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We are here.
Yesterday and today,
We stood on guard for the speakers.
They speak loudly.

The tone and volume of protest:
Outrage, grief, sorrow,
Compassion, empathy, exhaustion,
They are sick and tired of protesting,
Tired to the bone.
They have given it their all
With nothing left to give.

They rage against the injustices done to their families.
Share stories from brothers, sisters, parents, grandparents.
Speak of the generation before,
and demand life for their babies.

There is always music:
drumming, dancing, songs of prayer or fury.
Listen to the rhythm –
Clapping of hands,
Stamping of feet,
The many-throated bellow.
An angry community will make noise.

It just keeps coming.
All this overwhelming depth of feeling,
Filling our capacity for experience.
It will not stop.
It’ll keep going, and going, and going,
Until it has no more reason to continue,
Until there is no more injustice to be raged against
Or deaths to mourn.
It gives me hope.
Heidi Johanna Oct 13
Beauty is my witness
To the better things to come
Dante Rocío Sep 1
Imagine a young fervent swarthy portrayal,
caramel strong un-clad lady,
yet at touch so “douce” and glued
whilst leaning out
from a window
slender rainy on a balcony too urban
And eyes at digital art
Spin a confession
Of how the watered petals of flowers there
do not explain
The origin or calling of the rain
And that its every end or beginning
In her unbetrayal made swayed
Has actually
since always
been taking
its rightful place.

The world in that fact
does not have,
make relay, sense.

Someone right  on the other side’s
staircase stroll
Would extract their own core
by extending through their ribs own

her beloving so longing and old
that one at last will find it
possessing a too hurtful call.

Head lolled.
Dew owned.
Hereby a painting
The Rain gave me
As my new rightful face.
They will hold it forevermore
As their subject yet bearer.
The chosen laid and left there
Everybody has a voice inside
That whispers day and night
For the criminals it says
Destroy the evidence
Destroy the witness
Lest they should be done
For the pious it says
Do good to others
Do not harm others
Lest they make their own fun
Sun beamed at
her melodious smile,
Sand embraced
patterns her feet made;
A sight to behold
even time stood
in solitude to
witness love song.
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Dante Rocío Aug 26
Can you deduce
basing on one’s
and heartbeat
what notes and melody
fulfil them,
precariously and intimately
decomposing and

And what sophistication,
what greatly mindless
analysis is it
when you acquaint a process/
a person
approaching in full
immersion like
the day
you go through
and not like going out
into your garden
from your house
for a few mere moments
that just make this escapade
a trespassing event,
without even looking at it!

What patient devotion
must that be to pay
for the prize of entering
its mechanism
and presence emanating,
even more
when that
is what your mirror
shows both to You
and your body,
or the sonorous car engine
driving you insane,

or finally reading
the architecture of letters
of a Book
for the first time
in your life
comprehending actually
the story of the text
or the painting
that architecture gifts you!

what a horrifying
would it be
if that
would be Life,
or the World,
anything like
that in itself,
and thus there
would be no wonder left,
no excitation,
like living an immortal
a God that has gone
to every corner of perception
and galaxies,
has witnessed every
that then starts only
to repeat itself
and constantly!

diverging from that,
maybe the reason
many minds believe
that Magic and Literature
as an apparent coming true
in our passing
are nonexistent
is that we restrict it
solely to blank pages
we fill with imagination,
to Child’s
are actually
they are more
than possible
if we bear it in
as it was put in
the Kybalion:
As it is on the inside,
it is thus on the outside.

Like when I was standing
just a while ago
saying goodbye to the sea
in shouting silent beauty
of transparent words:
the beach to my far left
by tourists
and chosen by shadows
with Sun
and looming trees
all of a sudden
was more than verily
a shore
from “Robinson Crusoe”
or “The Treasure Island”,

just called to run and
peruse no matter
if something was waiting
or not

Or how now
whenever I write
instead of speaking
to a person
I do not differ them
by their ID
or biological data
and make revelation
of myself in the same
Godly, well perturbating
way like Pythia
and don’t care
if its a wise child,
a seemingly important
member of some affiliation,
or stiff standard model
in human skin.

It is simply all
constant Metamorphoses.
Notes sudden, granted,
In reflections
Of how all turns its entrails
Inside out to you
When you just consent
To staying till the end
And going all the way
Through what they are
On all planes
Maybe you’re right, maybe it isn’t.
Maybe it isn’t a crime you committed,
But watching you silently reap the benefits of privilege
Is damaging your witness
And I wonder if you’ve considered it
Small and brown
Wrinkled and worn
It's insides hide secrets, nicks and some nooks
Mold of thy mind, mold of my soul
When pen finally falls
When the body gives finally breath
And man I am gone
It will stress me none
Because I loved, I cried, I laughed
I lusted with wild desired,
More importantly, reluctantly I confess
That above all what puts my heart to rest
Is to know that a tiny speck of me will still be here
In this leather bindings my soul will live
Gerald Jun 10
I have myself to blame.
Every "stop" sign I knocked down is a witness.
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