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I'm not important
I'm not unimportant
I was never imported or unimported
because I never came from anywhere
I can't go anywhere
My value can't be added onto
and it can't be taken away
It can't be changed
by fluctuating markets
purchasing value systems.
Driven by demand for scarcity
rich beyond all currency.
Aged to perfection
Younger than a newborn
and older than the Sun.
Roots so deep
the Earth is a seed.
An aroma so sweet
the five senses can't touch it.
Drunk on Self fermentation.
ART
Creating art
is like letting your soul breathe
that once choked by doubt
that came to life after one verse .
"Art is just the image of your  soul"

Maybe that's why when I looked at you
your eyes looked like meteors showers
and your iris like moon ,
body barely holds
millions of shattered galaxies
beauty is in the shattered soul
which balancing its sanity .

Sometimes you looked  like a saddest yet beautiful piece of art
which lie at the corner of museum
having a thousand  of tales to tell
yet no soul to listen
maybe they know they won't able to bear it
perhaps it's meant to be that
not everyone is an artist
who can feel your soul .
.
.
" Not everyone can understand you because not everyone is an Artist "
find a soul and fall in love with it . which is ageless and Shapeless.
Castration of inward vibrations
reverberates through these impetuous echo halls
Catapult cadavers over scrupulous formalities
I choke on every word I hold
Let us baptize our divine ineptitude in a mortar of glorious lore
Most of them are oblivious to the revelation of rushing thunder
Dripping needles, perfidious servitude
teetering on the precipice of war
JDMaraccini
2021
-

when i was very young i was
prohibited from climbing the
kitchen cabinets in order to
get into the sugar container

yet my ulterior motive
next to it was the flour

it started with the creation
of pictures of my fingers in
reverse

and then with a playing card
i molded shapes that would
crack apart in intricate detail
as i nudged at it slightly

with a tablespoon i constructed
mountains and grand canyons

i even made my own
five year old face

thinking how God might
have been inspired with
simple cosmic dust



reviewing the cracks and
wrinkles of my pale stoney
cheeks in the mirror

i have decided that it may
be best not to let children
play with flour...

s jones
June 2021


.
It was past midnight
The moon, a sphere of luminosity!
But she saw the frozen grimace of death
And the nocturnal bats in gyrating motion
Meteors of shame and repugnance
Flashed past her darkened sky,
Cockroaches scurried in her brain,
All the nerves taut and about to break
Her heart bleeding in silence
And her body burning, burning

Agony once subsided, surged back
Stronger than ever before

Unable to bear the burden anymore
Finding no water to wash away her guilt,
With no contrition enough to ease
The twinge of her conscience,

She drew out a piece of paper
From her locked up cupboard
That she would never open again

Hastily scribbled something

Without qualms
Without frills

Never waiting for another day
Of impotent remorse,
She set out to a destination unknown
Where Past, Present and Future
Merge and coalesce
Into
The muted whispers of stillness !
This is a sad story..... ! She was beautiful and belonged to a well to do family. But her husband was a drunkard. He used to bring his friends to the house, sit very late and have their drinking spree.
She started an affair with one of them. In a drunken bout, when her husband slept away to glory, she and her friend had a physical relationship with her consent. Somehow later she felt sorry for her action. But under threat, she had to yield again.This began to tell upon her psyche and she fell into self reproach and depression.
One day she left her home and ended her life.

This happened ina place not far from my place.
Looking through the window
Like looking at paintings
Different views every time
So magnificent
A masterpiece
God
the holy painter of all time.

Looking through the window
different phases of my life
before my eyes
like a movie
Like a train passing by
Windows,  the frame
of all the seasons  of my life.


Shell ✨🐚
Like the different seasons our life too have different phases
Down by the river I lie alone. Folks wade on the banks,
Sifting for gold. Washing the aches from their brittle bones.
This land of the forgotten, has never felt so close to home.
Detached from the blood-oiled machine,
Not much to part with, but
Every footstep carries with it
An imprint of meaning. The current here
Flows away from greed. Deposits into a reservoir,
Of pure intentions and peace. Tucked away from the cracked city streets
That mirror the crying streaks of those bewitched by the banal belief
Of progress by any means. Power here,
Is a drink for the weak. The outstretched arms of willow trees,
Cradle this quaint town. The last bastion of human passion. Bereft of malevolence.
Indeed, the realms of Hell seem to have a slice of heaven left.
Tucked away by a river there is a place of peace.
-

a "Purity of Being"
rests upon this
–Bed of Angels–

governing the distances
between crests of
wrinkled sheets

watching them

break along the banks
with his skillfully
sinful skin—

Waking me...



s jones
June 2021


.
inspired from reading
a work recently posted
by Bobby Copeland
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