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and they escaped the weight of darkness peering over their shoulders
where do these people go,
what belongings do they pack
is there a limit on the heaviness of ones’ soul
Can they bring love
as parting gift?
Hide it in their handkerchiefs, and then go
ryn Dec 2014

i wish
to infinitely
soar•in the highest
of skies•always higher,
and always more•held back by
the string that ties•i'd still welcome
hale air•as it blows stunningly
fresh•meets and carries my
body bare•bearing invi-
sible treasures in its
cache...•the errant
breeze i'd openly
fight•but i was
made with a
shoddy kit
•i'm fail-
ing and
falter-
ing...
like
a
   k
     i
        t
     e

wi  
th
  a
     **
   le
p
  u
     n
        c
          h
      e
  d
   th      
ru  
it
   ...
      •
幽玄 Jun 2018
The first sign of a dream approaching is that when you’ve already awoken,
awoken to a strange place with no trace of how you could’ve gotten there.
And the unfamiliar, faces near, with eyes similar to shards– shaded  
you can’t help but notice those feelings emitted were somehow something you’ve come to known before,
but where?
–a notion coursing its way around a soundless observatory only to further dissipation—
A sign of discord covers the room,
all that was allowed is furthest from you,
a parched paper made from what seemed like rugged twine knows nothing but lead between,    you find a face emerging from it,
quickly drawn with detail,
there it stops from motion to undulating surpass,
away from a darkened room up in front of a morning taking.
This conjuring source flairs outward
rising through the outworn canvas
leading it to embers
dancing away along a fizzled plane
for what was despair inscribed in this meaningful dereliction.
To what is empty from emotion is nonexistent,
I couldn’t find the reason to live on,
this dream has died as will I... as will the will of this way this place carries over me.
Yes decay follows me,
unto everywhere will there be the silent breezes to carry me past the concrete terrain into nothingness.
I find myself to live this over,
until the advent of air drowns these lungs to knowing again,
to know exactly what it means to breathe again.
I see no reason for such things as unrealistic as they may seem likely for me to occur in this living.
Again I’m stuck in a room full of my owns thoughts,
such a dangerously sorrowful place to be.
‘For everything as it may have not been
weary am I for looking forward at
The things that never happened’

‘Turning over everyday, repetitively’

Let’s just say that this isn’t personal but for those whom share a common fate. Until overturned.
In its most rawest.
5.3

Parallels:
Snow, for me exemplifies a mute understanding from in juxtaposition with various types of sadnesses that branch off into disparately inclined yearnings, to nostalgic preferences, whether known or not. Why it happens is of course obvious but the way it affects you, makes one wonder, if at all— I think I’m trailing off my train of though here, I’m not sure where this is going..

This was inspired by a remarkable composer, as I recalled a dream before, along with the yearning of trying to expose my underlying expansion of myself with my current understanding of things. what it all could mean as much of his cello’s presence affected me during that process. I’m the gray area that needs deciphering.

—continuations:
the cello that wails the loudest, is one that suffers the most. Even so, every tone encapsulates the listener with resonance. And in that, it reaches its utmost vulnerability, showing the many hues imbedded in an infinite sadness, in an astronomical way, a type of exquisite somber, that resides in the instrument’s hollowness until implementation of procedure.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2016
~for lovejunkie, who loved this poem best~

so many reasons,
so many stones
yet unturned,
for each poem
a season,
for every season,
a given reason

eyes, dimmer,
hearing, harder,
memories, ha,
disappear as fast as
footsteps upon
my island beach

this then
my log,
of places momentarily visited,
capturing the of,
of me,
the exactitude of
where, when and what
I felt

what felled me,
the long and lat,
of the attitudes
of breeze and currents,
the happenstance that carries
a desperate soul
eager and afraid
to remember


"how fragile we are"

so memorized records here,
for his storage and his places,
both filled and unfulfilled,


poems, nothing more,
flawed each,
product of a flawed man,

here, for all to see,
most of all,
for the man,
to see himself
when the eyes of his mind
at last be shuttered
4/11/16 8:04am nyc
annh Jun 22
It was going to be the trip of a lifetime. Sydney, Cairo, Constantinople, maybe even Jerusalem if there was time and breath left in us. We came from the far-flung reaches of the earth to the bustling capitals of the Middle East. Just me, my good mates -  Blue, Grim and his cousin Frank - our chaperone Sergeant Major O’Donnell, and 1,500 other lads of the 1st Australian Light Horse Brigade.

Frank copped it at Gallipoli, never even set foot on the beach. I left him screaming on the metal deck of the landing craft awash with ***** and blood as he watched his innards unfurl. ****** oath, they stunk! Like ten-day-old snags left out in the Adelaide sun. His Mum always said she’d have his guts for garters if he enlisted underage. I reckon she’d never use that expression again. She was a nice lady too, that Mrs Gibson.

Tell me, fair dinkum, what do 18-year-old, daring-do dreamers from Parramatta know of the chain of high command, a war of geopolitical strategy and stiff upper lips. The bewhiskered gentlemen who manoeuvre their pieces in imperial map rooms will live to fight another day, and yet hold their fallen troops accountable for the unpredictable tides of history.

Grim took Frank’s death hard. From that day on his war was one explosive suicide mission. In the end, he walked into a spray of Turkish gunpowder at Chunuk Bair. The Distinguished Conduct Medal he earned that day sits on my mantelpiece beside a photo of the four of us at Giza. His sister Molly, my dear sweet Molly, turned out to be the love of my life. Funny how that happens - the threads that hold us together, the ties that bind brothers, the strangers who become our saviours.

The sergeant major succumbed to typhoid fever in Palestine and that left Blue and me. We sit and remember. We laugh at the horror during the day and shiver in our beds at night. We wage war with ourselves, our choices, our victories and defeats. We marvel at the world and the territorial ambition of nations, shake our heads at the repetition of dumb history, and raise our wavering fists to those same men in their ivory towers. It’s in all the newspapers that the Vietnam conflict is this generation’s Dardanelles Campaign. ‘A vain and protracted engagement fought in a topographically hostile arena with disproportionate loss of life’ is what I read. Yet wonder of wonders, a Yank - Blue knows his name...but I forget...Neville Someone - walked on the moon last month. Do y’reckon we helped to make that happen? Four cobbers from New South Wales, who had a knack with horseflesh and a taste for kangaroo feathers, on an adventure which spanned more lifetimes than I could ever have imagined.
The 1st Australian Light Horse Brigade was a mounted infantry brigade of the First Australian Imperial Force, which served in the Middle Eastern theatre of World War I. During the Gallipoli offensive, the brigade served in the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC). After being withdrawn to Egypt, they took part in the Sinai and Palestine Campaign until their disbandment after the end of the war in 1919. [Wikipedia]

Cobbers - friends
Fair dinkum - true, no *******
Kangaroo feathers - the distinctive emu feather plume which adorned the slouch hats of the AIF light horsemen. So named as a practical joke by the cocky troopers themselves.
Snags - sausages
Verily, Twin Hearts in Friendship conceived
Is the Right Way to have Interpreted
When Shows like these make Public and Perceived
To give a Selfless Like un-expected
These Humans like me have a lot to Learn
To Grow what such Loyalty requires
Arthur in his Regality gave Concern
For Guinevere to foot what she desires
That is how a Follower must behave
When the Squire works best under the Light
Though empty in notice still carries to stave
For his High Lord to shine with all his Might.
You are that Peaceful; Such I discover
The Heretic in me I must recover.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Jordan Rowan Feb 2016
There's gods all around that pound you
While the men in high heels surround you
How much longer 'til they've found you?
Suzy, do you know what you've done?

She had her ways of seduction
A femme fatale if there ever was one
A high class killer and a smart one
But everyone fails once or twice

You spent the night in the hacienda
Curled up on the white veranda
To kingdom come they'd like to send ya
Suzy, do you know you're on your own?

The sun will rise tomorrow
Do you need some time to borrow?
Listen to the morning swallow
You've got to come up with something quick

How does it feel to be a rebel?
To wake up dead next to the devil?
You've got one more deal left to settle
Suzy, I hope your aim is good

Is that smoke in the distance?
Is it a campfire or an instance?
Is there anyone out here to witness,
Whatever Suzy has up her sleeve?

The gun that she carries
Belongs to the man she married
And tonight, along this lonesome prairie
Suzy will meet him once more
Kat Aug 2018
What if there's a door that's always sitting there.
The surface is bare.
And it carries a mysterious air.
No matter what people do to the door that just sits there.
The next morning the door is always repaired.

Something so curious like the door.
Everyone finds it a bore.
After all it's just a boring old door.
After seeing the damage disappear you would think people would write lore.
But the door isn't interesting, the door is a bore.

The door's been places.
The door has guarded libraries full of bookcases.
The door has seen everything from schools to fireplaces.

Whenever the place, the door has been goes away,
the door is always there insistent to stay.
But eventually the door gets found and gets transported away.

The door doesn't change.
The door is always a door but no one thinks it's strange.
But the door moves from place to place.
No one knows where or which door frame the door will choose as a base.
I showed my English teacher and he liked it
K Balachandran Nov 2015
Don't ever ask me what am I, an ancient story
of a battle lost to remain in the realm of the sublime,
unmitigated grief that visits, again and again,
reminding the journey of pain though galaxies,
far of yore to the days of present.

In a moments of desperation I discover  the bard,it could
be rather told thus, he meets me at last, as was his wont
Bard, celestial lover, before my eyes you appear thus:
I see you holding in your hands a magic lyre, so rare.
that goes on strumming non- stop, to bring birds, the tunes,
that lives in far parts of the universe,even unknown  to most,
they do vary,have colored feathers;memories living in
different layers of my consciousness,always buzzing like a beehive.

I am the single, magic , potent, word, a mantra
that in it's kernel carries the , seeds of eternal, "I am that"

I hear the speakings of the words,that brings to life
experiences of different kinds,on their beaks some one
carries ripe fruits, the result of long days of sweat and tears.
Each fruit has a flavor distinct,each word carries a seed
that will grow to be a mighty tree,many birds would roost.

Bard you are a wonder,tying past and future with one string
of a lyre converging in the heart beat of the ebullient present,
you easily transcend the three, and every other dimension
of time that mingles in your heady brew,unrivaled it stands.
In this journey through unknown paths, what really is the possession
of lonely human being?
(C)  K.Balachandran ([email protected])
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
It's not like it's gone / it doesn't disappear
I catch your name in the voices that I hear
Passion and love speak but don't understand
That neither of them go hand in hand

I've had a lot / to tell you about
You cannot hear me if I would whisper or shout
The silence is here / it follows me home
I wonder, my dear, if you are alone
If I were to come and be there with you,
Would we do what we always do?

I promised my heart / I gave you my mind
I was nervous to see what you'd find
I haven't changed / my mind's still the same
It still carries the weight of your name
Pagan Paul Mar 6
.
At the table of eternal sorrow
sits a fool with a crooked smile,
faking interest in a world obscene
and feigning the mood of yesterwhile.
Couched over bent with quill extended,
he writes his heart with a bitter beat,
floating in the mire of a memory stained,
poised with nib to command the sheet.
Capering words form across the weave
with capricious intent and shadow play,
smoke and mirrors intersect and disperse
whilst his mind carries the story away.




© Pagan Paul (04/03/19)
.
Andrew Nov 2017
We are a puzzle with missing parts
That is why we make art
It is a healing start

We are all dream chasers
Until pencil meets eraser
Until boat meets glacier
Reality we must face her
When we sacrifice imagination
For societal integration
We search for placation
In lonely play stations
And through vacation
We experience migration
When the results are doubtful
And the response a drought mold
Because people are skeptical
Until there's a shiny scepter sold
Then you're put on a pedestal
And have your pecker pulled
By various industry tools
Loading you like a mule
With expensive jewels

Art must be the only motive
Not climbing any totem
Because once you're dead
Your art can still be read
Audiences may still be fed
But there's a frivolous influence
So you must be vigilant and prudent
To cut that from your life
So art may be your wife
That works to end strife
Yet that kind of help
You can't put on a shelf

I strive to make my art timeless
Though my pockets are dimeless
We live in a world of depression
That carries the risk of regression
My art could help push past it
Now that would be classic
Kelly Weaver Jan 2017
As your salt stings my chapped lips and my open wounds I come less and less to you

You grit your teeth into dust that carries through your heinous breath that makes my eyes water and my heart ache

And I cannot believe not too long ago I turned to you for care and comfort and compassion but instead I was caught in a tight spot lacking wiggle room

I can feel you burning a hole through my chest as I ***** words and phrases that don't make sense when put together like

"I love when you make me cry"
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
To hell and back again on a floating wreckage of love.
Your voice calls like sirens from a far off shore,
inviting me to care once more in a land unknown;
to a paradise where only love can live again.

My heart is swept up in your whisper.
It carries my thoughts on a prayer of silent hope.
Your soft breeze caresses and warms my frozen heart,
lovingly holding and healing my broken soul.

This new wind has taken me to your shores
Like silk wrapping me in soft acceptance
bandaging my fractured existence,
I bask in the warmth of your sun.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Jordan Rowan Jan 2016
The light beyond the windowpane reads like the lines of a poem
And the headlights crash into streams on their way home
The lampshade brushes your arm and crushes you like a stone
You're still there but over here you're all alone

The streets are all black or maybe it's just the night
The day was long but now it's time to make it right
But when your memories are wrong and blurred out of sight,
Do you really have the strength to put up a fight?

You light your cigarette and close one, ****** eye
"Don't bat a lash" says the woman who last made you cry
And she follows you down to the depths of your mind
She complicates your soul and then she just hurries by

Somewhere down the alley, towards the church bells of dawn
You hear a voice that slowly carries on
Like a lost whippoorwill still whispering its song
A feeling comes over you and you wonder why you waited so long
The photograph hangs on the wall by the window
Three judges appear (one carries a folder),
A tarot card reader, embalmer, engraver
Without much to say and not much of it said
About the boot in the crib and the tire in the bed,
The round faced man and the *** on his head
Painted with flowers and chipped on its edge.
And the cat near the door with its collar and bell
Flailing and airborne and mid caterwaul.
And the three-legged dog with her leash on
And sweater, jubilant, leaping— Mon Dieu! Grand jeté!
And the crow— O the crow! In its cage cawing “Fire!”
The crow crowing “Mayhem!” and “****** most foul!”
The dog and the cat and the crow and the tire,
The cage and the crib, the *** painted in flowers;
All in a frame with a sign alongside—
“Self portrait. Around the Ides of July.”
A ribbon is clipped and then hung for its owner.
It bears the word “Mention” and then the engraver
Makes a note on a form he hands to the embalmer.
The tarot card reader turns— She and her hat,
And addresses the room, “Ain't no card made for that.”

.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
Lizzy Jan 2015
I’m losing grip on deeper thoughts,
I wish to stand on war torn fronts,
I turn away from all I’ve fought.

I cannot mask my clear remorse,
Un-satiated hungry fear.
I must leave this to run its course,
My dusty bones are crumbling here.

I am a force to all I love,
A fearful storm that leaves no trail,
A burden they cannot hold up,
My storm, it carries hell and hail.

Slipping back into the sea,
My mind is lost inside of me.
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2016
She tells you how her canyon walks
Can ease a mother's fear
The trails and big groves comfort her
She feels close to God out there

But that's just how she makes it through
She's given up a lot inside
And even in those spreading trees
She'll still break down and cry

She's praying again her daughter
Will land with both feet on the ground
Nobody knows which way she'll go
Or if she'll ever come around

Maybe this time she'll finally find
The pieces that have come apart
And there'll be no more breaking
No more breaking either heart

She carries around a photograph
Of her beautiful, coltish girl
In a big white shirt, her head tossed back
A free spirit in this world

You want to forget all that she's done
And all she's compromised
You can close your eyes and believe that now
She's the same girl in disguise

She's praying again her daughter
Will land with both feet on the ground
Nobody knows, which way she'll go
Or if she'll ever come around

Maybe this time she'll finally find
The pieces that have come apart
And there'll be no more breaking
No more breaking either heart

Her mother's heart, wide as the sea
Would rock her back on a rising tide
She cradles the memory then lets it go
She has to leave the girl behind

She's praying again her daughter
Will land with both feet on the ground
Nobody knows, which way she'll go
Or if she'll ever come around

Maybe this time she'll finally find
The pieces that have come apart
And there'll be no more breaking
There'll be no more breaking
There'll be no more breaking
No more breaking either heart*

~ Fernando Ortega
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aM7Gut-ocDo
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2016
The good thing about a tortoise
Is that he carries time on his
shoulder
and does not have to run
to cry.
He is like a river
flowing backward,
climbing  the rocks on which her mother
had bitten
to un-feel the pain of origination,
so as to cast a glimpse on her nest
in the mountain.
He is a figure, a language, a sun
whose force is sustained by his own spirit -
unrelated, unlike a star,
a candle, a night.
He is his
own version
of the light,
and the rite,
and the fight
Sisyphean.

© Lazhar Bouazzi, Carthage, TUN, July 18, 2016. Revision made on July 25, 2016.
Alyssa Underwood Jun 2016
Who believes what we’ve heard and seen?
    Who would have thought God’s saving power would look like this?
The servant grew up before God—a scrawny seedling,
    a scrubby plant in a parched field.
There was nothing attractive about him,
    nothing to cause us to take a second look.
He was looked down on and passed over,
    a man who suffered, who knew pain firsthand.
One look at him and people turned away.
    We looked down on him, thought he was ****.

But the fact is, it was our pains he carried—
    our disfigurements, all the things wrong with us.
We thought he brought it on himself,
    that God was punishing him for his own failures.
But it was our sins that did that to him,
    that ripped and tore and crushed him—our sins!
He took the punishment, and that made us whole.
    Through his bruises we get healed.
We’re all like sheep who’ve wandered off and gotten lost.
    We’ve all done our own thing, gone our own way.
And God has piled all our sins, everything we’ve done wrong,
    on him, on him.

He was beaten, he was tortured,
    but he didn’t say a word.
Like a lamb taken to be slaughtered
    and like a sheep being sheared,
    he took it all in silence.
Justice miscarried, and he was led off—
    and did anyone really know what was happening?
He died without a thought for his own welfare,
    beaten ****** for the sins of my people.
They buried him with the wicked,
    threw him in a grave with a rich man,
Even though he’d never hurt a soul
    or said one word that wasn’t true.
Still, it’s what God had in mind all along,
    to crush him with pain.
The plan was that he give himself as an offering for sin
    so that he’d see life come from it—life, life, and more life.
    And God’s plan will deeply prosper through him.

Out of that terrible travail of soul,
    he’ll see that it’s worth it and be glad he did it.
Through what he experienced, my righteous one, my servant,
    will make many “righteous ones,”
    as he himself carries the burden of their sins.
Therefore I’ll reward him extravagantly—
    the best of everything, the highest honors—
Because he looked death in the face and didn’t flinch,
    because he embraced the company of the lowest.
He took on his own shoulders the sin of the many,
    he took up the cause of all the black sheep.


~ Eugene Peterson
~~~

"Who has believed our message
    and to whom has the arm of the LORD been revealed?
2 He grew up before him like a tender shoot,
    and like a root out of dry ground.
He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him,
    nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.
3 He was despised and rejected by mankind,
    a man of suffering, and familiar with pain.
Like one from whom people hide their faces
    he was despised, and we held him in low esteem.

4 Surely he took up our pain
    and bore our suffering,
yet we considered him punished by God,
    stricken by him, and afflicted.
5 But he was pierced for our transgressions,
    he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was on him,
    and by his wounds we are healed.
6 We all, like sheep, have gone astray,
    each of us has turned to our own way;
and the LORD has laid on him
    the iniquity of us all.

7 He was oppressed and afflicted,
    yet he did not open his mouth;
he was led like a lamb to the slaughter,
    and as a sheep before its shearers is silent,
    so he did not open his mouth.
8 By oppression and judgment he was taken away.
    Yet who of his generation protested?
For he was cut off from the land of the living;
    for the transgression of my people he was punished.
9 He was assigned a grave with the wicked,
    and with the rich in his death,
though he had done no violence,
    nor was any deceit in his mouth.

10 Yet it was the LORD’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer,
    and though the LORD makes his life an offering for sin,
he will see his offspring and prolong his days,
    and the will of the LORD will prosper in his hand.
11 After he has suffered,
    he will see the light of life and be satisfied;
by his knowledge my righteous servant will justify many,
    and he will bear their iniquities.
12 Therefore I will give him a portion among the great,
    and he will divide the spoils with the strong,
because he poured out his life unto death,
    and was numbered with the transgressors.
For he bore the sin of many,
    and made intercession for the transgressors."

~ Isaiah 53, New International Version

~~~

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZ47-KYUdpE
Melissa S Feb 2017
Master Manipulator
Parading around with all his strings
Trying to control
Persuade  
Use her to carry out his way of things
Why does everything always
have to be on his terms
Why does she even listen to  
all his mean and careless words
She is a real person
not just a puppet for his life
Now on to him and his ways
She finally sees the real him and understands
and is why she now carries scissors
in her hand :)
ryn Jan 2015
.
   Curious minds,
      splashing under
       moonlight
       With
      outstretched kisses
     pulsating yellow,
     Over the awestruck
      magical
       rainbow,
         Feverishly tracking each
         supernova
      on sight.


   Resting the moment
    on a
     cresting knoll,
    With
   an audience of several
   time-worn
     rocks.
      Whilst the
        whistling sirens
        in the winds do call...
          Wasting away
        the ticks of
     worldly
      clocks.


        Evading with class,
       all
       heart's turbulence,
        Craters of sadness
          congeal
           in thin air,
             Glamorous amnesia
             falls
          with cadence,
         Eyes wide shut,
         susurrating
          a
           lost prayer.


             Lifeless gazes
               yield
               only
             abrasive tears.
             As erratum
              catches up
                with its
                 gaping maw.
              Hurling
            its anguish
             in
             rips and shears,
              Bleeding out
                of
               singing wounds
             so raw.

             But...
              time carries confident,
                its stock of
                   soothing balm.
                   Latent doses
                 hidden
                within
                 invisible vials.
                  Welcoming vision
                    with its
                    sunlit palms,
                   Staving the longing
                    for the
                    fear of trials.


                      Now hushed
                         remain the remorseful
                        battle trenches,
                        Deprived of their own
                          victims
                           ­ save gaping wounds,
                            Only
                        ­     faint faith
                                commanding
                ­                   corroded limp
                                   forces,
                                 Stirring
                                light away
                               from
                                all
                        ­         agony
                                    and
                   ­                doom.



                              Moonskittles
           ­                 *ryn
.
This has been an amazing experience!!! Big thanks to Moonskittles for the opportunity to share a page with her captivating style of poetry!!!
.
Dimitris Sarris Apr 2018
A question carries me, scorching shores
in a blazing trail.
A question vexes me and provokes my
interest.
How do we come to know the unknownable?
Should our faculties prove enough or should we
push ourselves to venture further and further?
Into the deep unknown we travel
where a flicker of wild eyes lurk.
Should the story terrify me,
would my thought comfort me?
In moonlight's shadow the tale begins
on shores of gold my tale will end.
Grace Spellman Feb 2017
I found somebody who carries my soul gently.
He took the demons you left me with and cast them all out.;
He planted flowers where you left weeds.
Although I was nothing but a dimly lit star to you, he sees the opposite.
I am his sun, he is my moon.
And together we rule the galaxy.
He takes care of me like no one has ever before.

-Thank you for leaving, for if you hadn't I would never have found my diamond in the rough.
Anya Nov 2018
If we forgo pursuing truth
Then we allow ourselves to die
I’ve done so long ago
When complacent with her lie
With the word of a woman
Who carries death in her sight
Unfit to reject her skill
For she brings with it slight delight
Both soldier and weapon
Difference had died with her
The daughter of hopes rejoice
Now walks as a hopeful killer
Burdened are the knowing
For fitting words had rung
And she knew of what escaped
Beneath her velvet tongue
Bijan Rabiee Sep 2018
Limpid waters reflect
The shadow of sunset
Chase has long been interred
In catacomb of dreams
And roar of thoughts muffled by age.
Stripped of but all verve
The shriveled finger dips in
To ripple the reflection of night
Toward the fringe of life's purpose
Toward destiny's flowchart
To galactic conglomerations
Or a shaft of light
That carries with it
Aeons of dictatorial abundance.
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