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Let your heart be fertile soil
for  the seed of love to grow, creating a beautiful flower splendor.
For the world to see.



Shell✨🐚
This world needs more kindness and  love between us human beings.
 Jul 2021 Valsa George
Aditya Roy
We have once stretched ourselves
Like paper boats under the rain
And this soft heartbeat remains afloat
While keeping a dying ember in vain

The warm fire crackles and flickers
And a cat curls near the empty hearth
Close to where there once were soft whispers
The echoes dwell near my throbbing heart

I'm looking at the thin lines of the firewood
That opens and bursts at the fire's slightest touch
And what is left from time's tide, passed by
Lays strewn under the hearth, burning in the fire

Yet, I still remember your complexion
And my heart rebels against all logic
But, as it cannot overcome time's roughness
It chooses to preserve your shapeless words in black ink
Sometimes it is easier to delete the pictures than to remove the memories. So, we choose poetry to keep them in our hearts forever.
It had been years since he had last seen his dad, when he lost his job,
he hardly came home.    
After many missed birthdays and graduations, he gave up on the notion of a real dad...
Years later, he found him living under a bridge, on a makeshift bed.  
He ate off a cardboard table held together by rocks and twine.  Stored his empty bottles in an old beat up cooler, filled with stale pizza.  They had words that day and he vowed to never return.  As far as he was concerned, his dad was dead...

One day he got a phone call from a nursing home saying his dad was in their care.  
He had requested a visit from him, would he please come.  He had expected many things on that day, but a clean dad with combed hair, was not one of them.
They shared a hot coffee and donut while sitting at a table.  They spoke for hours.

He asked his son to wheel him to the dresser. He gave him a card with a big blue balloon on it and a circus clown.  "Whatever happened to that little boy?"  he asked him through his tears.  
"I don't know dad, I guess he grew up" while you were elsewhere .
That night for the first time in years he slept in a dry bed with a real blanket and, a door.

Somethings he learned to live without , some things he plain threw out,
but the memory of his son's smile, that he never forgot.  " Its oka dad,
it flew up in heaven to be with mom " was his five year old reply.  
He once had a child and he abandoned him, just like a circus clown.

July 26, 2021
You haberdashery hauberk harangue of a hornswoggling hiatus. Your arrogantly delusory blasphemous dementia of odiously ominous diabolically grotesque gives me a decadent distraughtness of desultory debauchery and ghastly gnarly abysmal abjections .  It causes hysterical deliriums of maniacally macabre .  My swashbuckling surreptitious spatiotemporal telemetry tactician is tacitly inured in a phantasmagoria fantastication of fabulist façade fantasias .  I could positively kithe a futurity cudgel phantasm and bonkers bluster boggle with your phrenetically frenzied phrenic and forget my phyletic you preterit rendition autonomy equilibrist .
Retrospectively retroactive autonomous avarice.  Oneiromancy's apotropaic orthogenesis overtures, futurity fatidic elan vital's apotheosis.  Hegira to Xanadu.
Honestly this is supposed to be a comical look at a martial artist contemplating his stance.
 Jul 2021 Valsa George
Aslam M
The Tea matters
More than the Cup.
 Jul 2021 Valsa George
Surkhab
"Artists...artists are like butterflies...
They have delicate hearts
But this society can't handle them..."
My mother answered as I told her
about Vincent van Gogh...
The Starry Night painter
was once said to be happy in London ...
With a rainbow heart and sky mind
He drenched the canvas with his emotions
People unaware of this legend
put him in an asylum...
'cause the decieved Vincent cut his ear lobe!
But he painted...as paints and brushes
were still there...just like his brother.
He was 37... when voices were all over his mind
It was not easy to stop them...
So he picked up the gun...
And the bullet went straight to that golden heart
I wonder how many colors died that day....?
But I could have told you, Vincent
This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you..."
                                                                                              - Don Mclean (Vincent)
and, gone it does
all it was
destined
designed
determined
de
deedly deed of doing being
boring
being
de
determined to add means to ends
designed to signal turn or lose
destined to end,
all it was gone to be
on a breath before the final one
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