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wandabitch Oct 2012
In the night, those shadows come alive. So little do i know about this heavy doubt.
Cold wind biting the heart. Trying to figure out where I've been.
Dark winter pulls me closer, now theres a place i'm thinking into the air.
A voice calling, "Who knows but that which seems omitted today, waits for tomorrow?"

Nothing is as it seams, just as beauty leans from the earth in a sunset--a harp for the soul to sing.
But You are life and you are the veil.
Beauty is eternity gazing at her self
But you are eternity and you are the mirror.
And if you want to know truth retire of solving riddles.

We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way,
begin no day where we have ended another day;
and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us.
Even while the earth sleeps we travel,
back into dreams.

Ay, my bow rests on my chest.
There is the flame spirit among a starry mountainside.
Oh it was but yesterday we met in a dream. You watched as I built a ship towards your shore.

My spirit goes wandering upon the wind, off to the desert sands, deep beneath the ocean's sound.
I am the gypsey and the fortuneteller, liken an honest thief. No I'm the myth builder and dream master.

who laughs with me when I destroy,
the sand castles of my innocence. The
sun warming my back just as the wicked, and drawing my image locked in a shadow.

Here the soul a battlefield, where
reason and passion become one.
they are the sails of my seafaring soul.

There I found the naked body of my dreams, in silent sleep my spriit walked the path.
I am the star-gazer who feels the power of endlessness, Aware of timelessness and
neverending space. The love in me still
present amidst the scattered fires that
burn in black ink.

Just as the caveman draws his fears on lost walls, speaking of misfortune and
treasures gallore.  A fantom ghost in Hade's Fate.
Now my ship wanders forever on a pearlous course but never sinking.
Terry O'Leary Oct 2013
The Bishops bathe in Babylon
while Princes, prancing on the lawn,
watch Queen deflowered, pale and wan.
            The King dares not defend her.

The Horsemen, holding broken reins
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
sigh “it’s no use, it’s all in vain,
            the Saints will soon surrender”.

They wonder why they ever came,
they have No One whom they can blame,
they have no face, they have no name,
            and even less, a gender.


The empty-handed Vagabonds
smoke stale cigars, stroke faded Blondes
while waiting at the walls beyond,
            but kneel as Chaos enters.

They’re gazing through the window panes
in hopes that distant Hurricanes
will twist and break their iron chains
            defying life’s tormentors.

The Fantom of the Opera frowns
as feeble minded Cleric-clowns
mouth hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds
           when blessing doomed dissenters.


The Pirate wields a wooden leg,
with pupils dull and visage vague,
and if by chance he spreads the plague,
            it really doesn’t matter.

His Princess, pale, no longer feigns,
foresees instead (down ancient lanes)
the coming of the Hurricanes -
            the Stones stir, staring at her.

And Jackals scrape the river bed
as Savants soothe the underfed
and Crows, collecting scattered bread,
            adorn, with crumbs, the platter.


The Jokers Wild and One Eyed Janes
weep, winding up in rundown trains
mid whispers of the Hurricanes,
            and Priests refuse to christen.

They’re fleeing from the Leprechauns,
the cuckoo birds, the dying swans;
while pitching pennies into ponds
            their eyes opaquely glisten.

The spectral Clocks with spindled spokes
remind the Mimes to tell the  Folks
the time of day and other jokes,
            yet No One looks to listen.


The Hunchbacks with contorted canes
galumph before the Hurricanes,
in melted sleet, in frozen rains,
            in bruised and battered sandals.

Their Groans engulf the land of gulls,
the land of stones, the land of nulls,
and lurk between the blackened lulls,
            for Nighttime brooks no candles.

Their prayers to Dogs and Nuns and Dukes,
(and other long forgotten Spooks)
are more than random crazed rebukes,
            though taunting to the Vandals.


The Beggars ’neath the balustrades,
and broken Children, Chambermaids,
are running wild from wraiths, afraid
            of dreams where death redoubles.

They fritter time with tattered threads
(from ragged clothes they’ve left in shreds),
crocheting hoods to hide their heads
            and faces, full of rubble.

But many things will not remain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with cool champagne
           evaporate in bubbles.


The White-Robed Maid adorns the trash
with charnel urns awash in ash,
then fumbles with an untied sash
            while pacing in the Palace.

Her hopes congeal in coffee spoons
with memories adrift in dunes;
yet, still she smiles with teeth like prunes
            and lips of painted callus.

And long before the midnight drains,
the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains,
the waters of the Hurricanes
            will fill her empty chalice.


The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
            the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)

is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and the Four-Inch Queen,
pick up the shards and smithereens
            of moments lost or stolen.

They’re trekking through the Dim Domains
(where fountains weep, the mountain wanes),
yet can’t escape the Hurricanes
            with trundling eyes patrollin’.


The Crowds (arrayed in jewels) in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails
while light behind their eyeballs pales
            with plastic flame that sputters.

They huddle there because they must
(with eyelids hung like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust),
            behind the bolted shutters.

They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
            and overflow the gutters.
Evan Ponter Sep 2014
you're a vestigial appendage
like my appendix

you are there
but you don't do anything for me
you just are, there

i wouldn't die without you
you're not necessary, necessarily

i can't live without you
you're a part of me, partially

you're so significantly insignificant and essentially unessential
we are potentially going to have to end it
we have potential — "no" — lets end it

i'm so happy i never get to see you
i'm so unhappy you called
you're like a fantom vibrate
i can't believe you actually called

we're a vestigial appendage
like an internal hemorrhage

holding onto what's healthy and alive
dig it out like a cancer
bury it deep inside
Some stupid ******* ******* once said "absence makes the heart grow fonder." A romantic way to articulate the effects of distance on love itself. What fails to be portrayed is that many times miles can make or break even the most durable of couples. Enough to where you can do nothing about the feeling of dead inside. Nothing besides dig it out like a cancer. This is my biopsy.
Caroline Lee Apr 2016
and now we are here
starring at each other from across a table
a healthy divide between who I am
and everything you thought I should be
all the idealistic pictures you used to paint of the pronoun you exalted as the fantom:
'we'
all the messes we made and the even messier nights are on the table too,
I didn't forget one word.
and I know you didn't either.
and I might be sorry for talking **** and trashing the way you seemed to adopt every part of me
I might be sorry for making you cry that night I pulled away because I was breaking and you couldn't see outside of your own skin long enough to realize what your use of the weight of your skull and who's shoulder you carelessly used to prop it up for no reason at all was doing to me
what it did to me
I know what I did to you, just because I did something for me
I listened to you cry from the bunk bed below alone and tired in your forand now we are here
starring at each other from across a table
a healthy divide between who I am
and everything you thought I should be
all the idealistic pictures we used to paint of the plural pronoun you exalted as the fantom 'we'
all the messes we made and the even messier nights are on the table too
I didn't forget one word
and I know you didn't either
and I might be sorry for talking **** and trashing the way you seemed to adopt every part of me
I might be sorry for making you cry that night I pulled away because I was breaking and you couldn't see outside your own skin long enough to realize what your use of the weight of your skull and who's shoulder you carelessly used to prop it up for no reason at all was doing to me,
what it did to me
I know what I did to you just because I did something for me I listened to you cry from the bunk bed below alone and tired of trying to understand my ever changing disposition
And I too, was tired.
I was tired of you trying to keep me warm
I felt like **** but it ended up okay because you returned the favor two months later at my 18th birthday party
only I had a shoulder to cry on
and I should have seen it then but I didn't forgive you all those times I could have sworn I did
on my knees in the sanctuary begging a higher power to take the anger from me
I swore I never wanted to hate you but **** it maybe I did
fingers crossed dressed all white at the funeral
I always savored your spirals
but I'm moving on from that
and after three good ******* years of on and off behavioral tendencies
reevaluations and disconnects and fear of all that you saw in me
I'm not afraid anymore to say that there isn't any 'we'
at least not in the way you said it would be
and I don't want to pretend that I'm heartbroken over it
though I used to loose sleep at night
I don't want to pretend like there's still something here
moving on finally feels right
as we ******* over a couple cups of coffee I can see clearly that we are not the same and that we will never be
but you just keep on talking about your job and about the road trip that we'll never take and how good it feels for everything to be 'okay'
back in the old cycle of recycling the same five conversation topics trying to grasp at a singular old flame
a spark of the easy days
but all I can think about is how I've changed
I'm not the same
and the divide is clear
but here we are anyway.
Looking back but moving on.
Anuoluwapo Feb 2016
Recognise me when my face can't fantom a smile.
Recognise me when I pull my sleeves down.
Recognise me when I hide behind baggy clothes.
Recognise me when my mood changes too quickly to be normal.
Recognise me when I'm drowning without water.
Recognise me when I'm crying deeper, spiritual tears.
Recognise me when I'm hurting, hurting even myself.
Recognise me when I'm tired, almost everyday.
Recognise me when I don't care anymore.
Recognise me, recognise the help I need.
Help me.
Mariah Fairre Oct 2013
9:51am Sunday, May 5th, 2013
I wake up to the sound of rain.
With my eyes closed I listen to it drum against my window,
And I listen to his steady breaths.
With my head on his chest I can feel his heart beat,
And I feel his hand on my bare back.
And in this moment, this perfect contentment,
I know that I love him.
And in this moment, this pure and quiet joy,
I feel as though I'll never be alone.

8:05am Tuesday, October 8th, 2013
I wake up to the sound of rain.
With my eyes still closed, I listen to it drum against my window.
And I swear I can almost hear him breathing,
Can almost feel his heart beat,
And his fantom hand on my bare back.
And I cling to the memory of this moment,
Trying desperately to delay the pain.
And I brace myself for the moment,
When I will wake up alone.
Maria Mitea Jan 31
My love,
it might seem strange our encounter, and
the words that move the air like an earthquake, from north to south,
                                                          ­                              south to north,
bathing the stars,
and the stars aligning the sounds.


I will tell you more about Snow Town, but you tell me about your heart,
                                                          ­                dreaming of going up north,
where saddened icebergs are melting in the eyes of the ignorant:
- can you hear how hungry white bears are screaming for help,
drowning with their babies.

Do not cry, my love, we still have the old mail post box,
monarch butterflies are bringing me letters from you,
the owls are watching every move
and the turtles
                          keep moving for hundreds of years
                                                           ­   and never get tired.

We are so lucky, my love, so fortunate,
what else we can do if we are made for love, like butterflies.

Tell me, that no land can be more ready, dry-cold-hot
                                than the pole-north & chihuahua desert,
two lovers that only can dream of ice shadows, and the fantom of Georgia O'Keeffe, our mother, still, painting roads in the snow for the blind one,
calling them home.
Aine Mar 2018
As days moved forward

our bodies became one

the eyes led the ears

the ears led the tongue

the tongue traced the parts that were locked away from everyone,  
and uttered words that awoke the skin

the skin brought a rush that moved mountains

pleasure not easily forgotten
and sent us straight into euphoria

and no one ,

No one could fantom the thought that
we were once strangers

because we were perfect strangers
Juju Sep 2017
Ever listened to song,
Or sound.
Once liked.
Now festered with new meaning.

Tendrils snaking to your heart,
A piece of the world you no longer wish feel.

Yet it hurts to turn away.
To turn away from the truth.
Behind the song:
A real piece of this world,
You can no longer touch.

A fantom limb,
A cursed itch.
Across your heart,
A deep unhealed cut
Quiet Rose Feb 2018
In my reflection
All I see
Is a lost girl
Trying to find her way
A lost girl that is constantly being reminded
Of everything bad in her life
A girl that is hiding behind a fantom
Nothing more than a girl
That is alone
And afraid

My reflection is full of hate
It hates me just as I hate it
My reflection tries to look good
My reflections tries to like me
I try to like my reflection
I wish my reflection would change
And be pretty for once

A broken mirror
Shattered into pieces
Glass everywere
I am happy now
I don't have to see my relfection
My lost girl
My ugly side
My lost hope to be...
Pretty
Tracey Nov 2019
Saints bow to the hell that rides inside her veins
sinking teeth deep within white weak flesh
licking the coma from lifeless blank eyes

Dying to consume the succulent
his **** gets hard...while ***** fill
with ache and memory

Sip from the lava of Kali
wet your mouth while drinking her in
and you will never thirst again

All she wants is for you to spread her legs
force her hips up and ****** hard into her secrets
****** hair in hand while the smell of blood and sweat fills the air

Wet ******* glisten...
teasing you, tempting you
begging for release of that warm seed
fantom touch

...She walks on fire just for you
could you throw the ***** some water~
Tracey Sep 2020
Saints bow to the hell that rides inside her veins
sinking teeth deep within white weak flesh
licking the coma from lifeless blank eyes

Dying to consume the succulent
his **** gets hard...while ***** fill
with ache and memory

Sip from the lava of Kali
wet your mouth while drinking her in
and you will never thirst again

All she wants is for you to spread her legs
force her hips up and ****** hard into her secrets
****** hair in hand while the smell of blood and sweat fills the air

Wet ******* glisten...
teasing you, tempting you
begging for release of that warm seed
fantom touch

...She walks on fire just for you
could you throw the ***** some water~

— The End —