"disclosure" poems
This little man that I know with money in his sockets and routine in his pockets has self proclaimed that he is a tight *** When I envision a *** such as this, I imagine a bundle -- of securely aggregated, perfectly sharpened number two pencils. The businessman just shy of adulthood and too tired to remember –even the beginning of his of disclosure, denied his struggle to acclimate a multifarious lifestyle, appropriately suggested in the form of a triangle, and a circle, both of which embody polar opposing adaptations of humanistic routine.
The two shapes: The circle, denies the break in motion by imposing a constant cycle of diligent compression, there is no room for pause only steady flow and relentless drive. This influence of life impression slows down the heart, body, and soul while speeding up time. This particular commitment accommodates the dry colorless beings that embrace and accept boxed imprisonment.
Traditionally, the triangle denotes rhythmic patterns that elevate and drop to a point in which imposes a healthy reflective pause: progression, reflection, balance. As stated, as a provincial approach, a regular triangle flat on its base, peaking at the top represents a healthy, solid life routine. In contrast, the triangle can be flipped upside-down introducing an entirely new dynamic, composed of flat-lined monotony, tapered off to a regressed realm of destruction, regret and disorder. Despite the uniqueness of the standard triangle model to the man in question, it is important to compare the negative reflection, for it applies to the entirety of this investigation.
We used to be lovers, he and I. We shared my giant pillow-top that I bought on the black market for a meager two-hundred fifty. -- A mere steal at that rate.
We occasionally exchanged ideas, mainly about ethical concerns related to globalization and the environment.
I attempted to give him a cooking lesson once, but that failed, indefinitely. The bust was not my doing, but simply, a great disinterest on his part; or better yet an inability of not being better than me at something.
Everything has gotten so crowded.
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 1:17 AM UTC
I stand in the middle of the room
My classmates are commanded to listen to me
I am the 14th person to present and so far, everyone has done a good job
I stand in the middle of the room
I begin to saw the name of my project
“My Poem”
I cannot remember what it was about
I do remember, what I felt
I stand in the room,
Hoping that everyone feels what I felt when I was writing it
I felt excited, my stomach had ‘butterflies’ I think
I felt the heat in my heart and the cold on my shoulders.
I felt the tingles all over my body, and the air escaping me
I stood in the middle of the room
I stand in the middle of the room
I was in the middle of the room and said
“My poem”
I heard a chuckle.
I ignored it because the ‘in love’ heart in my chest was more excited than It should have been
I continues and my voice began to play tricks on me
And the r’s rolled and the words were suddenly in another language
My mind still ignored it and continues
Because I felt I could write, and read this and everyone could love it
I stood in the middle of the room,
I waited for the, applause, the smiles, the congrats, or even a simple ‘good job’ like everyone else
Instead…
My teacher said, work on pronunciation. She said it again. Pro-noun-ci-a-tion
Ok. ‘Work on grammar.’ ‘Work on sentence structure’
“Work on being American” the chuckle said
Or the person who chuckled?
It didn’t mean much, you know
I loved writing so much that it did not matter
I would be a writer, I would continue to
STAND in the middle of the room and share my talent
And when I did, he chuckled
She chuckled, I was Mexican
Not a writer. Writers can’t be Mexican
Unless you write in Spanish and in Mexico
But I was too American for that at this point…
SO the next time I wrote I was ashamed,
Maybe if someone else wrote my writing?
But it didn’t matter,
When the teacher began reading,
The chuckle reminded the class it was the ‘Mexican’ who wrote it
“Mi nina” My mom would say
She reminded me that no only was I Mexican
I was a woman,
Only men thrive in this world
I believed it
And that is why my name is ‘The Voice’
Not my actually name,
Disclosure: I accept criticism on how to better my writing
NOT on what to write or on my background
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 6:40 AM UTC
How can we attain the perspective of the introspective
When detectives aren't respected
By crowds drawn by clowns
Made vicious by the wishes
Of Hades with rabies
In order for humanity to progress
We must all consider our place in society
Emotional disclosure accelerates our human race
Until externalizations halt our momentum
We begin to drift
Discourse drifts toward absurdity
Absurdity drifts toward reality
Reality drifts toward Hell
And accepting reality
Means accepting the bullet's laughter
while it drifts through the innocent
Then we must accept where our souls have drifted
So our minds drift into fantasy
We wrap our abandon ties around our neck
And go to work
We live in a society
Where not giving a **** about what others think
Is actually encouraged
Yes, exchanging ideas can hurt
That's whiplash as we stop drifting and jolt in each other's direction
But communication
Takes detours to dead ends
As honesty and compassion
Elude us
In a self-perpetuating cycle
When education's only purpose
Is learning how to ****** each other
Before we know too much
Our species drifts toward extinction
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
Under
The rule of law
With a great smile
She plays mathematical game.
Sometime,
Adding,
Subtracting,
Multiplying,
Dividing,
Switching
But rarely,
Stopping
On query, she replied
“You are getting pill for”,
Pain
Sleep
Wake up
Dream
Breathe
Smile
Forget, and to
Live
Disclosure
My only drug dealer
My Doctor.
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 6:36 PM UTC
A sigh signals some sort of disclosure.
– glancing over his eyeglass frames
at the slow downward tilt of her chest
her gingham blouse rises again
as she inhales energy for her words,
words intended to clarify or confuse,
he does not know.
His own exhale and a frowning brow
signal that he is listening-
to judge whether her statement
is real or fancy.
Her words a mercury for her mood
no gauge left as he guesses
seeking to understand her,
to crawl through her veins like a virus,
to know her every desire,
every expectation, even every fear.
He is adrift in his own flaws,
unable to grasp precisely her feelings, her expressions.
His distrust is great whether of himself or of her.
Salt honesty with caprice and tasty fare is spoiled.
Gripping the arm of his chair,
muscles straining to lurch forward,
he escapes toward the door
leaving her words
to fill the hollow behind him.
Tomorrow he may choose valor,
today the fear of authenticity scares him to his den.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
Anonymity is an illusion
He tells me.
He tells me,
No-one can remain unknown
On the World Wide Web.
Don't think deletion makes a difference,
Don't think that everything you've ever sent
Received
And posted,
Isn't hosted on a server
Forever,
Awaiting discovery and disclosure.
He could find me in minutes,
He could find me,
If he wanted to.
He doesn't,
But what if he did?
What if he did?
I would feel safer
If I'd posted intimate photos
Or sexted a thousand faceless strangers.
My poems are a diary of my soul,
My hearts' helpless, hopeful blog.
They expose me.
No-one knows me here,
But he could find me,
And he would know.
No-one is anonymous,
No-one is unknown.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 7:48 AM UTC
With the slightest touch I grow wings
And I am able to see the things I couldn't before.
A second chance to grab on with both hands.
I believe everything happens for a reason,
The path of your smile lies in wait.
Finding excess need.
The times I couldn't catch my breath.
The maturity of being open.
To elope in a touch that brings the next moment that much closer.
The pretense of spending my time soaring known that you were the reason why.
The full disclosure of trust in a none apologetic moment.
The only problem is figuring out where we land.
Do we even have to come back.
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 2:47 AM UTC
Mountains
Freshwater creeks
Coach Lambert
Dry Prong
Basketball bus rides
Old Music
Latch Disclosure
Orca whales
Spirit
Openly gay couples
Church songs
Windy plains
Grinding at school dances
Four wheelers
Mr Rodriguez
Cold weather
Snow skiing
Christmas
Fir trees
Canada
Planet Earth Movies
Fizzy Feelings
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
I am a raging fire on the inside and what the
world only sees, a wisp of smoke
emanating through me. Lightning, thunder
crackling on my skin I carve history on streets.
Sneaking quiet tender as a beast,
people bow down to the tremble I speak.
My hair is a string of storm, raising up in
the smell of abhor. My flesh runs in a fire of lava and gold
Fresh and real, like a snake I peel off my skin. Through the ashes I am reborn
I stir and devour men with my breath of smoke
Tingling, Fleeting like bright sun glow, I
I am the revelation of today’s tomorrow.
Scare, beware my lips a poison of reality
Drunk to the liquor of skulls, I am flexed
my body taken from an Agate stone
Sinister smile I am a black onyx erratic and wild
to every screech I keep. My finger on people’s lips
Be still I come revolting crackers in my head
I am the child of love, born with a stone in my bed.
Come all you who dare, eyes like a cat,
I will slit you naked with a stare
I run the city wild, shouting the ecstasy burning beating in my head
those who are laughing think I’m in despair.
Shiver, I fly high, swiftly like a storm, I greet people with a blow.
This is my confession, the true disclosure of lady leo limbo
I am a magic dynamo, those who cut will bleed and disappear in my timid ****
Walk, fly, run with me I’ll tie you in my body, those who whisper my name
I’ll build you a cage and and in my presence, I’ll slowly poison your veins.
Haven’t they told you of my stories,
I am a natural force of misery masked in smooth ivory.
The great fire I hold cuts swifter than a sword.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:50 AM UTC
Like I would wait for the wake
The strike of midnight for ***** sake
Why wait? Mondays are GREAT!
I love Mondays, Everyone can go to hell for all I care
Do not disturb me don't you ******* dare
I look forward to ME TIME with anticipation and great desire
Current thoughts are of the dance floor
Mondays music is loud and proud
I dance my with myself
Full disclosure
I will move the furniture and make more room for sure
I need room to growl and leap and kick
ROLL AROUND & SKIP
Mondays are for FREEDOM
SELF EXPRESSION WITH AGGRESSION
Time for Self reflection
**** with my Monday you face only rejection ; )
I want my Monday I want my Monday
I don't wait I didn't wait
The first Monday hour has been great!
yes I said no to the calls..sorry mates
This is MY MONDAY
My Monday
This is mIne
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:10 AM UTC
Maybe some doubt is exactly what I need;
the staleness may be temporary,
the hollow self-perceived.
I know being humble is exactly what I need;
forgetting who I have been
and seeing who I can be.
Maybe this monocracy is really what I need;
a self-governed dictatorship
that disqualifies my needs.
I hope feeling insecure is exactly what I need;
a push from behind will only make
a non-believer be believed.
But, maybe decision describes my every need;
without the aid of a constant bicker
and without putting off some heat.
I feel that this disclosure
of the real life I should lead,
may bring back the epic epicenters of things I can't believe.
But, maybe it's this doubt
that fringes the end of human being.
Or maybe its the chattering
of hate I've built while teething.
Or maybe its the "no one"
that stands beneath my feet.
Or maybe its the "no one"
that hovers over me.
This is doubt pure and true-
and I know it wants a piece of you.
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 1:38 AM UTC
I knew we were in trouble
when they taught the machines to talk
parliament of artificial owls
nocturnal park line pirates
watch and learn
these conspirators
abduct the listening chair
and strap deniability to
another infernal device
so some hotwired pilgriming woman
possesses superior ****** abilities
and a skill with
the violin, the pointy end
camera is king
yet all the negatives
have been destroyed
still somewhere out there
remains a flash card
and a hybrid set of eyes
watching all the people fall to pieces
we're perambulations around
collapsed buildings,
rather than the collapsing buildings themselves
me and the machine
of contradictions
sick as our secrets
with all kinds of shenanigans going on
welcome to the age of copying minds
onto hard drives and cellphones
a future too heavy to carry
and so we plant it deep into the soil
letting the cables sleep
like fading city lights, receding
like strange fractured reactors
at the edge of the world
in lieu of flowers send hope
Aug 10, 2022
Aug 10, 2022 at 6:37 PM UTC
Topic,
My next project will be
Dissecting ego:
From where it begins
Objectives:
To try to explore, where the seeds are
To unveil who showed it
To confirm if it is heritable?
To witness how fast it grows
Is that us who tame ego,
Or does ego tames us?
Does ego dies before the possessor?
Method used,
Tracking the loud voice
Tracking the grandeur side
Dissecting skin deep
Relating all connections
Exploring circumstances
Done exclusive on humans
Saints excluded
Discussion:
Ego never discuss
It stays ahead
Conclusion:
We are the one
We tame ego
Absolutely acquired
Understanding is the antidote
Disclosure:
None
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 5:43 AM UTC
**They say it's darkest before dawn,
dusky gloom met its match in your shadow
unreality swears by your delusions,
compounded in fear of disclosure
that light at the end of oblivion
took revolution's number nine train**
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 3:37 PM UTC
306
The Soul’s Superior instants
Occur to Her—alone—
When friend—and Earth’s occasion
Have infinite withdrawn—
Or She—Herself—ascended
To too remote a Height
For lower Recognition
Than Her Omnipotent—
This Mortal Abolition
Is seldom—but as fair
As Apparition—subject
To Autocratic Air—
Eternity’s disclosure
To favorites—a few—
Of the Colossal substance
Of Immortality
2.2k
Hugging a wall that is made of brick is a certain projection of an identity which has never been discovered.
Shower your soul with the warmth of French kisses and laugh at those imposed moral rectitudes.
******* bonding is a coercion of unity where aggressive independence lurks on the banks of youthful sexuality.
So, dominance no longer maintains power, and an empty shell of proclaimed significance is now rendered inoperative.
Truth has bared her gorgeous glory, and endless voices of self-disclosure resound throughout the cosmos.
Can you hear them?
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.
In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn't know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.
That's why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,
though its an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.
It's hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,
when so often they're put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.
What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,
who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,
and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,
work at changing his destiny for their convenience?
It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today,
and so you may think that I am only joking
or that I've devised just one more means
of praising Art with thehelp of irony.
There was a time when only wise books were read
helping us to bear our pain and misery.
This, after all, is not quite the same
as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.
And yet the world is different from what it seems to be
and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.
People therefore preserve silent integrity
thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.
The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.
What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry,
as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,
under unbearable duress and only with the hope
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.
1.9k
I am a physician.Last fall, I had a very interesting
conversation with a patient who is a trucker. I asked her if she knew
anything about deep underground military bases, and then I played ignorant
to see what she would say.
Without further prompting, she informed me she is an independent contractor
trucker, driving 18-wheeler rigs cross-country. She said the bases are real
and are located all over the country, "especially under the mountains out
West". She said one of her main contracts over the last few years has been
with DHS.
She said there are underground roads running all over the United States,
connecting the underground facilities.
She said she has personally delivered many truckloads of supplies to the
underground facilities. For each DHS shipment/delivery, there was a stack
of non-disclosure forms about (by her description) six inches thick she had
to sign.
DHS would attach a tracking device to her truck for each of these shipments
and monitor her truck's every move. She would be told where to go to accept
delivery for each shipment. In each case, she would be escorted by guards
"with machine guns" away from her truck, so she could not see what was
being loaded into her rig. The truck would then be locked by a large lock
with a ring 'as big around as your finger", which had to be torch-cut off
at the time of delivery.
When she would make deliveries, often within underground facilities, she
would again be escorted away from the truck by armed guards, the lock would
be cut off, and the goods would be unloaded.
She said the only shipped goods she ever saw in these DHS shipments were
stackable black plastic things that looked like coffins.
She told be the gov't is getting ready for a collapse, which she told be
she expected might happen as early as late 2014.
She also told me she thinks the gov't has just about everything is needs
stored underground, because the number of DHS shipments has been
declining.
I asked her if she would be willing to have lunch with me and tell me more.
She replied, "yes", but afterwards when I contacted her, she had changed
her mind and would not talk further about it with me.
Another pt of mine, whom I saw within about a week of this lady, is a local
trucker, but he told me that he has lots of friends who are truckers, and
through them, he said he had learned that there are "thousands of miles of
underground roads" running across the country, connecting underground gov't
facilities.
He had just recently, in fact, heard among his trucker friends of a
shipment of frozen meat being shipped to one such underground facility,
totaling four million pounds of meat.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
Let us converge on the greatest Garden and then turn to others of meaning and beauty we are so dutiful
To work with family but in the beginning not only clues but evidence shows our great need we need to
With draw walk the garden paths at evening time with our creator father how peace would flow into the
Deepest recesses of our being briars of discontent found today would be changed into focal points of
Clustered flowers to the eye they enthrall with softness their scent infill’s the empty vessel that was
Spilled or intentionally poured out for the help of others with the most soothing rush it flows over the
Whole of you bask in this released treasure and then lift your eyes from His gifts to His lips that are
Speaking to you never have you partaken or been to the inner and outer most part of yourself with total
Disclosure confusion pain and alienation lift as a soiled garment the refreshing sweeping breeze carries
Torment out to sea the moist outer banks flood in as a great mist you are at once bound and beaming
With the knowledge that you are a most valuable person He addresses yourself aberrations that
Demean your true worth so it lies in all men and women the tell tale accuser the discomfited not from
Friend’s family or stranger did not William say it so truly “to thine own self be true” we are most cruel to
Ourselves this trait is vanquished when we are in the very presence of all consuming love he looks inside
At every hurt you see through His eyes and there is no complaint or accusation just acceptance faraway
Longings surprisingly touch and fill attending sorrow that baffled with a consistency how it unerringly
always found the mark it never missed your heart now by the touch of His hand
On the side of your face an erasing a newness of promise was put in its place how your smile told an
Outward story of the final removal of trepidations that were corrosive and were clay like that stuck and
Clung to your soul creating a heaviness and depression now the freeing bouncy love dispels the darkest
Apparitions that are lies that fight your best and highest interest what was the word that said moving
Mountains yes the heights and lows are neutralized now joy peace is at flood stage all it took was a stroll
In the garden
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 1:07 PM UTC
i’m the man who’s gonna wake up next to you
slipping away, a non-starter, her leg crosses over mine,
a right sided shakedown shackle, adhesion flesh as
tough as old yellowed scotch tape sticking stuck
no escaping, a known 6:00am risk when you sleep with
a pre-advertised holy roller, twist and turner woman,
making you into an unofficial woe-man (too)
left hand grabs the lamenting instrument, the beat up iPad,
to record your enslavement, a distraction from the bladder’s
faint morn winking at you with a Cheshire grin, muffling a
chuckle, at a predicament wonderful familiar, but unresolvable
this situation, a category of life’s small measure of annoyances,
invokes the wordy title, and a write-down list of pluses and minuses,
which I’ll spare which o’witch be the longer list
poems are where you find them, under your nose,
looking out a city bus window, but sometimes like flypaper,
they just come unasked and stick to you, the separating of the skin,
like a too tight bandaid, ain’t worth the pain and freedom gained
later, share this missive and her suggestion, she will prepare an
NDA (a non-disclosure agreement) or adopt other strategies like
pushing me out of the bed without warning when i am typing ,
to witch and to wit, reply,
ah!
another poem commissioned, and
*perhaps, name change too, needed,
making love in the morning*
12/14/19
Dec 14, 2019
Dec 14, 2019 at 1:40 PM UTC
By Arcassin B & Creep
::AB::
Same thing happens every other time,
Blue mist in the grape vines,
Holy cross played a part in my blurred lines,
But love the hatred is a crime,
That's a hate crime,
::CTLY::
But with repetition of actions,
Comes a pulse within,
Hate crime or not.
It dances like lights
On cerulean waters,
Emotion on faces,
::AB::
But there is no justice,
So what are we fighting for,
Law enforcement do nothing,
But even the score,
Like why do you have that badge for ?
::CTLY::
The badge?
Nothing but a show
Of power over the people.
We are young!
We will not be contained!
We refuse to let our wings be clipped,
We shall fly!
::AB::
Same thing happens over and over,
Maybe some need for disclosure,
Better quit while your ahead,
Like they told ya,
Or you'll end up in exposure,
The pigs,
Better look for closure,
::CTLY::
But exposure is what is needed.
We need to be stripped of
These styrofoam wraps
That suffocate us
Slowly, surely.
They will **** us in the end.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 2:12 AM UTC
How can I ever explain it?
Not without a full disclosure
I will tell you every bit
Your kindness to which I demure
Soldiers fight their own private war
Mine to protect the Hill Tribes
Willing to suffer all the gore
All credit to them I ascribe
Upon arrival in Da Nang
I gathered my field gear and rifle
A mission with Colonel Vang
Preparation seemed but a trifle
My kind mountain Hmong Tribal ladies
Give a great gift to me, your sons
I will escort them through Hades
I'll teach them to ****** with guns
Wet their tongues in cobra's blood
I have come to save you from doom
The coming communist red flood
Boys already made their own tomb
We shall fly the flags of the Hmong
We'll rally boys from the villes
We must slaughter the Minh and Cong
The Hmong will have their own Bastille
I will take a dragon to wife
Boys will nurture in her foul breath
They will worship their ****** knife
We'll dance the ritual of death
I’m the lost soul forest monster
Others have come before today
They are pathetic impostors
We will flow through the night to slay
Other boys born beneath the palm
They have come to steal your life's breath
It's them that we target to bomb
I'll walk among you as Macbeth
My Duncan is among your kin
Banquo will haunt me til I rot
I will be fixed with mortal sin
Unable to wash away the spot
I will hide my hands from Odin
A conundrum in which I'm caught
Future will be among the Jinn
My destiny from this foul plot
Your sons buried in sacred ground
They'll not be stained with my darkness
Peace for them will be so profound
How many thanks can I express
Those boys in valor's selfless crown
From gallantry, their future gone
Sins I keep and can't beat down
For many years, I must atone.
I, far removed from battles roar
Do fondly remember those boys
Their smiles and laughter before
Stand out among life's greatest joys
No more the fierce warrior am I
Just an old man with memories
I am needing to just say goodbye
And maybe, maybe my conscience appeases
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
Providence summons
Natures purchase,
Beyond prosaic
Utility, toward
Communion.
Austere terrain,
Ice crystal, Dust –
covered
Haunt.
Divine disclosure,
Epiphany;
Ourselves -
Carnal cisterns of spirit
Enfleshed
Skin; merging
Luminous,
Savouring,
Design
Ordered by love.
©2012 W.S. Warner
Aug 5, 2012
Aug 5, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
~
the word flows off
the tongue with ease;
say it softly...
slowly please,
...dis-co-ver-y...
disclosure of illusory,
pursuit of the elusory;
the uncovering of
buried secrets, dark and deep,
quiet whispers, soft and sweet;
an unveiling of
the here-to-fore unknown,
illuminating darkened hallways,
where footsteps lead us
to a place where all is shown.
in life it is the quest,
explorer’s zeal
that will not rest;
in love it is
the unknown song...
to give it notes and lyrics,
time and tune
which leads to
melody and harmony.
in my time,
adventures...
i have known a few;
have sought to parse the lines
’tween false and real.
but no adventure
will replace
the one that beckons,
outstretched finger,
stares me solemn, in the face
each morning ’fore the mirror;
though the outer i may tend,
it's the inner to consider;
for to know oneself,
a journey long,
a venture of
mountaineering magnitude,
where the weak may hopeful start,
but summiting rewards
reserve remittance
to
those valiant souls,
whose inner spirit
strength imparts.
’tis not the heart,
in love to conquer;
but ’tis one’s trust instead,
faith the mountain holds
rope and feet steadfast,
finish line within
one's grasp.
faith the flame will never die
illuminate the corridors
that lie behind the locks,
the gates, the doors,
that live inside one's head.
to let another in
this place of buried pain,
of innocence gone by,
where dreams once flourished,
so oft lay dying, dead,
this secret place where we reside
the seat of all we were and are,
again will one day be;
this where needed trust,
gently to encourage,
carefully to nourish;
these the fields
of possibilities,
of hope, beliefs,
of budding dreams;
to be uncovered,
be unearthed,
love’s encounter,
tongues to loose,
await the brave and wise,
the strong discoverer,
unafraid to learn the truth.
~
*post script.
discovery...
surprise not its intent, yet may be
its greatest blessing, and accomplishment!
a favorite blessing of mine to bestow on marrying couples,
"may your discovery of each other,
never end, or fail to delight;
and return to you the wonder,
of first love and of first sight and light!"
to you, the reader, fellow sojourner,
may you never cease to discover each other!*
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 2:14 AM UTC