#dusty
I'm a fool, Who has fallen in Love.
Head over Heels and Blind.
I keep blushing during the Day,
not knowing what's there in My Mind.
If I offer My Love and Gift wrap it to U.
Will U make Me yours Forever
Or will U turn it Down and Laugh at Me
and make Me hang My Ears Forever.
As I stand on the Steps of Happiness
waiting for U to open the Door.
Will U let Me into your fold
Or will My Tears roll on to the Floor.
The Last time, When I said I Love U.
My Voice had begun to Crack.
I'm that best selling Book, U never read.
Lying Dusty and Torn on you Rack.
Aug 13, 2023
Aug 13, 2023 at 4:40 AM UTC
_๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ข๐
๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐,
๐ฐ๐ ๐๐ข๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ข ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐;
๐ธ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ข ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ข ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐,
๐ด๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ข ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐-๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐,
๐ผ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ฐ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐'๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐;
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐,
.
.
.
๐ฐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ __๐๐๐๐__
.
.
.
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ข._
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 1:52 AM UTC
Sit down here for a while
Look up and observe the sky
With a kaleidoscope of dreaming eyes
Contemplate how the stars shine
Complementing the beauty of night
Brazing to be the brightest sight
Bearing the heat by constant burning
Just to illuminate oneโs world.
Turn your face beside
And savour my talking heart
A canvas made of refined stardust
Count the sparks of it
That complete anxious dots from your stare
Faith in myself when I say
Your tender existence already be the best being
Your enchanting gaze lights up dusky room I was lost in
Your warm embrace convects my flowerโs needs
Makes it fully blooming.
You are solely my star
And Iโm eternally stargazing.
Nov 15, 2020
Nov 15, 2020 at 11:32 PM UTC
#*
The old dusty path
Weather beaten roads
Lead to the farm
With an old barn
The sun shinesย
with a light afternoon
breeze
Orange cosmos flowers,
grow wild in the
green hills
Silvery white, slender fragrant flowers,
bloom on the Indian cork trees
The full moon glows through the night
On the old dusty path*
๐ฟ๐ฟ
Oct 31, 2020
Oct 31, 2020 at 2:55 PM UTC
2020 - day 146
Monday, May 25, 2020
7:48 AM
A creed of mathematics and mud, said
in what may be
metemperical
utterance from the ghost of the late,
and likely,
no longer lamented,
Sir Leslie Stephen, author, and,
therefore,
authoritative voice in the matter
of his own mind.
He apologized for the state called
Agnostic, lacking gnosis, may I say,
I know more, in fact, if I count my access
to knowns,
along with my access to the sequence
of knowing;
I know more than any prominent literati
in the time before Google's
manifestation as an idea shaping tool.
What do I know?
I know how to use the Internet to learn,
in broad sweeps through the remains of
empires,
into the dustbin of history for which we stand,
ready,
as a nation,
to build new and more destrucively effective
petards.
Blow your mind, hoist, lift-off, on your own farts.
Passing wind,
did you smell it?
โ
Mental as opposed to spiritual,
hmmm
this will need some study...
a little think,
an imaginary journey,
from here to... where? Where,
or when,
if
we were to change the world,
as we know it;
say,
we did. Say we changed the world,
who would know?
Who would care? We have yet,
breath, and fuel, and functionality.
We have movement, and a grasping,
holding, using,
sense
a natural, from the womb, knack
for making a fist.
โ
Womb survivors of the world, unite.
Defined to the finest quarkish sublimnity,
we entangled creative
thoughts being spun into the wind
passing, rising
from bloated corpses,
we all may witness, as real as you may imagine...
in 2020, we have eye-witness visions made plain,
we have seen the bodies stacked in carts,
we have seen My Lai from the sky,
we can imagine
being there... but don't, I mean, Memorial Day is...
maybe, it is... evoking memory of madness,
how is war good? It is good for the greedy, no one else.
We watch our hero's die to stop the evil, then we watch
the bankers free the last Krupp cannon molder,
to spite the facts we can see, as seen at Nurnberg.
That injustice, was done in my name, if I believe I am
pluralized as we, the people who hold truth,
the Yanks, ye' know? Yankin' y'strang, stranger... did you
stumble into our historical records of all the good
war has done? Nay,
we came to remember peace,
in high definition resolution sharper than the
unaugmented human eye can detect,
see that guy's head, or his helmet, look close,
no head remained in the helmet,
but I knew the head the helmet was hoisted from.
I watched PFC. -name redacted - die,
-- did you know, did you learn, ever, the meaning
of being hoisted on one's own petard?
A petard was a bomb. Nothing fancy,
a bit of alchemical magi-knowing of laws yet to be
discovered in the rubble of guesses as to cause,
accusations of arrogance and hubris, combound to whys,
never examined, never lived out in vital awareness.
โ
quenching a flaming spirit, is ill advised...
but it happens,
all the time. A heart pouring hope
into a mind jumbled
with signals and signs and pleas;
stops, stutters, and aches for
more
meaning meaning meaning in the
tinkling bells and crashing cymbals.
Hope, ash of aspirations inspired
by
love, as a thing, a noun, not a verb.
Love is a verb. Not a thing, an act.
Indeed, done, love is easy to think wisely done.
No announcement is needed,
long after the tale is first formed,
the legend rises from resting in peace,
to give a lie an opposing force, not a war,
a flood.
A deluge of lusion, a seeing at augmentedus
resolutions into further and beyond,
all we can think, or ask
into life
dimensions
former-wise, formerly, unknowable, now
known, according to the pundits,
these are not the days of Lincoln,
craming laws into his head by firelight,
calloused digits flipping page after page
of proprietary rules governing
the white man's burden.
---
โ
Staunching the flow, of blood, particularly,
meant stopping the flow, usually
stopping it from
flowing out of course,
flooding
the plain, flat, seeming, surface of reality.
Reality not being as defined as we imagine, in ourselves.
This being the flow,
if we pay attention, focusing on a point,
fixing a line of sight to a distant thing, a star will do,
planets,
no, those won't do, you see, the planets, now we know,
the planets reflect light,
they bounce light back to our eyes, which we invariably miss
when our attention is owed to the habits we hold.
Our daily grind... growing, or surviving in hope
We guess at many next right or otherwise, standing,
based up on a pedestal, a riser,
lift up your head, egregious though you be,
easily seen, so
easily you see as far as I'm concerned, dis
cerned, re
fined to the innermost edge,
ground to a halt... pressing blade to ground to scrape
a living
plowman, plow me a furrow, for the flood.
Maker of ways, form me a way to flow,
channel my worth to the dying seeds
scattered, so long ago, on the thread of time we ride behind.
โ
a bug, an insect, not an arachnid,
by leg count
class-ift, insect extremely delicate, what use
could this bug be to me,
a mayfly,
that I did pay it this attention?
Did I mention, no,
sequences in re
telling, consider starlight bounces from sunlight,
but reason and gravity suggest, those
waves of starlight intermingle
with sunbeams.
A mote in my eye may have bounced once from the moon,
as a made its point pinging a receptor some where behind
the window of my soul
to make a ligandary acceptence of influence, from the Greeks,
in an instant
Zeno, doncha know, decided, made a cut,
skience is the conscision, the cutting into bits, until
no further cutting may be done,
and we are dust,
at best.
Flakey humans. Homes to literal gazillions of mites,
hunting and gathering epidermal
flakes of us, digesting said flakes, into demodex *****
{demodex, face mites, are as old as **** sapiens}
as we are in didactic tic mode, ******* meaning from flakes
rubbed off during the itching ear phase
of dust mote formations, see
a mite eating the scales of our bodies, our subjective habitats,
where we hold our habitual rituals;
a mite eating those, fecates and defecates, fecation required,
in consequentialist thought, prior to defecation.
Fact or fiction? Science, as we know it at grade eight,
on the global scale of common knowledge,
science is what we are convinced we know in useful ways.
Knowledge is our opinion of
what we think we know. That is a guess. Not quite right, flow
past
the missed try, reach a next un ex spectated, un i magined
ic tic tic
time passing options, while a life away, or wait
wait and see, or come and see.
I say go. Where this river runs, reach that place,
get all salty, then
lay in the sun and evaporate. Ex sciere, rise, sublimated into ever knowing more,
scient-if-ic known knowns within the un gated narrative we occupy.
We live in an atmo-sphere, a bubble, with a core- inward pulling force
which rolls the rock down the hill, as me and Sisyphus spend a pleasant afternoon
watching all our effort play out...
โโโโโโโโโ
forgive me if you already made all the links, I found the scient bits glittering in Old Norse skita,
science is ific in its will to be known truth holding, bogus science is willing to lie, for prestige.
skei-
Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to cut, split," extension of rootย *sek-ย "to cut."
It forms all or part of:ย abscissa;ย conscience;ย conscious;ย ecu;ย escudo;ย escutcheon;ย esquire;ย nescience;ย nescient;ย nice;ย omniscience;ย omniscient;ย plebiscite;ย prescience;ย prescient;ย rescind;ย rescission;ย science;ย scienter;ย scilicet;ย sciolist;ย scission;ย schism;ย schist;ย ******ย schizophrenia;ย scudo;ย sheath;ย sheathe;ย sheaveย (n.) "grooved wheel to receive a cord, pulley;"ย shedย (v.) "cast off;"ย shinย (n.) "fore part of the lower leg;"ย shingleย (n.1) "thin piece of wood;"ย ****ย (v.);ย shive;ย shiverย (n.1) "small piece, splinter, fragment, chip;"ย shoddy;ย shyster;ย skene;ย ski;ย skiveย (v.1) "split or cut into strips, pare off, grind away;"ย squire.
It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by: Sanskritย chindhi,ย chinattiย "to break, split up;" Avestanย a-sista-ย "unsplit, unharmed," Greekย skhizeinย "to split, cleave, part, separate;" Latinย scindereย "to cut, rend, tear asunder, split;" Armenianย c'timย "to tear, scratch;" Lithuanianย skiestiย "to separate, divide;" Old Church Slavonicย ceditiย "to strain;" Old Englishย scitan, Old Norseย skitaย "to defecate;" Old Englishย sceaรฐ, Old High Germanย sceidaย "sheath;" Old Irishย sceidย "to ***** spit;" Welshย chwyduย "to break open."
May 25, 2020
May 25, 2020 at 2:05 PM UTC
Pity Clarity
by Michael R. Burch
Pity Clarity,
and, if you should find her,
release her from the tangled webs
of dusty verse that bind her.
And as for Brevity,
once the soul of witโ
she feels the gravity
of ironic chains and massive rhetoric.
And Poetry,
before you may adore her,
must first be freed
from those who for her loveliness would ***** her.
Published by Contemporary Rhyme (January 2005) and The Columbus Dispatch (Sunday, April 3, 2005). Keywords/Tags: Poetry, pity, clarity, obscure, webs, dusty, verse, brevity, gravity, irony, chains, manacles, massive, rhetoric, imprisoned, prisoner, jailed, ***** ****** *******
Apr 11, 2020
Apr 11, 2020 at 1:52 AM UTC
It was dry
Hot and humid
Dusty and nasty
Then
It rained
Cool and wet
Soothing and cozy.
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 10:03 AM UTC
roses
dusty
soft,
lips
the same
soft color
eyes
the blue of the sky
soft clouds
drifting through them
a smile
that makes me fall
a drift
like a feather
i'd like
to kiss
your
petal
soft
lips
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 3:12 PM UTC
Back in the corner of the closet
they rest covered in layers of dust
so thick I can barely see their color
but I remember the days of trust
I placed in them on ladders
dragging the hose through mud
standing before the radial saw
cutting with fear of drawing blood
Yes they are quite ugly
scuffed and parting at seams
soles worn and getting holey
walked through broken dreams
But Iโve got more work to do
I shake off the past with their dust
put on these old shoes cozy and true
and step into another future with trust.
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 5:30 PM UTC
Surprisingly the dusted air
does not bring a gritty mouth?
It seeps sandy, into the recesses of skyscrapers,
gives bright blue pools a poxy composure.
Its probably why the buildings aren't white
but not why my teeth aren't
It's accompanied by muted roars,
a cacophony of humanity in the near and far.
Indians eating Ethiopian,
Pakistanis driving Chinese cars,
Arabs shopping at Bloomingdales,
Filipinos Filipinoing.
A city that embodies the glittering gold
of empty flats and abandoned offices,
the cushion covered loungers
and the overwhelming urge to jump
from the 26th floor balcony.
A squinted eye admires the Burjes.
A shielded glance is spared for the Mosques.
Their brilliance is solar, my sunglasses game is weak
and my neck is starting to get sore.
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 2:38 AM UTC
a snooze
on anesthesia
though boastful
chunk of
elaboration and
lesson refractory
that omnipotent
was such
rapport with
edification I
lied and
over her
***** that
melded ours
in peals
of natures
finest planet
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 9:50 AM UTC
I burned our
old photographs,
it fell down
like dried leaves
in the autumn
The classic
gallery of our
love that was
once fascinating
became a
tedious one
The once white
walls and
clean corners
Are now dusty
and dark
The perfectly
carved frames,
and perfect
shots
became dull
and lifeless
You left me
knowing that
I won't survive
alone inside this
***** walls
Picture me
in your mind
And you'll see
the saddest photo
there will ever be
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 7:29 PM UTC
Laughter fills the air
As the hazy sun streams
Through the dusty forest
It is the peak of summer
As youth dive into the cooling
Waves of a nearby stream
But in a moment
The joy disappears
Transforming into
Alarm
Screams
Desperation
A body is dragged
-One of their own-
Drowned in the waters
Of the clear stream
Ambulances speed
But there is never
Enough time
To return
Sorrow follows them
Stalking them
Like a shadow
Never letting go
Months pass
People forget
Of the drowned one
But for one
The one that drowns
In grief
For what was lost
On a hazy summer day
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 3:54 PM UTC
Why do old things never become shiny again?
Its a shame,
really.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
The chilly wind brushed against my cheeks.
As the light left blinding streaks.
I realised we were both looking up at the same sky.
As we both let out a fascinated cry.
The dusty scent tickled my nose.
As the droplet landed on my wilting rose.
The crystal clear patterns blurred the outside.
Leaving me alone in silence with all my worries aside.
The dusty drops drowned the noisy city.
As if it was trying to leave me alone for a brief moment out of pity.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC
Perhaps there is no wonder.
As it all feels so gray.
The color slowly leeched.
Just as the sun
Makes our vision white.
The little paper bird
Sits all dusty and bleached upon the shelf.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 10:26 PM UTC
Trailing my fingers along the weathered spines
Which one should I pick?
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
Meet my friends all day
BUT now I have no way
It's been years to meet them
Sitting in a chair remember them
Now I become lone and ALONE
Just like crawl and crawl
But I know I know thus
They will not perish in a dust
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 7:31 AM UTC
A journey from nothing to dusty mirror
We learn we enjoy everything is fun even a fight
We mature we grow we shine like a star so bright
We were so innocent so beautiful with vigor
Just like a bright and hopeful the passing meteor
Our dreams a thousand with pride as our core
The world so beautiful felt it then the honour....
Lost we are now in this skeptical life
Lost are those dreams hidden so far apart
Lost are our hopes or shifted are our thoughts
We don't seek what we used to before
Corrupted are we and lost our soul
Hiding away our true self ignoring them all sooner
Thus a journey from nothing to a dusty mirror
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 9:52 AM UTC
If you peel her skull back,
And look inside her mind,
You will find cases filled with memories,
That she keeps labeled and organized.
There is a small one for her dreams,
That has gotten covered up with dust,
For she is always putting off herself,
For those that never cared about her musts.
Then there is another shelf half filled,
That she has labeled "The love that I learned",
And it's been being slowly emptied out,
By those that have borrowed from and never thought to return.
Then you will see one very large,
That is packed more than the rest,
It is labeled, "All that has hurt me",
And she knows every one of the titles and their context.
There is more smaller ones scattered here and there,
With faded titles and broken shelves,
But they're all hiding in the shadows of her silent self torture,
Because we convinced her that there was selfishness in loving herself.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
don't cry,
little me...
youll shed your calloused skin
one day,
hatching out of
your candy-wrapper cocoon
of dreams and ribbon in
red,
ย ย ย ย ย ย white,
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย and pink,ย ย
.
.
.
so
give your jaws a rest,
undo your sewn on smile,
with your
skin collapsing on
your cheekbones and
empty eyeholes,
worn,
tired, and d u s t y
.
you will be fine.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 11:58 PM UTC