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Part I
The night, no moon in the sky
The wind, full force as to fly
The cold, as to numb the blood
The trees, shadows the vision flood
The night, dark blue in the water
The wind, of rose is the howled attar
The cold, close to freezing the lake
The trees, static dormant to a shake
The night, solitary is the dark
The wind, momentary is its mark
The cold, nearly settled is the doubt
The trees, silent is their spout

The night, the wind, the cold, the trees

A Swan glides with an asynchronous thread
Feathers in the umbra, the heart partly dead
He has lost his dearest, his alluring arch
Spring isn't coming, no September or March
Once there was another swan
To make the lake shimmer with dawn
Their courtship was the core of the pond
A rare gem of opal coloured their bond
Unlike gems, though, be crushed love can
And it was time's deed right there and then
She now is in a new safe haven
And left was him with an egg of a raven

In the midst of this midnight dreary
The Swan was forlorn and weary
But the clouds of metal became of cotton
The grey marsh sudden, was brief forgotten
A shred of light, two lions glowed
Their manes of fire their passion showed
"What a scene" the Swan had thought
"That's the fervor my heart had sought
Forever bound by a curse of ice
I am void and there's no price
To unlock me from the eternal dream
And let me find my lion gleam"

Still, the sky is yet so white
And the past gloom cannot him fright
At his right the Swan stare
Intrigued by the unceasing flare
A piglet and a spider, what a scene
Why are they ringed by a sheen?
In the night, they play like friends
Fight, discuss and make amends
A web of favours and support
Parades of gratitude are never short
"Oh, is it fondness what I am lacking?
Is this why I am ever cracking?"

Now the display is certainly over
And the Swan hopes to find his clover
No more than ever he is so keen
To live anew and be serene
The night enjoys the happy mood
And let the moon stop its brood
The clouds, at once, no more than mist
An ethereal cast, will this be a tryst?
The moon glitz on a past reflection
A female black swan of mystic complexion
An owl hoots afar and is dismissed
As the hero sings after being kissed:

"Where have you been, my dove?
Why did you leave, my love?
I was so lost in here
Without your voice to hear

Without you to kiss me
Without you to bliss me
I was just a shadow
Missing the rain and the rainbow

But now I can see life
And each thing is so rife
I will give you my heart
So we won't fall apart"

Part II
Night, the moon is sublime
Wind, tame like no other time
Cold, feeble against heart's motion
Trees, mere pawns in this ocean
Yet silence cannot much contain
The disturbing growls of owl disdain
It thrives with strength, to fill the lake
To **** the love and pleasure take
The Swan, still, has just eyes... no ears
So to halt death from ousting his tears
Joy runs his body with iron vigor
His love denies dearth of such rigor

The courtship swims with celestial sync
In an opal ballet of black and white ink
Lastly, his arch the Swan can complete
With a dubious promise of endless heat:
"Our past is antiquity and shall be erased
The future, fertile, a wish to be chased
Let us embrace and with nature be one
Me and you, the rest will be none.
Though, I will only expect your happy devotion
No fear, no sadness, no other emotion
You are my minion, and mine in exclusive
Is this what you craved in your hope elusive?"

The Swan is soon hesitant of the deal
His novel grasp masks her appeal:
"Your words of ice burn down my feathers
Your crooked intentions prevent us together
I was foolish in you to trust my belief
Your offer won't stop my desert, my grief
Love can't ever be monochromatic
Yes, there are moments one's ecstatic
But endless joy is not the way
It will prevent freedom and will me betray
The value of love is shallow without anguish of partition
The bones of love are brittle without a conflict's remission"

The eyes of the black swan fumes in red
The clouds, the moonlight they shred
A tempest thunders over the misty lake
Out of the haze, the bird is now a snake:
"Your faith is missplaced in a callow profile
Your passt came closse to you beguile
You think your luck in love issn't departed
But you are full of sself-pity, fainthearted
Honesst love iss the piercer of my power
And IF you find it, I will to you cower
Yet you have nothing; you're dessperate for ssomeone
Had welcomed the deal, you wouldn't be undone"

The water spreads cold with every heartbeat
The quick rime sings Swan's defeat
The snake reveals its fangs of ink dark
And bites the Swan, a sanguine red mark
All seems lost to this tragic hero
A heart's betrayal in the absolute zero
Until a hoot echoes through the trees
And the bird finally the owl sees
With claws of steel, the snake it slashes
In response, lightning flashes
It breaks the ice and the reptile sears
The Swan is now saved, but not from his fears

A boy wakes up in a nice little room
With a painting of the lake and a flower in bloom
A bee buzzes around about the place  
And in the White Rose, lends with grace
Both make a sound akin to a chatter
They seem happy with their talking matter
The angered boy, annoyed by the insect,
Into the painting, the bee he projects
With a new aspect thrown away
He burns down reality's display
And when a dove finds its way out
The man its wings brake and his out route
This poem tells the story of a forlorn Swan that finally finds his true love but ends up discovering she is an illusion of his own desperate desires. It is divided into two parts as this is a large poem that features two different sets of struggles: finding happiness for yourself while everybody around you seems to have already found their answers, and learning that falling in love with anybody solely because of loneliness and desperation is not healthy in the long run. The poem transforms the speaker into a Swan and ends with an ambiguous point where it is unknown if the Boy is real or if the Swan is actually the real version of the Boy. Or maybe it is left ambiguous if the emotional events of the anthology have left the speaker confused about what is real and what is a dream (is the dream the reality he wants to exist in?), and now he needs the face this new reality he is in instead of dreaming about mystical animals, storms, and flowers.
M Solav Sep 2018
Hear the asynchronous pulsation,
Clicks of eyelids, toggling,
And the beating of a heart:
A Life, in thick layers of rhythms,
Coating a stubborn core.

Watch the white curtain of the mansion,
Behind windows, dancing,
And the fire in the hearth:
A Life, in thick layers of stones,
Glowing out with warmth.
Written in August 2017.


— Copyright © M. Solav —
www.msolav.com

This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact marsolav@outlook.com for usage requests. Thank you.
__________
Amitav Radiance May 2014
Chaos has a method of random
And the mind is a whirlpool
Thoughts gyrating to cacophony
The mind and heart are asynchronous
****** in to the vortex of indecision
Chaos becomes the typical jargon
For a mind that reverberate randomness






© Amitav (Radiance)
T Zanahary Aug 2012
We sit in silence,
backs crooked,
the couches' cushions caving in.
The weight of passing hours
and minuettes alleviating thinking
in a miscellaneous metronome
ticking to bring time to a heaving chest.

Stay calm,
the pain of realignment will pass.
Burdensome they may be,
burgeoning wings will free you of...

Pressure collapsing this cage,
walls torn from studs,
leaving only this skeleton
surrounding us as we find delirium
the backbone of convulsing lungs watched,
earthquake mute laughter marring the faces
with jagged faults.
The cost of cracking,
we must accept the scarring permanent.
Breaks unplanned infirmities,
alone, our time line disrupted itself
and the heavens came,
tumbling down.

In silence,
we lay, arms barring
our escaping words.
Eyes overstep boundaries,
slipping through the gaps,
a second moment of
clarification fractures restraints
whilst beguiling brainstorms
sparked our interest.
Our tongues meet,
shyly.

rubies placed upon your breath
slipping against molded clay.
In sapphires
you and I hold nighttime
reflections of passion
contained in coal, waiting.
Ivory runs my length,
bending to ecstasy, breathing
shallow, asynchronous, failing
to find it's end in persistence.

In night
the danger dropped us, longing
that dusty light beaming down on
the show, Act 2 is
the comedy. Off.

Parallel parabola line diamond reflections,
allow for recall with brushed fingertips,
horse hair undertones realigning smiles,
abstract the paintings of today,
of yesterday, stealing away tomorrow
in a previous reiteration of our variant
indifference.

The wings of the demon opened
in symbolic solace, fell far
across this burning emotional
harbor, aflame
in angels' suicides.
We've fallen, taken knees to grace,
whispering eulogies the waves applaud.
Sands wash away to cupped stone
palms, caressing the troubled banks lost
in time. The blood washes away,
momentary marks, brown,
stained, it passes.

Demons foreshadow.
In their shade we are seen
falling into broken arms, sinew
stitched through hearts, still healing
strength gives way.

Our tongues meet
shyly,
this reunion a mistake,
now locked, staying stilled while
attempting apologetic phrasing.
We sit in silence,
backs crooked,
blank walls and barren recounts
crashing in.
Tripping;
g.
The sensation, experience and/or state of being
caused by asynchronous glutamate leakage
(generally at the 5-HT[2A] receptor[subtype]).
This causes an increase in
recurrent feedback excitation
within the sensory processing cortices
resulting in the classical psychedelic state.
Gut dropping falls
Dizzying ascent
It scares me
But I get back on

Forgive and forget
Care first for yourself
Pursue pleasure
Avoid pain.

Asynchronous
Dichotomies
Cannot achieve
Mutual satisfaction

Pain is inevitable
The price of living
paid in discomfort
And Uncertainty

A life of comfort
Is quiet and easy
An extraordinary life
Challenges the soul
Even though my head knows that the drop is coming, it doesn’t cease to be exciting. If the extraordinary was routine, what would be the point of pursuing it?
Amitav Radiance Jul 2014
Sometimes all the love you give
Is returned with a resounding deceit
Believing all the while, you are the cynosure
Yet, the centripetal force keeps you moving
Apparently, in sync with the lovers heart
When you realize, the asynchronous beats
But words are betraying the innermost deceit
Cracks appear, yet we turn a blind eye
Until it’s too late, when we stare at a wide chasm
All you want is to plunge into the darkness
Emotions run chaotically around the heart
Ripping away the veneer of love
Falsifying all beliefs, redeeming hurt
Eroding away the base of the relationship
It’s all there, in the saga of pseudo love
Daniel A Russ Jul 2010
Weird smell in the bathroom.

I'm pretty sure it's coming
from behind the toilet.

It expands up past tile floors
ignores the grid of labyrinthine plumbing
to drift
around long-past-cast-porcelain
wall-panels asynchronous by decades
ignoring the mirror more murky than coherent
and into my sensory network
as I add to the problem.
Nick Russo Jan 2015
Move mind in asynchronous compulsion.
As metabolism, or squeezing expanding joyfully heart.
A test, another thing to best,
A new you for another day
Sometimes you can't survive the burden,
That lay on top of you.
Your shoulders were never weak,
Until you saw the path that lay ahead
The mystery of life brings you down,
How does someone stay content amid such chaos?

Building yourself up every day
Only to be broken down again,
Overcoming your shallow misdemeanours
One day at a time.
If there's no bliss at the end, is it even worth it?
How hard must one grovel?
Maybe you've never seen the real thing?
Or maybe this is that path you were too afraid to travel?
If overcoming is the result, why must I even bother?

Maybe all I want
Is to persevere,
But towards a tangential goal
The sight of which still seems near,
It is too much, I often lose myself
In trying to build houses,
Over the grounds of disdain and despair.

Maybe all I want
Is to be happy right now,
Not thinking too much
About the load that I have to carry.
On the road with my dusty soul
I often wonder about could have been
Had I been normal,
Not letting my mind into overdrive
Running wild with thoughts asynchronous,
Maybe then I could have finally put on a savoury smile.

Can't always be proving myself,
I should instead focus on growing myself
To deal with things I've never dealt with before,
Tackle all of the unknowns
Trying to hold on to my peace of mind,
Never letting go of the grind.
What if I lose myself in the process?
What has been the purpose of all this struggle?
Isn't it to find solace in all things uncertain?
Or just make peace with what you had always known,
Still not fit for the task, I have got to grow.

I have got to rise, be mature
Get real about the situation,
Can't escape anymore
Is it a stronger sense of urgency,
Or a deeper sense of complacency?
That keeps you dwelling
Upon how things will eventually turn out,
Maybe you've always known.
Even with the work, you'll probably still end up ashore
In a sea of ghosts,
Never once been able to set sail for the treasure island.

Don't let the result bother you, they say
Well, that's the novel approach,
You've always been told to stay awake.
Never resting, never sleeping
For you might miss your chance,
With your ever fading vision
It's getting rather harder to hang on,
To the thought of you ever climbing up the skies
Bringing upon a tear down your eye.

Regardless, the wheels of change are in motion
You have to play your part,
Even if you feel like a deserted hut on a mountain hill
Like a cactus plant on a long country road.
It feels like the strangest thing,
But now you have a deeper understanding
You have to put it all on the line again.
Let your purpose be all-consuming
For this time if you fall short,
You fail with a purpose
Of trying to never let go of it,
For now, you are closer than where you were before.

If I let my sins do the talking,
You'll only hear them say
Pleasure is all you were seeking,
Pain is what lead you to stay.
Knowing this story of right and wrong,
Of pleasure and pain, of black and white,
Has got no end
Things so often knock you off your spirit
Bring you down.
For it was never binary
But rather multifaceted,
It was all the colours that you had found.

Maybe that's the only lesson here
Altering your thought process,
To walk with different shoes at different times
Always staying on top of each phase.
Winning is rather inconsequential now
In the longer run,
You'd have enjoyed your date with destiny,
With all its ups and downs.
All the times you'd have previously frowned
Now you'll smile in the same place,
For now, you learnt how to let go
Of that two-faced coin,
Holding on to the idea that experiencing a multitude of emotions
Is still a better result than waiting for the ultimate win
Feeling all the colours of the rainbow after heavy rain.
.
Kq Oct 2019
looking in--wood beams lie flat along the ceiling
i look flat when i look at me the way i am not supposed to look at me
like i am perched upon a wood beam on the ceiling
like i am a cameraman, or an evaluator, or a lover
i transform, wax, but moving
remembering the cues, the lines, the x's

looking in-- cushions hunch the arch of my back
i am full and curved and dimensional in disturbing ways
i am perched on the wood but i can hardly continue my gaze
things are puffed and jutting in ways that bring disgust
even words spill out in asynchronous patterns
and i wonder who the **** is guiding this sorry woman.

looking out-- nothing to recount.
Ariadne Oct 2019
Swinging to and fro;
A delicate dance—
Locked in rhythmic patterns;
And asynchronous chaos

Entropy of the mind—
An internalized butterfly effect
In perpetual motion;
Perpetual motion sickness

Maddening to say the least
Is our dance of life—
Hand in hand with death;
Walking the line forevermore

It's a dance none can see—
A tango of the mind;
Our personal recital of life and death
Our swan song

Swaying to the symphony—
In familiar patterns in our minds;
Arrhythmic chaos external
Cessation within

A manifestation of grief—
A life lost; taken; nay, stolen
Patterns invisible
Swinging in the maelstrom of life
Day 9: Swing/Day 10: Patterns. Totally didn't forget to do day 9 on the 9th... Anyway, I took the opportunity to write something a little deeper in honor of World Mental Health Day.
William May 2019
I thought that I could think myself to anything
Because the mind is for wishing, but
Wishes are besieged by wants
Taunted by the echoes of the well
Asynchronous haunts
Gallimaufry of linkedin words appeal,
(particularly spoken by renown orator)
'cept when unnamed poetaster afflicted
with chatterbox syndrome,
nonetheless deliberate effected

muzzle restraint imposed
suppressing groundswell analogous
to swollen dam bursting at seams
tongue kickstarts controlled regulator
tripping baffling babbling brook,

sans (cheesy) mouth trap
conscious effort required
maintaining exhausting mental vigilance
attention oriented toward "active listening"
chiming into conversation

when casually addressed
quasi Uber tracking,
sustaining, rendering...
pondering dialogue deliberating,
mustering, aiming, firing...

apropos response adhering
to utmost strictures de rigor,
versus loosing (in the sky)
scattershot poppycock
offbase blatherskite, asper

topic under discussion
synchronicity satisfies peculiar
personal logical paradigm,
despite senseless compulsive predilection
condemning premature *******

plus crosstalk as penultimate transgression
pertaining to papa blurting
asynchronous interjection
consigning tight lipped penance
****** solitude condoned
should predicated persistent plague

prevail attributing penuriousness
lame excuse pardoning yours truly
remote possibility, threatening
spurious spontaneous splendiferous

albeit ill timed unspeakable retort
with hot sealing wax - most wicked
verbal utterance arrogantly
perforating, piercing, protruding,
puckering... two lips

escaping out mouth
more rapid than witnessing
the quick brown fox
jumps over the lazy dog.
Cannot Wall The Will Of Catapulting Mice

A titled unwritten poem requiring
little effort to dip and dive
I accidentally, inadvertently,
and unexpectedly scrolled up in digital archive
among various and sundry literary endeavors,
eh, maybe about a bajillion and five,

in various stages of completion kept alive
on life support, and one non entitled migrant idea,
that unwaveringly, incessantly, dost connive
clamorously, cetera doth buzz inside my head
(aswarm like angry bees in a hive)
constitutes how ("FAKE") president Trump

emits asynchronous vibe that dost not to jive
with best interests of American people even Ivy
League scholars found yours truly ruminating,
how mine "avid groupies",
would deem to warrant duct taping
me whole body, asper drive

ving figurative written wedge, sans
my blunt opinion against commander in chief,
subsequently finding me literally diced,
hashed, minced, et cetera as an endive
or more palatable onion's relative chive
into a million little pieces,

thus better angles with me strongly advised
(along with voice of Robert Mueller) best to arrive
at less controversial topic, hence I will strive
even if blindly chased by Farmer's wive
to express (with rhyme,
but no reason), and douse

or simply avoid trumpeting, scathing,
flickr ring potential conflagration
reject as acceptable carouse
zing which resultant virtual wildfire,
would most likely lack adequate Whitehouse
funds to extinguish, this phrase

e'en thee spouse
would elicit, and expect
no readers to grouse
finding your truly making
bee line to dormouse
which doubles up (at least

for this poem) as cathouse
captivated by entertaining antics
of common house mouse
(Mus musculus), a rather mundane
alternative fur this louse,
yet I (Stuart Little)

attest tubby powerhouse
as one athletic creature
among mice and men
able to leap over tall blocks of cheese
in a single bound, ease
zee as...app pull pie by jeeves,

or prayerfully taking wing
yup...even within the uber jungle of Belize
ideally on heels of strong breeze
even on command staying stock still
if asked to freeze
for a selfie while juggling...please

do not distract, no...no..no...
without question do not dangle keys
and if shivering with cold
avoid knocking knees

so me and nest of pestiferous pals
can earn opportunity to earn fame
and fortune nothing to sneeze
at...at...at...chew, and
contract deadly disease.
The Fire Burns Aug 2017
December night, as it falls
burying colored lights,
a surreal landscape,
lit from underneath.

A strange land imagined
under the windblown drifts,
red and green and silver *****
encased in a sea of white.

Asynchronous chaos,
as flakes stick to windows,
lost in their pattern,
a maze to be solved.

Gathered in bowls
from outside,
maple syrup or vanilla,
make winters treat.

Hot chocolate steams
from mugs in hands,
we sit watching out the window,
covered in blankets.

Marshmallows floating,
matching world, outside,
falling and falling,
live snow globe, shaken.
Carolyn Diana Nov 2020
Haunted insomnia
dreams to nightmares
Heart clenched
rhythm asynchronous

Fear fluctuations
high and low
Inborn emptiness
null and void

Surge of anxiety
binded tight
Panic attacks
now and then

Crippled mind
malfunctioned
Numbness
outstretched within

Mundane existence
day by day
Depression to
merciless end

Shared vows in secrey
till death do us part

Ingurgitated by
mysterious darkness
I now reside
amidst the shadows

Oh how I yearn mayhap
discern the light once more

And breathe a heavy sigh.
5/5/2019

— The End —