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 Sep 2020 Mark S
Norman Crane
The mountain grows much slower than your perception of the mountain growing taller, as the dynamics of the sea, which sculpts the earth beneath your feet, speaks—summoning the breeze: isn't it surreal, living on God's pottery wheel?
 Sep 2020 Mark S
beth fwoah dream
they took her to the doleful traitor’s gate,
where none could save her life or bring release,
along the river to a heavy fate,
no harp or dulcimer to give her peace.
the world had turned away, the tudor rose
in ruins at her feet, the fickle king,
inconstant, needing sons, the river flows
with royal blood where sorrow’s angels sing.
“to jesus i commend my soul,” she cried,
she wore damask, her mantle was ermine,  
poor cramer heard the cannon as she died,
he fell and wept, forgave her every sin.
  the strings were broken on the violin,
  that sang no more for laughing anne boleyn.
 Sep 2020 Mark S
Unpolished Ink
Bubbles
Rainbows on the move
Floating gently with the breeze
A life of infinite beauty
Lived in moments
Always loved bubbles
 Sep 2020 Mark S
Jena T
He went to a bitter place
There was too much hate
Perhaps that's why the bottle was never far from his face
When the forks came he always took the darker way
It led him here to a gutter of a place
He was content to wile away
Until she told him to get up one day
He yelled and cursed
How dare someone disturb his disgrace
She said nothing and edged him toward a cliff
If he was so miserable why didn't he end it all today
He sputtered and complained
But there was no sympathy on her face
She gave him the option to either fall down the rest of the way or come with her to another place
He chose to go with her after some debate
She led him away and he followed cautiously
She never said a word on the journey
Until they arrived where the winds meet
She led him into the sea
He panicked when he was neck deep
But she drug him further
He cried and screamed, she was killing him
She laughed, asking how she could **** what's already dead
He protested that it could not be
She smiled and shook her head
Saying he had died in the gutter a while ago
He hadn't learned that he could move past it you see
She came to show him another way
But first he must release all he's been carrying
So breathe the water deep
Let the bitter man lie where your body sleeps
The only thing to lose is suffering.
 Sep 2020 Mark S
Pagan Paul
.
The vessel was empty. It was always empty.
The vessel was a body. A Nobody.
Too young to fend for itself yet abandoned to face
the onslaught of a life unprepared for.
It was a satellite, a burden, an unwanted encumbrance
upon the lives of those that spawned it.
Those that should guide, educate, encourage and love.

The emptiness had begun early
and grown into a void of isolated disfunction.
The ship of emotion sailing into a dark sunset
and the cold loneliness of night seeps easy
into the vessel already devoid and senseless.

There had been early years but forgotten
were the vessels memories and experiences.
An era of ancient history with no notations,
undocumented and lost in the ether.
No sense of belonging or conformity
were instilled by those meant to teach.
Instead the blind vessel gropes dangerously
around a world unfamiliar.
To make sense of existence.
To justify its worth.

But worth is subjective.
Of no worth to its peers it protects itself
absorbing the cloak of the worthless.
A litany harshly reinforced by cruelty
dealt out by the tongues of resentful tormentors.

And so left to its own devices
attachment becomes an arbitrary concept.
The revolving door  of brief and useless association.
Meaningful liaisons few and far between
as its walls provide protection from feeling hurt.
So the vessel was a body. A Nobody.
And the vessel was empty. It was always empty.
Always... always... empty.


© Pagan Paul (Aug 2020)
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