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Liz Apr 2014
I'm sat in a pearl 
on your lips
Mouthing sweet hymns
Of the lemon pips
That you spit from your lips
 
I'm stood in ruby
In your hair
Hearing bitter chorals 
of beetroot stalks
That you hang from your ear.

I'm struck in amethyst 
Through your pupil
Tasting great lilacs
And smelling supple, 
Subtle lavender.
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Sang from the Heart, Sire,
Dipped my Beak in it,
If the Tune drip too much
Have a tint too Red

Pardon the Cochineal—
Suffer the Vermillion—
Death is the Wealth
Of the Poorest Bird.

Bear with the Ballad—
Awkward—faltering—
Death twists the strings—
’Twasn’t my blame—

Pause in your Liturgies—
Wait your Chorals—
While I repeat your
Hallowed name—
Whispers of heavenly death, murmur’d I hear;
Labial gossip of night—sibilant chorals;
Footsteps gently ascending—mystical breezes, wafted soft and low;
Ripples of unseen rivers—tides of a current, flowing, forever flowing;
(Or is it the plashing of tears? the measureless waters of human tears?)

I see, just see, skyward, great cloud-masses;
Mournfully, slowly they roll, silently swelling and mixing;
With, at times, a half-dimm’d, sadden’d, far-off star,
Appearing and disappearing.

(Some parturition, rather—some solemn, immortal birth:
On the frontiers, to eyes impenetrable,
Some Soul is passing over.)
Danny Beatty Dec 2013
soft bells, all my  soft bells

there, small bird, there
come to me

how nightingale in memory of aloneness does sing
in all its elinesses does ring

here small bird, come into me
how sun crossed by the purple lipstems
goblin flowers sway clasp
                                   brightest horse sun
            your glissando moonfilled eyes'
    soft bells
                          there, small bird
                there come to me
           how nightingale in song does betroth air
                   and when the Winter's children spring    
                                   chorals all death's lies
                                    giggle goblin flowers' hearts
        
                  small birds, gather me
                  come to me I gather your songing furies'
         tender quietude's
                                               soft bells, all my
                                          soft bells
wordvango Nov 2015
may
we all be just chorals just the right rhythm
or floral cadences trying to sing like wind
or a limb breaks in a forest alone and the birds sing of it
and through the forest a murmur hushed to our ears deaf
sounds out loud?
And we sense it
mimic.
Roxx3000 Mar 2019
Am I the only one who sees the truth in people?
Am I the only one who knows ok is not
or a fake soul is easy to spot
Am I the only one who can accept reality?
Am I the only one who knows what is a true friend
and not just an ignorant who goes with the trend
Am I the only one who knows what is right or wrong?
Am I the only one who values my morals
and listen to the peaceful chorals  
Am I the only one who is truthful?
Am I the only one who is an open book
But yet I am still misunderstood
We keep on asking ourselves if I am the only one
When in reality we are non
Lizzie Jan 2021
Whisper away the waves,
Sing slowly to the sea.
Put love in a glass bottle,
And send it here to me.

If other shores should find it,
If it's cushioned in their sands,
I hope the chorals crush it,
Unless it reach these hands.

But what I wish and what will be....
Is chosen by the changing sea.

— The End —