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Umi May 19
A clear trail left in trance is how I shall form words,
Elegantly, majestically casting them onto a blank paper, focused on creating poetry, a time recording friend has gone missing,
Now the lonely sound of my scratching against the thin paper, lead by transience of its decay is the only sound we can hear.
What once was a world to create fantasy has drowned, black as ink into the darkness of a never ending tale, time and time again,
As if to hold on to embers, scared to lose all light when the last one goes out, for a cold, uninspired, spiriling dark of ones mind,
With the mission to accompany her throughout each and every writing as it unfurls, comes to life and simply blossoms in pride,
As I see a smile cast on her face, the determination to keep going alightens a flame, but unceartenty overcomes my weakened body,
When the trace of my mark begins to fade, I wonder how long it will be, until there is nothing more to say, do or think about,
Even if this dreamlike tale of endless, ongoing poetry were never to end or falter, never to be distorted nor interrupted;
Even if you don't have to die in a dream,
one is bound to wake up sooner or later,
As a tired hand carelessly, roughly, lays me down,
I wonder how many poems one can write,
Before running out of the ink of the mind.

~ Umi
Written from the perspective of my pen.
Sparrow Mar 30
I am usually an amnesiac
Which is why there is always
cheap stationery in my pockets

- "An inexpensive set from Faber-Castell"

I look to my scribbles when I'm lost
unless an unexpected shower
has been tasked to ruin them

- "Pages stuck together, smudged and stained"

Three monsoons have come and went
I don't carry an umbrella or run for cover anymore
I stand in the middle of the downpour, drenched
But I guess some inks are just too hard to wash away
Use the sharpie on the whiteboard at your own peril, fans of irony.
Arianna Mar 9
String the harp, O Bard!
The red threads of Fate, having fallen to thy hands,
Raise the dead in song.

Unnamed names become immortal at thy touch,
Fragmented voices fill the graveyards with veiled polyphonies
Etched between the ridges of fingers deft,
Faultless, bounding down the scales
Before flying again to their heights.

Oracle of the great halls,
The words of Muses, gods, and poets alike
Fall on ears deafened with wine and revelry,
Heedless, though one day they too
Shall wail beneath thy fingers.
"Black Horse: Mongolian Traditional Music" album:


Peire Vidal - "S'ieu fos en cort"

Claude Marti - "L'Agonie du Languedoc" album
Hartaz Kaur Dec 2018
Particles collate, clouds gather
An uprising it seems, stronger together
Resolute it stands, till it holds no further
As any body collapses, under mounting pressure

Little drops to torrential downpour
The inconvenience it brings, just what we abhor
Struggle we must with virtuous patience
If we are to enjoy befallen petrichor

Trees are fed, flowers bloom
From this garden, brilliance loom
As all things present, this too is transient
A reality so poignant, about an existence impermanent

Leaves frail, flowers wither
Consumed by soil from which it consumed
No such thing as eternal bliss
Such are the laws of our symbiosis

We arrive from dust and depart as stench
A reality from which, we shouldn't flinch
As we gaze into a horizon so eternal
All we have, are moments so ephemeral
“The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” ― Alan Wilson Watts

"We arrive from dust and depart as stench" - Words not my own. Can't rem where I picked it up from
Umi Nov 2018
Faith is for the transience to have,
To hold on to their, morale, their pride or their belief of justice,
While the sun already bid farwell to her warmth in this freezing autumn, the transience of their faith keeps them warm, ah phantoms,
And so time passes, beliefs change the path is redirected
The wind crosses over it, and alike a miracle revives those memories,
Of those who have already left and disappeared without a trace,
And of the ones who shaped anothers heart, with speech, with a gentle gesture or just kindness, shown to every and all kinds,
As I, who was too pure to understand the meaning of this wretched world together with its temporare selfdestructive problems achieved immortality, I began to understand that transience is beautiful!
Because transience meant living, did it mean that I was no more ?
This I cannot answer, however it is what you do with the gift of life that determines who you are, just do not get lost in the stream of time,
The smallest change can make the difference,
As for every kind is one kindness,
This, is a last remote.

~ Umi
What thoughts I have of you tonight, October,
for I’ve never walked alone the way I ought.
A double-decade drained. Divisive and over,
comprised of people collected,
and characters stolen.

This I know though, what it seems,
More than the changing of my lot,
For this world I can’t imagine,
Has borne far less than what I sought.

Now I stand to face the breeze,                        a chilling wind, a scattershot,
See these leaves in perfect juncture, with their wilting and their rot.
For it’s innocence I’ve lost and it’s innocence I’ll bear
When this age creates misgivings and I can’t help but feel distraught.

Cheeks of flesh turn to cold and replicate these ones
the chips and the dents that summon the reason,
I take this, accept it, a tall child in season,
Twenteen, more than once, I love you.
I turned twenty on the 13th of October
Umi May 2018
Bidding farewell to the warmth,
The bells of a spring path ring, to the sound of the wind,
Which has once again, crossed the stream of time, as it usually does,
The transience of the day, already lost due time, the sun remains as a traveler, whom appears to have crossed the Zenith again,
It's scorching heat is to be felt, exposed to it almost as if it was to be to set the skin ablaze, truly these sunrays, are unforgiving at this time,
Sorrow and misery, are to burn into ash by this heat, a purifying flame of affectionate happiness, embracing those who have found themselves to be in love with the natural, decending, light,
Beyond the boundaries, the mystery of our living power remains unknown, all what is left is a spark in the dark, beyond the sunshine,
The evening welcoming this world is soon to be radiating in joyful light, wandering aimlessly the time for the sunset draws near,
Beyond the Zenith, lies the transience of the passing time.

~ Umi
thymos Feb 2018
often i ask of my cigarettes that
they last forever. they always answer
in ashes, smoke the moonlight slow dancer
arching out of its own transient act

as if parting came easy to creatures
that dream of eternity, and wake up
again craving its adumbration, butts
spilling out of the tray, pale these seekers

their beauty not betrayed by their briefness
but by the dream, for some things are only
enjoyed by virtue of their vanishing.

it will free if it makes time for stillness.
be patient with what is strange—there, the opening.
breathe, and know nothing but fascination.
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