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It's a beautiful thing,
to feel emotions so deeply.

There's nothing I can do,
but to feel my heart beating.

It's pounding me alive.
Incapable of sleeping.

I am permanently wired
to be open to receiving.

Collecting dust from comets,
to carve out my own meaning.

The universe, she needs me.
For transference she is seeking.

Pouring feelings down my throat,
so they can find releasing.

I make light codes out of lessons.
I upload them when I'm dreaming.

Slowly taking all the pain,
and I turn it into healing.

And for every cleanse completed,
she leaves me with a teaching.

And the world's a little wiser,
a little more appealing.

• • •

Then I get another download,
and the cycle keeps repeating.


▪︎ mica light ▪︎
A queen will always turn pain into power.
John McCafferty Sep 2020
Paddle amongst the dark
Masked shadows clasped in sharp arches
Explore your flaws to experience more
Question conceit as preachers reach deep
Shots drawn before dawn
Chasing bright sunlight gilded aside
Brought up to rise again
Our lives repeatedly warned of descent
Air still warm as we sit forlorned
Sleight of hand connections tight
Observe the signs confined in mind
Silent whispers guided from behind
Focused awe channels through us all
Do we care to share energy
Too few view the transference of form
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
Carlo C Gomez May 2020
Mommy drinks because you're bad
Destroy, she said
But remember
The practical pyromaniac
Burns responsibly
John McCafferty Jan 2020
Flapping flames fall from above
A reflection of affliction
Kissed by death when time is up

The transference of one

To reimburse the curse
a cycle continues of the young
From which we all grow older
to become shards of the sun
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
CarolineSD Nov 2019
A blinding desert sun and the sky like a looking glass, fractured.
Light streaming through the tops of Baobab trees
And red, sub-Saharan dirt kicked up
Like a dry mist.

There is a broad vista,
Some kind of savanna and
I am standing,
Face raised to the wind
Straining to see the horizon,
And in that quiet moment,
They come riding.

Atop the lumbering, gray bodies of Mastodons
They are dressed in cloths
Of red and orange and black.
There is an ancient, robed shepherd
Sitting astride a great, trudging beast,
And in his right hand
He holds a staff.
Solemnly, he pushes his behemoth mount on
Faster until the ground
Might split within the tremulous thunder of it.

And I must not run.
I hear a quiet voice urging me to walk on,
Walk out,
Walk up to it.
Face this thing.
And so, I do not cry out or hide
Or even step from one side to the other.

I walk a straight line
As swiftly the rider approaches,
Sand flying like fire,
And soon they tower above me,

But the eye,
The eye of the beast is kind, and it stops within inches of my face,
And peers down like some
Great, all-knowing thing.

Above him,
The rider leans sideways and extends the staff towards my neck.
Gently, there is a touch against my skin
And in that moment
There is a transference
An instance of knowing
Something given from Him.

I remember, it felt just like,
“Your soul is never alone”
And I fell to my knees with the relief of it.
A dream from long ago that appeared at the right time in a difficult year.

— The End —