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LLillis 1d
I find “the morning”
to be subjective- despite
what the birds may say.
Late nights means hopefully late mornings. The heat brings open windows and loud birds. They would like me to know it’s time to start the day. I would like them to know I hope there is an outdoor cat nearby.
You can’t touch it-
The pain,
Only wait for it
To get to you
And fill that void
With vengeance.
Connect to me
Via Instagram @_kairosclere_
Via email bhama26@gmail.com
On Pinterest  @_kairosclere_
On hello poetry at https://hellopoetry.com/Kairosclere/
And my blog https://kairosclere.blogspot.com/

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Thank you for reading <3
Mikey Kania May 13
sun in the creases of the hand
white roses withered
vengeance of shades and misery
vendetta-machinegun

israeli uzis and sand
a child's grin is the big fire
in the iris of the lion; right?
the lion is a dead radio
Today is a good day.
Fheyra May 12
...
My Spirit, I dropped
My neck, how tragic!—
Oh, why was I doomed?—
What a shame of love,—
Beset me for living
How poor was my trial?—
That king caught me— Just to be his vice!
Surely, I was a noble queen—
'Til the justice defied me..

Coined by 30 years,— Now deriving for 25 years,
This automatic era seemed haste for me,— Where people work less with limbs,— And more with chained machines
All tenses are verbose,— of such faint vision;— When all the dots meet,—
Perhaps, gallops are faster than wheels.
--...
Whenever I daze in my reflection,
I morbidly feel the bruised mark on my pelvis,— whence Homer penetrated it,— And this slit scar on my nape— of my husband's infidelity
Oh fate, may thou all wrath in flames..

I was not an outlaw!—
Thou all praised a sculpture,—
And smashed it, when it was bore!
Thou bidded swears— To a bedswerver's norms!
My downfall revealed thy disgraced offerings— Traitors!

—My poor, poor queen— Do not weep,
    For I shall be great,— This lady will
    dissect the hypocrites, and clothe
    the faithful—
    I shall be the image of your tragedy
    and glory
    This is the order of my commitment
    I am a ponent;
    I am a defender.

Quote our testament:
"We art the culprits and victims of our own plot. If an admiring rogue invades thy core, it shall weakened thou as culprit into an ever victim— To be held in judgment, and to be both perceived as no innocent."

—The conviction of worldly accomplices,
    This shall be the vengeance of an obsolete sentence.—

Altaira, with me,—
Thou art neither a corpse—
Nor a bit of ash;
'Tis the time for ruling
Your Majesty—
Cheers to the jury..
This is the final sequence! The whole story was about a woman having her past life regression, and in her pasf life, she was a queen who was betrayed and beheaded. The rage of the queen still lives in her body, but her present self knows that she should be persistent to provide justice for herself, and to her country.

Remember from "Rituals and Joviality", the Spirit is the voice of the Psychologist that helped her meditate and see her past life. The "Saith the name of an Altar maiden" line referred to a command, for her fo say the word, "Altar", because it resembles the name of her past self, which is "Altaira".

Now finally, she became a judge in the end.
Justice is served.
Manpreet Gill Apr 29
Hot winds caused the charming petals to wilt,
Withered leaves slept under the dew quilt,
The sky looked red and fawn,
Rays of sorrow broke the dawn,
Icicles of trust started to melt,
Roses of love resembled a welt,
Cerulean oceans of wisdom turned black,
Light sleepers don’t like the busy track,
Life goes through phases like the moon,
Sky belongs to those who break the cocoon,
Graves have no room for grudges or vengeance,
Have no ill-feelings or hate, but only reverence.
Laura P Apr 23
Do not go gently into the night,
Do not tell me what I can’t,
For I’m like fire.

I will rise again...
Tara Apr 19
Little scorned outcast,
all grown now and strong
Finally found somewhere he could belong,
but little scorned outcast could not forget
the toil, the tears, the blood and the sweat.

First he came for father, old and weak,
took his shotgun and pointed at cheek
The trigger 'twas pulled, Daddy was no more
but there were more than he to come for.

Mother was next, humming in her chair,
when she saw him her eyes bulged in stare
The scarf she doth knit for beloved son
wrapped tight 'round her neck before she could run.

Brother was out, throwing hay in the field,
strong and broad, poor wretch would likely be killed
But nimble and quick, took rusted scythe in his hand
spilled brother's own blood on brother's own land.

Lastly was fair sister, slept by the fire,
a quaint pretty girl nonetheless fated for the pyre
Her innocent face free from her deserved guilt
the wretch took knife from the table and buried its hilt.

Finally free from burden of the past,
the poor, little outcast looked his last
at last complete in his vengeful plight
the wretch no longer; disappeared into the night.
Tara Apr 19
Helpless and forsaken,
runt in the mud
Cry for your mother,
call for your family mistaken.

Left in the cold,
left to die in the rain
Cry for your father,
as you feast on the mould.

Shivering small wretch,
surely soon dead
Cry for your brother,
while you sleep in the ditch.

Forgotten and famished,
all alone in the world
Cry for your sister,
as you shake in your anguish.
Dlusionl13 Apr 12
Silence
It's a haunting melody, something unheard
In the echoes of scorching words
And the ringing memories of violence
In the sound of shattering dreams and broken glasses
It's the trembling sigh of a soul undeterred
Like the searing quietness of a cry perturbed
In an aftermath of the storm
Its a silent silent world

Affliction
It's the demise of love, an illusion
In the game of duties and responsibilities
As the world hanging on by lies burns down
A poignant smile of content blooms
On the lips of a crumbled spirit
And amidst the destruction
A vindictive soul stays
Maybe it was not affection or concern
But just a sweet sweet retribution
:)
Flora Apr 3
Nature with folded arms seemed to be present everywhere;
Like the sun, like the stars, as a means of hope everywhere.
When the hours of days are numbered, you are the voice of the night.
When the blanket of darkness covers the sky, you are the stars of light.
Gentle Spring, warm Summer, glorious Autumn, Snowy Winter,
I see you in all the seasons, the majestic brain child of the creator

O Nature, you are the means of romantic musings to the poet.
You are the song of solitude; You are the sermons of the priest.
Alas! How have you changed from this fair scene?
How do I see vengeance amidst the woods pleasant and green?
Battles, you have won; lamentations I hear everywhere.
I keep treading in search of my gracious mother Nature somewhere.

O, why have you become the silent interrupter of our dreams.
Avenging us for our blunders and leaving us in dreadful scenes.
I see how the waters laugh at my follies.
Can I seek   forgiveness from the heart, where always love lies?
I breathe a prayer of repentance, for the mistakes which are to be repeated never
Never forever; forever never......
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