of day.
I found a pretty apple tree and dug myself a grave.
Slime-God Nov 2018
I sit and sulk a seeping sorrow
spreading through the scorching sand
as silence slowly fills the land.

and deep beneath;
a squalid tomb
a dark and smoky little room
it’s there I sulk
and there I brood
It’s where I’ll likely meet my doom
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