"adherence" poems
Doubt is the lonely father of fear
Not a clad caped hero
Waiting to swoop in
And save the day
But a two faced killer clown
Wearing ****** crocs
With electric joy buzzer shocks
Sending surges through your veins
Sending urges that drive you insane
It may be in reason
It may be in season
But the summer heat
Can burn your feet
Under the fire of fire
Place you in stasis
As you wait to find were your space is
Letting others tell you were your place is
While they race to chase
A better life
Doubt can be better than blind
Adherence
You just have to watch out
For the dangerous side of doubt
Turn detective to fix the defective
And Steer clear of the fear
That disparages hope and reason
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
It is the way my traditional head cloth covers my head artistically.
Giving me a sense of a gracefully hand made Crown.
Passed on from generation to generation by
My ancestors from all corners of Africa.
It is the way my hands flatter when I narrate a story.
Giving me a sense of articulation.
Pride, dances through my veins.
It is the way my body moves to rhythm from hip to hip.
Shoulders momentarily shaking to the sound of unique beads woven Shekere.
Legs aggressively moving to the talking drum.
It is the way I speak to my elders with respect.
Knees on the floor when taking or giving them something.
Sweep the compound when asked to.
Adherence of instructions turn to turn.
Heritage moves with me in one accord.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
Features, my reflection—
subtle hints stare back offering wordless reply,
their evidence a betrayal of age.
A wrinkle looking deeper,
mane of face, of head—hairs
fresh lacking pigment.
Vain attempts made to mend heart,
to sooth soul's dread.
Testimony of experience
of wisdom, persistence, perception,
an impotent contraceptive, the argument
aberrant.
Regret to cloud memory, my youth
seeming a flesh and blood cliche.
Tiny footnotes heavy with prose,
words in bold
to distract mind's eye—a demand of attention.
Edging out tomb's more beautiful weight
of love and heartache
of passion's attempt failing,
to try again, sinking before succeeding.
An era's dusk and dawn anew, life's advent
unpredictable—without cause changing.
Notion hanging lingering, poisoning future,
the venom of defeat an insidious invasion.
This new age creeping toward night
in this stage my life's sun less bright.
Maturity's introduced responsibility,
some enjoyable while others to own hostility.
A brigand mugging freedom—time for leisure.
Spurring combat for what remains of youth,
fingers wrapping air in futile seizure.
The inevitable to command subservience,
presuming ownership of life, though the mature
demonstrate the defiance of the immature.
Objects, activities, music assaulting ear,
their manner,
symbols of strict adherence to who once was—
a spiteful surrender refusal.
A piece of me defining me until no more,
years holding power—threatening
to change who I am at very core.
Canvas construction the colour of murre,
rubber toe caps the shade of pure.
Design worn since youth, dead and resurrected;
a million mile shoe of valorous resistance—insurrection,
a Converse rebellion.
In torment of age's scars,
I'll never be too old to wear my All Stars.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
Can the unstoppable force overcome the immovable object? The waves have been a teacher with more wisdom than any I have ever had before. Something so constant, so committed, so unflappable as the lapping or crashing of the waves upon the shore. If you need any evidence of her relentless nature, look no further than the foreshore, great boulders and cliff faces worn down to grit. A true mechanical entity, with precise surety, well versed in engineering, mathematics, weather patterns and fluid dynamics. Who would have thought a philosophical question would have an engineering solution? The answer is no, but the question lacks precision, it doesn't quite paint the picture as it happens. I dive into the crashing waves, stretched out long, offering no resistance, the wash thunders around me but still I glide forward in the water like a shark, no resistance. I am the immovable object. Suspended weightless I overcome the unstoppable force by holding ground, offering no resistance as it rages around and past me, trying to capsize me or push me backwards. The way of the seas, the ultimate peacemaker.
The parallels to life do not need pointing out thus, especially to those who fight for justice, the Davids versus their Goliaths. History's great peacemakers have been here before, the art of war is in passive resistance, principled adherence coupled with civil disobedience, your silence is considered tacit acceptance, so be not silent but give unto Caesar that which is Caesars. The fight is an uphill playing field, you must play by their rules, or the game is over, but you can win by their rules if you know where they bend. So stand peacemakers, face rows of riot shields, plow fields as Te Whiti did, collect salt as Gandhi, be not silent, tip toe that fine line between real change and hard time, wherever you see injustice speak, and seek conciliation. Peace is not achieved when nations put down their guns, peace is achieved when people embrace their neighbors as their brothers and sisters. It is achieved when people no longer speak of peace with longing in the same breath as cursing the person that parked in their carpark. Be peace and you will see peace, wish not to see it in the world if you cannot be it in your world. Change yourself and the world changes with you. So can the unstoppable force overcome the immovable object? That much is up to you.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
The time has come, for me to fray
the long lost fortune peace and joy
and i peep all around to see a ray
to give me hope and stop to cry
in the face of dispair, i will still try
it feels like hell and i need to fly
am about to burst and am full of thought
then if she left to me its draught
the touch of her hand and a kiss so hot
swimming basking and the fish we caught
fear and doubt with love we fought
she always escaped to what we ought
then came the insighter and he seemed brighter
taking her out and treating her better
Using a phone when i used letters
things were hard especially with a competitor
forgot me complete together with her litter
it seemed to her there was nothing sweeter
after utelizing the better of her best
he disposed her and then left
she had some pain in the chest
when she came in serch for rest
she was mine but we had to test
to avoid being hung like a nest
A drop of blood and a little buffer
recalled how our children would suffer
if through ignorance our life was vapour
my test was a line and my partners twice
why would life be so very unfair?
her episode was so shortlived
yet she left me huge a burden
to the kids we had i was both parents
just be cause she wouldn't heed
even doctors advice on adherence
all in all i had to say goodbye
coz she was mine for the time we spent
what i am now going through
is a fruit of ignorance and disobedience
my urge my prayer,
that not one falls into the same
it's so easy to say that,
lets avoid the idea of shame
by first escaping the blame
by keeping ourselfs tame.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 3:00 AM UTC
gratefulness is the gold fillings
in your cracked porcelain skin
recognition of your brokenness--
not the brokenness itself--
is the beauty in imperfection.
white ripples across your surface become
golden seams. the tectonic design is
a topographical map of scars and stitches;
the adherence of
traits that don't otherwise connect.
"you are beautiful," he tells you as
he kisses each mark softly,
his lips tracing a winding path through
your gardens.
it is not his words that make it so
but they settle just the same
reminding you that it’s not the cracks
that make you glitter
but the gold with which you fill them—
forgiveness
grace
and love.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
Trumpets will play at the sound of your name
All of creation will echo the same
Angels will sing out the praise of the king
Victor over sin and death; let freedom ring!
Shining star, Lord of Lords and Prince of Peace,
We come to you now. Let hope arise and faith increase.
Holy Holy Holy is the Lord God of Hosts,
Sharing in perfect communion: Father Son and Holy Ghost.
Hail Mary our Mother, how great was your "Yes"
Through your faith, and we are blessed.
Comfort and protect us oh Mother of ours
Be near us and save us. Before you, evil cowers.
Oh Joseph most Holy, be with us this day;
In our obedience and adherence to do as Jesus says.
May our hands and our feet be gentle yet strong,
Guide us and teach us as we walk along!
AMEN!
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 5:10 PM UTC
Check errata, pressure chests,
minds of razors edges, vie to
stress knowledge for the win:
You second guess yourself, then.
Flip the cold and oddly coded
engine as if you're blind to it.
It's happening again, now.
Verses nurse the wounds.
Wounds nurse the verses.
Pain's slyly subjective hooks
have hooked the meat of me.
Like accountants slicing numbers,
I slice the mountains into soft shapes.
Earth and water, earthen urns, hold
Life to carry, to gift, or, to displace.
Choirs sing on high, of rightful things.
I was frightful, once. With enough
ignorant vehemence poured upon me,
poured upon me, a bath in love's less
eager refuse, has turned my dreams, too,
into excrement, excrement. Utter ****
I was excited, once. I swear I was.
Holding out for ****** touch, left cold,
hopeless and wanting when the only
validation, validation I was taught
set my value in cash and beauty, cash
and beauty, two matters of strict
adherence to social standards, but what
if two fat, hairy legs make my tongue wet?
What if otherness keeps me lonely?
What if it keeps me lonely? Can I take
that pain, after all, into the ground of my grave?
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 9:16 AM UTC
I woke up thinking about this.
A Thought About Loyalty
I’ve been thinking about loyalty:
A many-sided world of nuances,
The subtle differences.
We all know it means faithfulness,
A sticking-to devotedly.
Unfurled it shows its nasty sides,
The negatives that worry me:
Allegiance and adherence -
-Ism’s steel prepared to go to war
Against all criticizers,
-Isms’ others
Carving up the brotherhood
Of man.
Not for nothing
That a missile system drawn
To sense and intercept an enemy:
Is named the Patriot:
A system to annihilate.
I worry ‘bout obedience,
Compliance and submissiveness.
I like reliability, dependability,
Dedication if it’s not perverted
Duty, if it leads to thought,
A moral sense,
An ethic that agrees with life;
Loyalty without the strife.
Loyalty to think about.
A Thought About Loyalty 9.10.2017
Nature In & Of Reality; Out Times, Out Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
Why the **** is there
all this disdain for varied techniques?
So what if I like altered guitar tunings?
Sorry that all my guitars
are in D Standard or drop C.
Yes, even the ******* Classical guitar.
*I never meant to inconvenience you,
your Eminent Prestige!*
Maybe it's a problem
on thy knavish behalf
that you can't cope
with variation within the
Sacred realm of Art.
Don't ******* tell me
what to do or how to do it.
Don't ******* tell me
my approach to my Art is wrong.
Don't ******* crawl to me
when you want to learn how it's done
and I won't say I ******* told you so
when you confess your perspective lacks variety.
I will still teach you, though,
that is, if you will listen.
I will still teach you, though,
if, indeed, I can.
I will still teach you, though,
but only if you can teach me, too.
I will still learn from you
despite your rigid adherence to traditionalism.
I will still learn from you
if you don't ******* condescend me
about how I decide to do it
about how it feels most natural
about what I like or why;
just ******* deal with it
like a true Artist;
accept it and bask in it,
that everyone's technique
is unique.
Besides,
be it not that very variation
that lends itself to the plethora of Art
that has been, could be, and will be made?
Be it not that very variation
that leads a school of thought
away from being so incestuous
that it kills itself off?
Be it not that very variation
which makes Democracy feasible?
If Art be neither
democratic or anarchic,
then I guess I'm no Artist.
Just ******* deal with it.
If you can't: then shut the **** up,
and let us, who can deal with it,
just ******* do it.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
Moments notice, temporal sign posts,
shifted meanings and twigs of broken memories all standing stark,
as white lights of embers glow, slow to realize the masses continue to wonder.
Eyes blazing in the giggling realizations uncanny calling out,
of the in between, as many of us glean and glimpse.
Have you oh wondering soul heard? have you oh simple soul seen?
If so what is it you have grasped of this altered edge of oblivion? fair the a well spring of signs to set your heart and mind free?
Or only to cast your gullet into eternal slavery, under the cutting reality of a cemented view?
Flowing edge of the swells this temporal cascading do cause the light do play in the reflections truth of stability abound in focus and vibratory standards , counted and measured only in the minds eye and the hearts manifestations of excepted adherence to a collective?
Or have you , or I , us sad and amazingly fickle souls found the true sound of sound doctrine?
One of truth , love and understanding? For seems this dear hearted friend, is far from the end, though not the beginning unless the glimpse of it has been felt and rendered assured in your own heart, least we get ****** again from the very, very distant pasts start.
So, it is asked yet again, where do we stand in this torrent and gelatinous time of man? Or shall we start all over again and wonder how tech can strip and manipulate the core and essence of a man and his absolute grasp of what is changeable in our entire past?
Or is it merely and simply just that we are all on the very edge of our dreams in this construct of a thing?
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
The rule of the self is exalted above
any adherence to any thing/feeling.
Their notions of doubt ruling over existence and
is in the supreme station of reason and power.
It sheds the former existence of yesterday
inasmuch as we are always recreated.
The philosopher's stone which
can conceive of no other thought
except the originality of the self.
It drinks the seven seas as if a drop and
asks, "Is there yet any more?"
No authority save the intimate friend
can find its way here.
Every stranger is betrayed and
its chariot becomes outworn for the rider.
And when they look at themselves
they behold their powerlessness in
the face of every nation, which
simply makes them embark on
the conquest of their own heart.
Every listener is as a bullet to their
enemy.
Every truth is as a fallen warrior
for their Cause.
No wind is sufficient to curtail their
sense of direction.
Every human acknowledged is as a piece
of sand supporting their path.
There is no end to their perturbing of the skies.
The poem is unfinished as the scribe of
their tale is astounded by the
regeneration of their march.
Jul 24, 2021
Jul 24, 2021 at 1:45 PM UTC
A storm blew through early, left frost
etched, lit, glistening, on
a window's waking surface.
I sit framed by that translucence,
my daughter aligns, orders
mirroring matroyshka doll members.
I reflect on an essay*, how
poems are a symbol of will,
concluding a pact, perhaps
achieved in diction, image metaphor,
adherence to structure, rhyme, form.
Might these devolve to decoration? Or,
trace the transmission of "will to
commitments," expressing “intent”,
"weakly lost or strongly spent?”
Frost etchings fissure, shift, glint, slide
on their emergent effluence,
configure in gusts of cognition.
I sense a covenant in these lines.
my daughter adjusts her doll's placements,
the promise of one revealed in the other.
Copyright © 2004 Gary Brocks
——————————————
Attribution:
Stanzas 3, 4, and 5 are greatly influenced by my reading the Robert Frost essay titled *THE CONSTANT SYMBOL.
The short phrases in italicized quotes are direct quotes from that essay.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
The minutes and hours drench and drift
like evaporating mud-rain keening through the sides of my fingers
seamlessly
And my belly is warmed at the beigest radiator's synchronized glow.
"Without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own."
Such were the words that glimpsed
at truth, that attempted such sweet
transparent reflection upon
my runaway-from-home boy-adulthood
daydreams.
Whimsy scored without the tears
but also without a grasp at love.
Without a chance of knowing all its disappointments,
co-dependencies and retreats.
Hubris instead flanked like steam rising off morning windows to ward off the cold.
Alone, (a recurring fantasy), I placed myself battle-rigid,
regarding only what was then contemporary
keeping a trench against the adherence of life's timepieces
Allowing only seized elation of thought to cluster and ferment out of
the ruins of the world.
Reporting on all but life's safest discrepancy,
the fear of ageing further,
Everyday.
What active pursuits had I, to locate and chase these memories with?
If memory would challenge my conviction,
these ballbearings, by talking back
to disprove the self-image as being merely selfish?
Will I feign to remember these words, nevermind the images, in fifteen years time?
Perhaps only a spark (an imitation of: Gaslight, Phone Charge, Sun) is ever needed
Chore-empty afternoons spent as if waiting in art galleries
for Rothkos to explode, to echo, to ignite something catastrophic,
Something permanently invigorating, that damages,
that which further longs to fall apart.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
Poets make lousy friends because eventually they’ll skewer you with their poison pen; their insulting writ of relentless invective and opprobrious apoplectic venom. The naked foist of un-allayed aggression as art-form whereby the vitriol of familiarity slices like a knife and digs in like a dagger. The very nature of chumminess turns adversarial. Like acid in the eyes the sneering contemptible retch could cobble out words with a disgustingly exquisite though execrable precision. A quirk, an idiosyncrasy, a malevolent adherence so committed to unmitigated truth that it is as a fist to the face, a shocking starkness of incivility justified by a requisite expedience hastened by the anxious need to blow one off forthwith. He was a veritable torrent of abject invectives.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Tranquility,
A abashed day dream,
Calamity,
A reality of hearts pains.
What is it to feel one's way through an abyss of unknowns,
where the human and natural world collide in juxtaposition?
Is it that the mind can discern the hearts knowings?
Or is it the failings of the heart to render the natural rivers flow?
Shall we, as mere children, all grown and flawed in our big kid boots,
cause one another to wrongfully believe we have grasped the essence of truth through adversity? Through pain full and enveloping of the mind and the soul?
Shall we find the rule maker of this maze and thus find the exit to this contrived reality?
How is it that the simplest instructions become the foundation of or collective despise and demise?
Or was it that we as children found simplicity far too boring and dry in its humor for us to adhere too?
And if not, then pray chance did we fail to heed the warnings of self and our wishes laid waste and unanswered upon silly little broken play grounds of our imaginations?
So many questions, so many answers found lacking, for our tempered and trusted depressions of self abuse and lazy eyed visions to the core of a shared doom, a doom we all tread lightly in our heavy footed dance to say, we are sorry, as we render excuses and blame to others for our lack of adherence to what can only be understood as what is and what we all have created.
For we, are much ado about everything in its nothingness of day dreams, yet we cast such emotions out as the act of a motion to grant forward cleverness in a dull bladed running to find absolution's in one anothers arms, all the while we turn a blind eye and a reddened cheek to ourselves and the you in me and the me in you.
SO in such failings of victory we say to our selves and the collective of our hearts content, "it weren't mine" as the **** thing went blind.
Yet in all of this, we children seem to glimpse the hope so dangerous and sweet as to dare to care and realize, we are far from the edge of an oblivion so cruel and lacking, and we can truly grace a simple truth to one another, and that simplicity is called understanding.
For without it we are left on that broken play ground screaming "red rover, red rover....." and then where would the blind children of ol' Betty be then my dear friends? gone far more than just wild.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
Trust.
Friendship.
Loyalty.
Promises.
Trust.
The one thing that I gave willingly.
The one thing that held worth.
Every word kept close.
Every moment feeling as safe as the last.
Until it was destroyed.
Until it broke myself and my heart.
All in one night.
Trust.
Friendship.
A connection I favored.
A connection that meant everything in my life.
Holding me up when I was low.
Holding my heart when daggers searched for it.
A relationship mistakenly strong.
A relationship turned cold.
All in one night.
Friendship.
Loyalty.
You had my “back.”
You had my everything.
Showing me your faithful hands.
Showing me your the adherence I needed to pull through.
Tear off the shroud that misted around us.
Tear off the secret lie I never once knew.
All in one night.
Loyalty.
Promises.
Let us talk about the binds of spoken word.
Let us say how easily they are formed in the night.
Begging for that one declaration to happen.
Begging that you held up this one expectation.
God if only the blind were not dumb.
God if only the precaution was taken to heart.
All in one night.
Promises.
Trust.
Friendship.
Loyalty.
Promises.
All in one night.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC
Some poets make lousy friends
they'll eventually skewer you with their poison pen
their insulting writ of relentless nasty venom
like some twisted performance-art-form
naked foist of un-allayed aggression
the dilettante's vitriol of familiarity slices like a knife
the very nature of chumminess segues into adversity
a quirk, an idiosyncrasy, a malevolent adherence
so affixed are poets to the unmitigated truth that it is as a fist to the face
a horrendous starkness of civility
justified by a requisite needy urgency of expedience
contemptuousness brought on by an anxious desire to blow you off -ASAP
they'll turn on you like a feral cat
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
Flirting on the topic of community
One finds themselves at a loss
Both in knowledge and in influence
We lack control
To define morality
To define discipline
To define nature and what is natural
As much as it is a social construct
It is just as much a personal construct.
In being so, as much as we lack within ourselves
and as much as we lack in being a community
Humanity loses adherence
And yet strengthens its adherence all the same
As much as one may believe we advance as a society
We lose ourselves
Societies cycle on, only words change their meanings.
Jul 29, 2023
Jul 29, 2023 at 9:17 AM UTC
“A poet's qualifications include common sense, knowledge of character, adherence to high ideals, combination of the dulce with the utile, intellectual superiority, appreciation of the noble history and lofty mission of poetry, and above all a willingness to listen to and profit by impartial criticism.”
Ars Poeti a (ll. 295–476).[10]
Nov 20, 2021
Nov 20, 2021 at 9:10 AM UTC
Whispered adherence
Love, Light allegiance
path torn
wordly plot disguises
thorns.
Lost wanderer
meanings hidden
weakened bonds
veils drawn
sufferance born.
Presence powerful
insistent. tangible
summons strength
Divine lest.
Awake wise
eve dawn
arise...
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 3:32 PM UTC
Our front porch is covered in chairs
waiting for visitors
We offer you hot tea or cold
Yoga at ten
and prayer flags if you need.
Far Away there are Yogis standing in
Mountain Pose...
Where is my peace guru?
My path is riddled without a person
holding my hand or
offering me an invitation
to pray the way I want to pray.
I can only imagine the room
hot and charged with mantras
and faith where followers
devote their hours to adherence.
There lives are busy
moments of honesty,
contentment,
fervent compassion,
sweat, and balance.
Here we sit drinking,
waiting in our chairs,
while our posture
is a hope rather than
a deed.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 10:49 AM UTC
*pyramid, is that short of pencil-sharpener, an unmovable object, a Nevada experiment... (prolonged pause, also intended for a humidity of the questioning affect). quiet frankly you're making us look quiet silly give the mammalian status of sapiens; fuck's sake, Pythagoras spent a whole eternity contemplating a hypotenuse looking at the chiselled mountains of Giza - reputation wise you give monkeys a bad slogan - i.e. we evolved, evolved to build a temple of perpetual death: each slab housed the body of a labourer, and inside we just found a lot of poisonous powder ruminating to find the only basis for encrypting the whole affair, metaphysical borders, metaphysical by which i mean, due to Egyptology we have the museum-state that's Egypt, and the real life assertions without mint-condition comic book cults of mausoleum-states, known as Libya, Sudan and Israel; on that basis, a chicken and egg question, within etymological parameters, what came first, museum or mausoleum? see, history can be a Tchaikovsky affair, given etymology a dense shortening - a solid, rather than a **** when it comes to nationhood and patriotism and adherence to.*
a U.F.O. could have landed and we'd still
be printing dollars bills and admiring
that **** montem*, seriously, bring out
a pencil sharpener, we need to revise Mont Blanc,
more like Mont Bonkers - a white kite hey hey **
**** retardo* and a *** and
a singalong that Napoleon never spotted:
the Ramones with pet cemetary - that's how it's
in Englanf (no speel or spelling mistake,
impromptu arcadia, banishing the surds stemming
from Hay, or a needle in the stack),
a tombstone for each house what would have been,
the riddle of life with the priority of death
having seconds - the nørden of Newcastle will know,
that the soofern fairies are all Arab or Tsar pawnbrokers
or transvestites (as they respected Kenneth Rexroth,
but Proust incubated in only two volumes
just ain't for me).
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
Trace your thoughts slowly
Across the moon’s lit Primrose,
And ponder not on how she belongs to the
Twilight.
Linger not on the notions of Beauty’s
Contrast…
Of utter radiance amongst the Eventide—
Lest you crave her
Shadows.
The unworthy swoon on false intoxications of allure,
Betraying pheromones that lead only to
Ruin.
Breathe not in her presence and still your thoughts, which race ill-intended towards
Premature release of longings—
Unrequited.
Dark Goddess of the Abyss
Siren of Shadows
Seeker of none, yet yearned by
All.
Accursed Aphrodite
Preternatural Persephone
Devourer of Darkfall,
Merciless Maven of moon-drunk men
Who quake with trepidation
Under the pressure of your
Wrath.
Know that your fleeting fury fuels
Fiery passions.
Fulfills my need to know you
If only briefly.
Shall I caress legendary layered labyrinths
Of thou’s lucid lithe mind?
Soothe seared sacred chambers
Of thine frostbitten
Heart?
Beautiful forlorn creature you are
To only be seen for Carnality’s
Delight.
Know that I perceive you.
Past Ethereal Elegance
Beyond the bonds of
Crescent Shackles.
Embodiment of Evanescent Evenings
Impermanence intertwined in
Insufferable aching…
Understand that your
Acrimony is
Admired.
This altruism
All-encompassing.
Allow me to detect deformities
Deep within
Defenses Deterred—
Hollow conclaves concealing
Corrugated corrupted
Compliance.
Humor my heartfelt hubris…
Humble yourself before this
Haunted man.
Entreat, Embrace, Entrust
This harrowed human husk
With an ounce of your Obsidian
Opulence.
I proclaim to pronounce you as my
Pessimistic Paramour.
To never underestimate
Our most unholy
Union.
To know that you belong to the
Night Sky
And must be unbound…
Understand my ululating plea,
To adore your admonishing
Yet never resign to its
False
Adherence.
Jun 4, 2022
Jun 4, 2022 at 3:43 AM UTC
I don't do seasons.
What's the point?
Mother Nature pays no attention
anymore - no adherence
to long established norms.
Unreliable, like the rest.
Incomprehensible at best.
So why bother?
Why consider
this season's wardrobe?
Why plan life around the calendar,
when you need any-weather clothes?
So I don't do seasons.
I don't do disappointment.
I don't do expectations.
I just plan for the unplanned
and weather the summer storms.
I'm a man for no seasons.
Sep 10, 2023
Sep 10, 2023 at 8:29 AM UTC