"bridged" poems
like water
I poured myself into her until she was overflowing at the brim
like reinforced steel
I bridged my heart to hers and welded myself to her soul
like the sun
I filled myself with light to cover her darkness
like a blanket
I shielded her from the harsh world underneath the covers
like magnets
I orbited her aura until we inevitably collided
like a seed
I felt myself growing up from her
Then, like an idiot
I could tell she felt nothing.
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC
***My words
Convey
Deepest feelings
From the soul
Revived
With every drop
Of ink
Bridged
Is the chasm
Between me
and blank pages
Crossing over
To dwell
Among the lines
Betwixt
Are the meanings***
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
I have been doing a lot of work with my feelings lately. I have avoided them for most of my life because, well the bad ones outweigh the good ones.
The rest of them were f@#ked or beaten out of me.
I have always believed that my feelings only led to trouble and pain. A simple feeling stated as a child sent me tumbling down a rabbit hole of horrific pain. An innocent smile was interpreted to be nothing but filthy desire. A frown was nothing but blatant rebellion that had to be dealt with.
My thinking is extremely black and white. Good or bad. Right or wrong. But what I'm learning is that feelings don't fall easily into any of those categories. The classifications that I have used to reason my life into some semblance of order do not work for feelings.
So walking in this grey area is very difficult for me. I cannot make much sense of what I allow myself to feel and if I do, I get stuck. The detachment I have felt to my memories is slowly being bridged by the missing feelings. And that is terrifying.
I have always been able to share, matter of factly, the details I have chosen to disclose. And I'm very afraid that those details were the easy ones; the ones I could disconnect from and push the feelings onto someone else.
Remember those rabbit holes? When I find the feelings associated with that pain it's like falling down that hole bound, gagged, and blindfolded. My logic was my only means of control and I've lost it amongst the feelings. The only way to climb out of that hole?
Literally feel my way out.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
Diacridic
He lays
While the leaves sit underneath
the brilliance of sincerities tree,
and thinking to you
were all the things done by.
As it were
Discriptless
Pages left turned and inkless
What's left behind inside
the minds of an intertwining summer
a conclusion predesignated.
I saw to you,
just as I waved hello to goodnight’s moon.
As they touched along the surfaces
fleeting into the skin
A welcomed wound.
And didn’t you know,
That the pictures I stole
Of every point of you
Were etching onto sheets of heaven
into the reflections of the mirrors
that sit before your bedside.
While it rests
with mixed spirits,
the roses that I bore
Passing through glowing bodies
are the images you started to dream with me
while the silences burrow
A judgement left only partially bridged.
Melded with the manifestation of adoptions quest
And as the calls ring in secluce,
I still feel that this alley is ghostless
Lest this vase breathe the life
of unwilted flowers
where the flip sides meet
on the evenings tides
joined by charmed indifferences
in company with the character
of an old flame,
only tangible with
lights which lay ahead.
medleyed in to what's to be.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC
Ongoing failures of the Church to act,
will guarantee the sure success of evil;
for faith without works is… still dead
and visible today is spiritual upheaval.
The internal chasm between the members
of both sides -the presbytery and laity-
must be bridged with faithful cooperation,
girded with policies that last permanently.
Even today, God is quietly waiting on the Body,
while the unsaved are queued up for Hell.
Individual Faith is a person’s responsibility,
but the Great Commission impels us to tell…
others about God, His Love and Christ’s Salvation.
After 2000+ years, The World has not misunderstood.
A final solution is required and not yet in place-
each of us must desire to… overcome Evil with good!
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
James 2:14-26; Obad 1:11-15; Gal 6:7-9;
Matt 5:45, 28:16-20
All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is
that good men continue to do nothing -Edmund Burke
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
‘Arson’,
Cries the enslaved gunpowder path ,
That bridged our realms , of love and lust;
For beyond the rubbles , of Cupid’s wrath,
We are but orphan specks of dust.
So now,
Dwell we in the realms ,of those forgotten,
And to every legend , vanquished by rust,
Remind with verses bold , bitter but seldom rotten,
That We are but orphan specks of dust .
For every silent ballad
Raging in distant lands ;
For every broken dream
Swallowed in temporal sands;
For every dewdrop that will never burst ;
We are but orphan specks of dust .
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 1:16 AM UTC
Unto Him I am glued
my King of Prussia.
oxytocin- dopamine dilated
his pupils inside his blue green
as I entered Him, eons ago,
and never came out
He left but returned to my abode
for me or his Tequila.
I wanted to fall down crying beg him to take me with him to his heaven
Saving me from the hellish existence
But pain was greater then tears to convince HIM.
~~
Into his song YESTERDAY I merged
and with one voice we often sing it
from that time on and on.
I became his song his moon and stars.
Although our fame sleeps
as beauty rested in a glass coffin;
with one leap across the gap
chaos that one butcher
with medical ignorant lies
opened up and three
of us got evaporated.
With one song each in heart
we bridged that chasm.
In his art we thrive yet for long.
To Him to his heart of gold
I slowly walk to, his ancient bride.
Into our holy temple of forever,
straight to his heart and open arms
United in one single thought.
Our own Taj Majal
to reign we did plan to build.
Into mine eye pupils, grasping
all of his substance in
his light projecting all was received
My intergalactic time traveler.
Interchangeable we are.
In me he finds more than wisdom
he finds truth a true artist.
Our true love bittersweet.
Before Him I Joyfully crumble kneeling
As he embraces my swollen
teary eyes and merging me
Into to his heart and arms
I surrender grace, charm
and complete trust.
There!
In confining solitude
In the darkest of mine nights
My brightest sunny days
it's him I hear, love and seek.
I understand, worship
and adore him forever more
He's my true love! Luna tell Him!
That I love him the most.
~~~~~~
Mr. And Mrs Andrew
And Karijinbba.
All rights reserved
Mar 17, 2022
Mar 17, 2022 at 4:10 PM UTC
I stumbled across a letter from an old friend,
its contents were long and wordy but they had their end.
It was just her way of saying she appreciated our friendship.
A friendship unanchored, blew away with the wind
with paper sails that have only thinned.
Birthdays used to be a grand affair; a day to celebrate
but each year the wishes dwindle down so I reciprocate.
Radio meets silence while we're both aware of the days
until it becomes a memory of the song that no longer plays.
Too busy trying to navigate channels that changed.
Then an invitation to a graduation came to me one year
a wedge of uninterrupted distance bridged by a, "Dear."
I don't know if olive branches can hold my weighted heart
but I sent my response to expect me there
before I decided to not care.
When the day came you said, "I didn't think you would come!"
I kept quiet how I cried in my car a block from
your home. I hid my face in your arms and squeezed you tight
because the wedge between us was five-years wide.
"I said I would," is all I replied.
And we asked each other questions that friends don't ask.
What did you study? Where do you live? What do you do?
We joke around but do not laugh as hard as we used to.
My past brought to my present like a nostalgic gift.
A chance to heal over our ocean-wide rift.
And there were no known reasons! I can't turn back the clock!
I just drifted like a small boat barely tethered to its dock
until a storm came and everyone forgot to tie me down.
Or maybe it was on purpose, or maybe I couldn't secure me.
I was the fourth in a unit of three, send me out to sea.
But there is a positive to all of this turmoil
there is a reason the invitation made it to my door.
I rowed myself through the five-year waves back to shore
and tethered my boat and checked the knots times ten.
When friends become strangers we get to meet again.
May 20, 2020
May 20, 2020 at 1:15 PM UTC
I found myself buried deep within the womb of creation
Lost, I climbed through the mud of life
Pulling myself up on the bones of the ancients
I broke through to the light, and heard the earth cry
Rise, Woman, Rise
I looked upon the face of the eternal
Reaching upward, I tried to touch the sky
So with my feet planted firmly in the past
I grew toward the future, bridging both earth and divine
And in me, the words rose once more,
Rise, Woman, Rise
After I had bridged the heavens,
After I had delved through the mud
I branched out towards the stars surrounding
Souls glittering in the lonely sky
Beckoned by a need, I reached to them
But just out of reach, they twinkled distantly
When a single answer I heard them call
Rise, Woman, Rise
And from my roots, I grew down deeper
And from my arms, I reached out high
With my fingers, stretched out longingly
Glancing over them, I swept the sky
Fingers clasped my own in their hands
Pulling me towards their brilliant light
Connected, I am tied to the universe
Woven into the web of life
And now, when I see another reaching,
I cry out the words that brought me here,
Rise, Woman, Rise
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
I come from South of the border,
just South of Portland with a little West bend
not from the hills of the academic and domestic
Wake up at 1P, M in the morning
ash under my nails smelling errl in my nose hairs
"Hey do you think I could *** a smoke, bro?"
Sure my man I got a spare so don't fret, but I'm not a bro, though"
"For real?"
**** man, I run into you every day do I really have to do this every day?
Life like the industrial companies lining my streets
press and press and I press and I do it all again
but every step might not go forward, I keep
sayin I don't have the reserve to go on like this,
this shit's burnin me before progress,
can I just make a little bit?
"No," says me, "but maybe you can next time."
Can I get out of bed at least?
"You know the rules," says me, "get to the car and the engine's running."
But man there's a lot of broken glass down there,
painful, diamond shards trailing in with the past down there.
Is this fair?
Okay, don't answer that.
Not raised by a meth-head, thank god, but neglected,
but kept safe in a home offering protection
Mother's broke and mi papi es a ghost
left to my lonesome devilish devices
look it's a **** **** with vicious collection
of debt and death-draw bridged in prevention by vices
smoke till I choke, kid, smoke while I toast
"I became someone so why couldn't you, too?"
**** kid, I just want to see the weekend,
Just want to see tomorrow,
Just want to wake up sometime
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 10:39 PM UTC
She watched as the predator made his move,
Red flags of caution flashed in her head.
She knew his feelings wouldn’t be true,
Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about him as she lay in bed.
She had seen far too worse in the name of love,
But something about her predator seemed to captivate her.
She promised to be careful, that was her vow,
But every time she saw him she knew they’d end up together.
A glance turned into a chat and a chat turned into a touch.
With every passing day he stopped being a predator.
She told herself she'd be stubborn and not budge,
But she was breaking and his affection was her sedative.
It wasn't long before their hearts bridged the gap,
It wasn’t long before their lips met for a kiss.
It wasn’t long before she fell into the trap,
It wasn’t long before she couldn’t resist.
She was finally being accepted for who she really was,
And could bid her insecurities farewell.
She allowed herself to move on from the scars,
And cherished being the girl who fell.
-Wayward❤
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
Mercies at juxtapositional refinement
Abandoned constitutional confinement
Handshakes on the bridged ligaments
The sweet melodious serene dreams fleets
One after the other like peculiar inventions
The mellow scenes of frames realignments
Wonderful crafted words verses paradigm
Harmonic jazz awesomeness, decode freeness
Orchestral spontaneity drills pragmatic energy
Yet, as the gingered steams rise from the hot brew
The scented breeze of life vaticinates with a smile afar
Whispers of "no obligation, no expectations" reverbs..... on and on....on and on
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
Brackets
Your mum picked you up in daddy’s BMW,
we had to wait an hour while they scrubbed the brains of another son off the roof of the 125
(Why they built a multi storey car park on top of the bus station is a mystery to me.)
You carefully colour coordinated your files and scrutinized your revision schedules,
we watched nicked CCTV footage of two blokes smoking crack and burning down the bowling pavilion next door
(the old boys never did raise enough to repair it.)
You snubbed each other because of different tastes in jumpers,
we watched acid casualties talk politics with football hooligans
(a hastily rolled joint bridged the obvious gap.)
You lounged in the common room in your study periods,
our lesson got cancelled because John had been smashed in the face with a fire extinguisher
(and our tutor used to be a lifeguard.)
You worried about fashion and discussed the injustice of last night’s X Factor result,
we watched Neil’s head crash into his keyboard after he’d scoffed all his methadone in one go
(again.)
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
Nothing is ever time wasted,
just the interlude to the rest of the album. Soon it becomes nostalgia. To think you almost pressed the skip button..
It's all about trying new things.
Slowing were briding the gap.
Looping untold tales of blues and jazz into our samples.
The things considered classical.
Instant vintage.
The things we keep hidden in headphones,
The venerability of hype.
It's always about the crowd.
Afraid to digest something different.
This was the first time I met her.
At first I laughed,
Reaction that I faced my own ignorance.
Listening again finding purpose.
Not knowing that we'd come to spend the rest of our lives together.
All three minutes and forty five seconds.
I was dishonest.
Not revealing anything real about myself until I heard it for the first time.
The first time she sung.
Music.
This wasn't an image to be upheld in front of others.
Or the gossip type spread circle to circle.
I was never exposed to this.
Skimming the top layer ready to press next.
Too far caught in the slander that first impressions can give.
History often repeats itself but this wasn't the case.
This was wholeheartedly the epitome of how she effected me.
The rhythm of how she moved.
How she spoke.
Like that I matured almost instantly.
She became my biggest influence.
A two way street that bridged the gap of my own ignorance.
After time I began to leave my headphones on the dresser.
We were amplified.
She'd follow me everywhere just as I'd follow her.
Soon it caught on to the masses.
Each and every thought became a publicist of what she'd recite over and over again.
A parental advisory issued with every cover.
Finding the one became a catalog.
Stumbling back to the first interlude all over again.
The copyright not for sell
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 10:48 PM UTC
A hand-shaped heritage,
it opened its huge palm
and waved at us,
welcoming us in
It made us farmers
It made us chefs
It made us factory workers
It made us business owners
and inventors
It gave us higher education
to dream taller and wider
It bridged the gap
between two peninsulas
to include everyone
It smiled upon me,
and patted me on the back
"Well done, lady poet
Well done"
Nov 24, 2009
Nov 24, 2009 at 11:52 AM UTC
The gap between us is bridged by telephone wires,
Crossing, spider-webbed and dappled with bird **** tangled
Into some immutable mess, surpassed only in
Confusion and chaos by the union of us.
I guess everything is dual,
Isn’t it,
All of life sick and twisted chocolate-and-vanilla soft serve swirls spiraling
Up, up, up until we hit heaven. And
If we stand on tippy-toes, arms shaking—straining—
Fingers popping with the strength of our Prometheus ambition
And we just push our struggling shoulders a little bit higher—
Maybe our wings
Will slowly rustle out.
But our pointed horns will still shift the part of our hair.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
Transplanted to these '...fruited plains...', grandpa,
One of Gaia's fruits, what was his twinkle among
The countless stars? Here, millions have come
To stay, imbuing us with their place of origin,
Their souls dancing, flying, in a universal way.
For over 60 years Americans to be came through
Ellis Island, headed to who knows where West,
My grandfather, Uru, which means hero, a Fin,
One of three who left a concentration camp that
Fifteen thousand entered, did too, to NYC, NY.
Following freedom's beacon, its first light he saw,
The Statue of Liberties still unscorched torch, thanx
To Frederic Auguste Bartholdi, and the French. Of
Libertas, the Roman goddess of freedom and a
'...Tabula ansata, a tablet evoking the law, upon
Which is inscribed the date of the American
Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776.'
The broken chain of tyranny lies at her feet,
Upon a pedestal, wherein etched words are,
From Emma Lazurus' sonnet, 'The New Colossus',
Which may rise again, only if we embrace them:
'...Her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
'Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!' cries she
With silent lips. 'Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!'
Only 151 feet tall, she will ever stand taller, or
Be turned to dust with us, all of humanity and
Large mammals, as well as the Earth, tragic
Members of extinctions annals, if we don't stop
The permanent altering of weather cycles through
Overuse of fossil fuels, the degradation of the
Earth's orbit around the Sun. We can walk in
Nature's abundant balance again, humane beings.
Still, she gives hues to the vast canvas of what
The Big Apple, and its beautiful mosaics' art, can be.
I shine only because he, a Merchant Marine, did.
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 2:06 AM UTC
A crack up the wall
And the house is broken
A cloud in the sky
And the world is grey
And my faults are many
Even if they’re bridged
Even if they’re far gone
Cracks don’t go away.
Maybe all the bad things
We millennials possess
Is a gritty reminder
Of what’s in the rest.
The human condition can’t be that strong
Perhaps Gen. Y,
Just got it all wrong,
And we’re not new victims
In this generational war
We just bear darker versions
Of our parents’ sores.
But we’re young and stupid
We just don’t get it
It’s suppression versus reality
And we’re getting all the ****
If we were laid brick
In a nice, big wall
The bricks, true, before us
Made us nice and tall
But when we look down
We only see cracks
Big cracks in the wall.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
Part I
No words need be spoken
Inhaling loudly,
She is mindful and content.
The only artifice here
A camera in her gear;
This instant in a frame
As wonders engulf her,
She claims.
I stand at the centre,
Swamped by
The tick of high heels and chatter.
Mindful and composed,
Left aghast
By the mass who walk past.
The right words come up
Binding my feelings to my art.
Part II
Smell the air
Both dig inspiration
Elsewhere;
Differences
Of worldly proportions
Our nature
Do not fit by definition.
Entering each other's realm,
We love to understand.
May this gap
Be bridged with time
For I am afraid
We do not rhyme.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 3:12 AM UTC
the glitterball in space
wrapped in wormholes
caressed by distant quasars
peak at optimum speed
before floating falling
toward the muted aromas
of space age earth
the bile of industry
smears the planet in neon
one giant shinning marble
city lights stretch
in the haze from pole to pole
whatever hemisphere
whatever timezone
whatever continent
aqua is the precious mineral
few places exist where
hope springs life eternal
rivers were rerouted years ago
run by power corporations
who package it in sachets
with dehydrated memory
a planet of consumption
tectonic plates stitched
stapled, bridged and woven
the fabric of the world
we unzip to consume
revel in the electronic tune
that breeds our contempt
for the the lost seasons
our reason dilluted, polluted
by the tune that remains the same;
beautiful stranger
dream a dream for me
because now all we have
between us
is acid rain.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
At night I dream of a cityscape,
vast and bright across a lake.
A breeze blows soft across my face
as heart and mind did celebrate,
the city which spanned a thought horizon,
and bridged the night for old Orion.
This moonlit causeway- that splits the sky,
Traversed by stars that walk the night.
For Luna did smile upon grey streets,
and lit grey towers of pure concrete.
Illuminated the dark, and pale, and cold,
She bathed the raw night in a blanket of gold.
This city of dreams that I wander alone,
becomes a home and a place of my own,
however, even this city can not hide nor run,
from the eventual coming of the rising sun.
Sleep, my mistress, hold onto me tight,
and stay with me, till the crack of first light.
We'll meet once more under night's dark drape,
as I dream once more of a cityscape.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
*how this came and come to be,
from gone to come to gone rediscovered but unreleased,
a passage thematic that birthed
fully formed, formal in its inception,
contented in its first appearance and
its primary coincident deception
who wrote this? not me? could not be!
yet a scented hint of
eau d’familiarité
suggests that I may have
inadvertently
plagiarized
myself
this old poem mine,
we certifiably have never met,
but nonesuch a hail fellow met,
that upon our (re?) acquaintance,
the heavens marked the occasion with
hail and neither of us deemed it strange
so we well recall our ancestor’s words*
”there is nothing new under the sun”
adding our brand new imprimatur
”not even June or the Moon or other iconic loons”
*we may have borrowed from the insights,
recollecting what happened to us when separated at birth,
envisioning like the prophets of yore what was implanted
long before we remembered it well
upon its birthday
our intertwined twinning
fate befallen*
postscript
**quaking heart, trembling pointer
dawning and dying
simultaneous
neither tissue, cell, molecule,
i am but a composite of
letters, alpha bits and bets,
recirculated songs and tunes born
like me,
compromised, bridged,
newly un and recovered,
lengthy and unabridged,
my appearance faulty,
my eyes ****** ruddy and red,
my fingered tips blend and bleed
words acquired, words invented,
marching before me,
old lands recaptured,
new ones set free
take and give -
there’s no difference -
intimation, initiation,
all
bring me home
to where my boundaries begin**
<•>
this one, for the ladies who loved its
predecessor
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2367267/the-temple-of-you/
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
Karen Carpenter, bridged sued cap d'hiver,
(which I hear will be very en vogue this summer)
fringe falling, as gracefully as music flowing through her veins,
(a Pucci jumpsuit, a throwback to times, of rock and roll)
Pinned hair, taped face to secure a wig cap,
(a daily communion bonding her soul to her self)
those Miu Mui boots, leather wrapped sewn to her body
(to which is laying amid candle light gypsy retreat)
A left thigh, glance of the subtly disguised tattoos inscribing her body,
(do we mark our body, to impress others or to claim our own bodies)
silk Chloé gown, gypsy princess of Parisian quarters,
(Jakarta may someday be a resting place for an unsettled soul)
Placing pencil to paper, poetry writes me as lyrics write her,
(do the ivory keys of the Grand Piano fuse inspiration)
piercing red nails, grasping left handed she writes writes writes,
(maybe notes of her future travels dreams aspirations)
A 70's heroine, born to the wrong era standing in the past,
(Yoko Ono Led Zep Stevie Nicks, mahatma's of a lost scene)
innocence purity porcelain ******* torn from a womb too soon,
(not at once a smile, reflective nostalgia unwavering past future)
A fallen tear drop, a hopelessness of peace in her eyes,
(one can see both tattoos of present; ARTPOP, of past; peace symbol)
a fallen angel, legacy leaving her mark on a generation of those lost,
Her left wrist shows a peace sign as a commitment to such peace
Will this ever be a possibility on a planet we call earth?
© Sia Jane
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
~~~
a poem derived from these words of
Joel M Frye
"Poetry is a self-policing agency, enforcing nothing
~~~
The Truth Burden
is the accursed need obligatory,
the sacred sanctity requisitioned,
when the whenever,
chooses to drops in and
upflag the mailbox,
an uninvited invitation,
announcing with precise bluntness,
that precisely now,
is the tool crafted moment
and you fool,
are the selected tool
you must render unto Ceaser,
by your own hand,
render your own rendering,
do your own undoing,
go forth and in haste,
will thyself into the cauldron of the
Great Mystery of Creation
you cannot lie in poetry
-one can only validate-
you will tell the whole truth,
and nothing but,
all in good order,
to secure me to thee,
to muddle
our molecular cocktail mix,
you must,
must give only
truth in poetry,
or give
nothing
police yourself
in every aleph bet,
don't substance abuse us with deceit,
give only your unburdening,
force us to lip kiss
when
we face each other,
when
pronouncing the blessed script of
ourselves,
that we have been granted by sharing
each other's unvarnished lettres
the burden is
to un burden
cut out what needs
to be bridged from
the secret walled-in safe,
and give form, life and breath,
expose it to the atmosphere,
reform your bleak introspection
and white horseradish bitter realism,
turn blue blood veined internal
into an amberina red,
all by being
unsaved, unsavory, unsafe
you are the enforcer,
you are the police,
you are the validation
and the validator,
enforcing this sole law,
police your self,
give us
with no agent in between,
give us
nothing but,
a voice
one will recognize instantly
as the whole fats milk of
truth
oh, how I will embrace thy
one and only,
when given,
your
one and only
for do we dare disagree that is
each other's truths that
shall set us free?
•••
for we are the inhabitants,
of this wild land of
no inhibitions,
no rule of laws,
except one,
defend the essence,
protect the defenseless integrity,
promote the mystery of the
human poem
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC
for months on end
silence bridged us
even though I missed you then
it was never like this.
yesterday we spoke
and it was like the first
rain of the monsoon.
i never realized how much the
dust of days masked
how much I missed you.
a chain has snapped inside me
and now the link refuses to be fixed.
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
28.03.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 2:00 AM UTC