#petry
There is hardly any noticing: the sensitive or intentionally tuna indifference, like an infectious disease, is becoming more and more comfortable, making it more at home for individual people to make the nature of a fundamentally indifferent, superficial, careless. Because between the two points they are not just yawning, looking into our eyes - but the distances believed to be impassable.
As if there was no departure or arrival, just the humilizable consciousness of the crook systems between the two endpoints, which, to say the least, has long promised that what we have begun may be much better than development or the only possible attraction. Because now we can feel the sacred harmonious tranquility of times in our molecules and cells in our molecules and cells.
In addition to the rose-sleeved mornings, we should count with the almighty pleasures of the rose-toe mornings to recall the cycle of life and the apocryphal interpretation of life; It is as if everyone and everyone secretly feel how finally it is, to say, the awareness of finite trace ...
There is a hesitant shadow on the movable corpses of existence; Therefore, it would be good to squeeze your Angel's dear Babuster's hand. The tiny diodes of the ever-restless brains are thinly stunned by an exhausted constellation, what could have been a more livable and happier life, if it happens!
Apr 23, 2025
Apr 23, 2025 at 10:03 PM UTC
Harken ye who stand at deaths door.
Do not fret or worry Anymore.
His touch may be icy, and cold.
But it's filled with love, or so I'm told.
He takes away sarow as well as pain.
A bliss to compare to a summer rain.
He'll take your hand and off you'll go.
The two of you walking toe to toe.
So do not fret or worry in these last moments.
Stand firm at his door, and hand him your two pence.
Feb 2, 2025
Feb 2, 2025 at 9:08 AM UTC
flowers that grow in you
is the kindness you share with everyone...
it will be fragrant forever
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 12:55 PM UTC
She rested her head against the windowsill, tracing her fingers along the rigid, empty patches of wood where that white paint used to be. Once up on a time.
The little whisps of hair that lay limply at the back of her neck became startled as the cold from the windowsill carressed her cheek.
Her eyes turned to the night, where the sky nursed the stars. Pockets of light screaming out into the blackness, before fading into the day. As her mind began to drift, She wandered what promise lay behind those diamonds of light. What would she find if she took that blanket of black by the corners and shook it. What would she see.
The girl sat there, her finger still tracing the chipped paint; running after her lingering thoughts. She sat there untill that familair flame grew bright, bleeding night into dawn. Morning came. the dew settled once again.
Fresh from the heavens and as she turned away, her finger stopped. She breathed a sweet sigh. A sigh filled with secrets, covered in beauty. Then she stretched her legs over the side of her bed, the crack from her toes an unapologetic symphony that her feet sang having spent the night bunched up cross legged by the window. Walking across her room to her bedroom door, she reached for the handle, turning it slowly, opening the door to another day.
Another day painted by mercy and given by grace
© Raffi
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 9:51 AM UTC
When I was young
My old Dad said
Keep thinking on your feet.
Don’t lose your head
And fall in love
With the first cutie you meet.
I always tried
To pay good mind
To what my Dad always said.
To let his words
Find a proper place
In the good part of my head.
But Dad never told
Of seductive types
Who were after your paycheck.
They can smile at you
And then turn your life
Into an emotional shipwreck.
They act shy at first
Butter wouldn’t melt
But wait until a few dates later.
They finagle and flirt
And then do you dirt;
Make you ready for your creator.
I learned to slow down
And ask many things
To learn what she is all about.
Now I don’t find myself
Laid out on my floor
Gasping like a dryland trout.
Daddy was correct
When he advised me
To move slow and be wary.
There have been many
Of comely young lassies
I am very glad I didn’t marry.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
We gather them,
These stolen moments,
These orphaned seconds,
These lost dark minutes.
Stateless, Unattached,
These refugee clicks
With no form or voice
Do not belong here.
We pile them up,
These off cuts of time,
These shards of passing,
This swarf of tempo.
Shreds of interval
And dislocation
With no named event
To give them title.
And with our small words we bind them,
A suture in the wounded day,
To make a tiny poem of the scars.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 8:36 PM UTC