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Maple Mathers Jan 2016
She frolicked through trouble, and dandled with mischief. Alison Wonderland; everything I wished I was and so much more. Ever emanating her doe-eyed façade; proclaiming our jests mere “mischief.”
Yet, an unspoken verdict (Foretaste? Conception? Notion?) had cloaked the truth: wickedness rippled beneath our parade.
I nuzzled her contours; my peripheral eye – nailed to her profile, her blueprints, her chassis. I stalked her mirage – dancing with vapor.
She glissaded about, no fool to my truth, varnishing my mantle.
I belonged to Alison: perpetually at her side. Our couplet became a “we.” So, We regretted nothing. We veered for the pyre: caroming(skimming?) those embers alit with vice.
She narrated my mental seminar. Discarding my dogmas to uphold her own; and thus, my mind was hers.
My mind was her mind.
Alison made heads turn, and mouths water, as we sidled – hand in hand – down the street. She was my Christmas morning: each colloquium – giftwrapped with finesse. She personified paradise, she illustrated utopia. Hatching our Carnival; netting us, enamored, sidling the Carousal. We’d skim, we’d sail, her halo – my fossil. Her lips, her eyes, her hands… they echoed the innocence of a child. Niave, innocent, and giftwrapped in wonder.
Little Miss Wonderland: my very own fairytale. She was mine alone; she was mine to keep.
Did I want her, or did I want to be her?
Alison Wonderland.
Her aura – so celestial – paralleled my prose. When she banished my husk – Maple Thatcher – I cackled good riddance… And I grew a new personality to accommodate her own.
For, without Ali – devoid of our we – I doubted the very existence of me.
On my composition, she bestowed rhythm. She gave tune to my silence; her chimes, her cadence. My ink was her song – fusing a symphony. A symphony of Alison: the melody to solidify our tryst.
My mind was her mind.
And yet… somehow, I missed a carriage – or two – aboard her train of thought. For, the same felon spiting my existence, was the angel I loved to life. Gladly, I huffed, and I puffed, and I blew Maple down.
Fused against Alison, I needed none of Maple.
Carnival infatuations…

Alison Wonderland.
(Carnival Infatuation)

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016.)
Tenant Nov 2020
Composium ode to ye
Symposium of conformity
Stand up on thee podium for said
colloquium.
Oh please give me some *****
Or petroleum, maybe plutonium?
CARPE DIEM!
Like a hockey team,
accomplishing the American dream.

CARPE COLLOQUIUM!
Like Napoleon,
giving a speech to defeat the Mongolian.

CARPE VINUM!
Like a forgotten man's byname,
stumbling aimlessly when it's always been within his brain.

CARPE NOCTEM!
Like a relentless cricket's chirp,
always ready to exhibit pounding energy without limit.

CARPE DIEM!
Seize the day, today,
for yesterday cannot be replayed.
Norbert Tasev May 2020
Based on our timing, I don’t remember if it was possible to change things: Perhaps hard-won, blind-biased prejudices, cheap morals eroded the poetics of honest student faces: Ignorance is also affordable with knowledge! - perhaps a line of wise prophets hid and surrounded themselves, and the Truth could only listen in their hearts! And as a decipherable secret figure is a eloquent hieroglyph: Hopeless tangles and tears stretched out on people's faces.

that the myriad of literature, studies and books could all be futile tests of the ladder's knowledge! Maybe everyone was just waiting for the other, asking to have a confidential advocate, a beautiful testimony that they could still have the sure, happy “Few”. He was himself among the great colloquium and the rift

the unbreakable standstill: the voice of the prophets was heard by the Spirit at the time — yet elsewhere it could have been just the Essence — the Judgment has thickened into a judgment: Your voice, your physique tub, must go, so can you! The dynamic, overstretched air has made everyone nervously upset, ruined!

He saw and knew obligatory teaching materials in the crossfire of common sense and interrupted, inquisitional gazes, a torn redemptive moment. - And although we always cheered two steps ahead of Chess and Matt to be different - Our fate was still common, like the sword of Damocles (petty) hovering over our heads in a duel that could easily be sacrificed over our heads. I was a silent flint in combat and passive resistance,

and I may have been the sharpening dolomite of sabers. "From now on, the world lived from this, the barriers of common sense fell apart outside us," there was no repayable, retaliatory punishment, and punishment! At our feet, the trampled, ruined Beautiful Hopes were dying: None of us said, only the Silent, that the possible Tomorrow would dawn, according to our time.
Norbert Tasev Apr 2020
Neither fatherly deserved praise nor the babbling of brownish deer lashes could get us. My friend! Only oily bounces of the overstretched rope nerves, and the prejudiced humiliations of the failed exams and colloquium exams: It was the sinners who could not learn enough! You have recovered in your bravery - I have remained hopeless! - We're still standing

in the uncertain grips of the future, and we cannot know whether our Tomorrow will be spiced with uncertainty of existence? What we can do: We mingled in the crossfire of questions between nodding and good pouting bulls, our persuasive word preached by forbidden taboos! In the imaging, lying tunnels of appearance and hypocrisy, we wrapped Ariadne's threads, and in the fate of our excessive brevity, we were often trapped within the walls of a maze wandering into heirs!

We could have neither our honor nor our credit, nor our courage as a pillar of bridges - for you know well: If we spoke True, Brave, Ingenious, we have cut off our further path! We’ve been kicked into a lot of ordeal, and the ivory legacy of knowledge has been guarded as a choir of guardian angels lurking secretly with scorching eyes!

"Now that we've somehow trampled on the upper brain palletization of mutual betrayal, the ancestor of the compromise flickered." - No secure livelihood, no family, no consolation, motherly kills; swaying in forgiveness: Now, marching among the Congolese mountains of silence, all I can do is observe what he has done with his mutual transgression, his betrayal, in order for Man to have a yew-flowered career.

— The End —