"greyed" poems
*Blue clouds gaze the wrapped sun
frozen kisses in my blood
travelling a thousand miles
to meet up with you.
There is none else walking
down this path where memories
wake up and dance
inside my armored heart.
I peeled off each kisses embrace
out of my parched lips.
I shook off the tree,
where your scent had blossomed.*
***Every step down this scarcely trodden path saw...
Each peel fall with helpless, damsel-like grace.
Brown leaves shone amber touched by fingers of the sun
Invasion of warmth through my greyed bony carapace.
Gentle tremors reverberate within with subtle anguish.
Sweet scented portal that took me back,
To the illusion of time where we once were...
In drunken stupor...laying under a star strewn canvas of black.
Senses that spoke of a great fantastical tale.
You are still here... In this cloying void with no one around...
Only that scent...your scent tugging on my core
Invisible tendrils berthing my feet back on ground.***
*Alone and wanting don't want to be anymore.
I want to feast my lungs on your skin once more.
I want to vibrate under your touch again,
In anguished anticipation and sweet pain.
I hurl your name to the echoing wind,
Blowing ferociously over the closed passage.
Only to find that I'm but elongating
the distance between our fading wishful stars.*
***Fading far only to find that I'm lost yet again,
Still harvesting a basket full of ripened hope.
Traversing planes with warped, slanted doorways,
Frantically seeking purchase on knobs with fevered gropes.
Heavy layered breaths inhaled too shallow...
Tracing missteps to decipher what it all meant.
When all is moot...weary, weathered and futile,
Forever I'll be bathing in the familiarity of your soothing, nectarous scent...***
Dajena M
ryn
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
In tunnelled darks, pastes of reminisce
Outward disjoint points to irrelevance
Spooned and coned in cold mountaintops
The darks of sorrows and trails of struggles
Persistence patterns of self satire in gloom
Sunken in identity crisis of broad oceans
Stormy seas spotlighted by beatific stars
Trajectory of spilled ice in recurrent motions
A mere past cocooned by fears and tears
Clouded in thoughts that cruise and decline
Greyed white imprinted by sudden sadness
Madness echoes on arched ancient bricks
Checkered maniacs of fulfilled passions
Filed and iced in cased prolific memories
Cascades of sunshine tickles to warmth
Orchards of glow that bloom and grow
Picked, ticked and unpacked from boxes
Attacked, nurtured and stored in bliss
Eventful lessons unfolds in untold augury
A mission as the known permeates and fade
Windowed eyes all line up in parade
Mirrored lights digest the haunted haste
A stranger to self, an ally to another
A dance of bright entwine a twist of blur
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
I adored the very action of blowing dust-motes off a box.
Watch it dance in the distilled air.
I like the sight it presents.
One where the past snaps the silence of today.
Slowly but surely
re-etching how much time has passed
on the corners of my bruised heart.
Once, happiness and sweetness, those dust-motes are just greyed out.
They kiss my cheeks and eyelashes.
I never blew the remnants of time again.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC
In My Salad Days
Salad Days
**Wikipedia:
Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.**
~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Salad
Hints of tints of golden
pear skins,
combine with
ruby'd cranberries
each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men,
each wrinkle,
a life's recording.
All are mates for the
marcona almonds
nestling, playing hide n' go seeking
tween silk sheeted leaves of
butter lettuce.
All dressed to the nines,
underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire
marinade.
Coated, bathed, loved,
protected by a vinegar of balsams,
aged grape must, pressed,
a lovely, desirable color,
a brown and bronzed rust,
pressed, then left,
to easy rest for
oh so many years,
like I do, easy resting,
when you feed me in
My Salad Days.
The Days
Though it was a life, decades destructed
Millenniums of de minimus,
Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell,
Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of
Next Year and Jerusalem,
Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting.
Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine
Purposely Spilled,
By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth,
To example, to symbolize that
Messiness in life,
Is O.K.
The Salad Days
Salad served with irony generous,
When beard greyed and scraggly,
White speckled, wisps of sea salt,
All my youthful greenery, long wilted.
Yet the words herein writ are my
Afikomen, my just dessert,
My victory song of Hallelujah
Just before we eat, celebrating
My Feast of Ascension, marking a
Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of
My Salad Days.
It was only when
I was resurrected as two bodies,
A pair of cuffed links coupled,
In My Salad Days,
With the taste of freedom,
A first-born infant survivor,
Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen.
When words fell from smiling lips, and
Rain and tears flew upwards, and
Each and every breath was an
Amen.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
In a white book, writing was done with tears,
And so we cannot figure out a single line;
Memorized and though about since early youth,
It eludes one’s wit even as one has aged and greyed.
When mind seeks it out, love turns up in the heart,
When heart pursues it, love is in the mind, escaping wit.
Regarded at close range, love dissipates,
Leave it aside and love turns sad and grieves.
When loving is intense, love resists the long wait,
Like a lightning bolt, it streaks across the dark.
The kiss that sears is a kiss given only once,
And when the river swell, only once will flooding rise.
Love that is timid is a river still and currentless,
No falls nor torrents, no tears nor unbearable loss!
But when love has dared, the heart is swept away,
Honor, wealth and wisdom, love will drown them out!
When love is yet a bud, it heeds an elder’s counsel,
Such is not yet love, for it still sees the light.
But when it bursts aflame, what matter the universe —
That’s real love, so lose yourself in it with all your heart.
When you balk at the threat of ill fortune and hazard,
Truly your wit is lit and your mind at dull alert;
Your love is cautious yet, you have not
learned to really love,
For once in love, the grave itself is heaven’s gate.
Love has eyes, love is never blind,
having learned to love, one’s wounds turn into blossoms,
Love is selfish and cannot bear to share,
It’s either you get it all, or get nothing at all.
“Mother has been watching me, so I cannot write..”
Friend, that’s a sign you have yet to win her love.
But when she dares write even at her very grave site,
She has come to love you more than her very life.
All you, young people. who are in quest of love,
Moths who are fluttering around the lamplight,
Once in the grip of love, danger you will seek out,
Ready to love your wings to the very flames of love.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
every morning i walk my terrier
through a winding half-mile,
but i think he’s the one walking me:
he’s always in a sprightly haste.
i don’t know how many tail wags
i miss in between slow, drowsy blinks.
elsewhere, the earth is walking her moon,
both zipping around their own usual orbit.
in the city, the suited adults manoeuvre sidewalks,
dispensing brief greetings, sparse on chatter.
punctuality is a battle through suitcase-wielding phalanxes.
overlooking the bustling crossroads, a greyed man sits,
****** from cigar compounding existing inertia.
limbs in inactivity, mind far from monotony,
slowly drifting towards a familiar wraith
in a different hurry: the one for reunion.
i think about us and wish the same.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
Margy shouts her advice from outside Greggs
unsolicited, but often needed
usually it concerns fashion
- the choice of a scarf
- inappropriate shoes for the weather
- or the state of a pair of trousers, hanging and baring a cleavage
(“No one wants to see that, dear.”)
Margy can be relied upon to wear the same distinct socks
– draped around her stocking feet, their multi-coloured design now greyed
by wear and the Uxbridge Road.
Margy is more reliable than her friends and she tells them as much
(“You’re all a bunch of time wasters.”)
demanding more loyalty and demands from me enough for a cup of tea
- a very expensive one apparently.
And on a Sunday, she’ll kneel and pray throughout the early Eucharist,
declining the bread and wine
(”On, no dear. It’s not a habit I want to cultivate.”)
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 3:26 PM UTC
I took my pen
I drew you out
I got you wrong
I rubbed you out
I honed my craft
I tried again
I failed with mine
And then with men
And then with landscapes
Laced with trees
Where others seemed to draw with ease
My lines were sloppy
Colors weak
Your essence greyed
Left incomplete
Dec 20, 2019
Dec 20, 2019 at 4:09 PM UTC
Venus sits below a contrail necklace
whilst the moon above sighs,
a ring around its lips guiding
shoreline ships back home again
to be met by merry wives.
Walking with the swell in their socks
the sailors tread on land,
trembling souls and uneasy hearts
make for nervous hands.
Their faces have greyed under
a stubble mist, grown out of a
no-mirror-broken-razor rage;
to kiss is to make red,
to be back home is to sleep in a bed.
Tight canyon cheeks are stretched-
flat canvas peaks, tanned bronze
by a sun that runs among
northern hemisphere, north-east sheets.
Chipped lips miss the taste of salt
so drink up the malt and take a rest,
not long from now he'll want
his mistress back, the woman
of the swell, this ocean's mademoiselle.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
Mediocre Flow (Spoken Word- Freestyle-Dramatics)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
==Mediocre Flow ==
by
SassyJ
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
(Copy the link below to your browser)
https://soundcloud.com/user-367453778/mediocreflow
In the woods I get lost, arrays of green specked by the rays of the sun. The wind blows but its swift in measure. I get lost my body in the breeze, as the time runs faster I breath slower. Lost in the wonder of the nature. I lay it all down, the worldly desires, disused contributions… all in the mediocre flow.
The grounds feels so alive, alone but never lonely. The trees talk to me, they journey my vulnerabilities. A hug of the branches goes far beyond. The only lean over that drives me to ecstasy of …….my mediocre flow.
All done with expectations and chasing the unending mazes. We become the mistresses of the earth, arching and protracting with emotions, lotions ……looming greyed blues. Hold this packet of stars, I pass it to you to touch, to overflow in it’s magic and fantastic voyages of the. …..mediocre flow
Feel the greenness patched on the muddy grounds. Have the enliven nature of the flying bubble. See the flow of the waters, the contraction of the streams to the lakes. Touch the drops….the raindrops, nurture them as they sink below your feet. Feel the life, feel alive….. the mediocre flow
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 7:42 AM UTC
A laugh is not a pretense
I wanted to tell you that, Urooj
And maybe to myself too
Because I know you saw peeps
Of the vacancy
Nestled in my skin
And I too was acquainted
With your queer sorrow
That rises and falls
With a schedule of its own
We saw the jolly winds flirt with greyed trees
And heard many a strange talks
In golden fields of youthful wheat
And mustard flowers alive
But we ran too, didn’t we?
I pointed to the slender tree far, far away
Count as I go, I said
And count you did as I rushed
Rushed clumsily on
My feet twisting in troughs
Eye-lashes fighting dust
Twenty, you shouted, as the tree grew
But I barely heard
my body singing a battlefield
You stumbled through the ploughed soil
Hardened through suns
Crushing the remnants of harvested wheat
beneath the flat soles of your sandals
(who wears those to a field?)
Then more
Through soft, chestnut soils
Trying not to damage the baby onions
And I laughed through my burning lungs
A smoke piled up in me
Yearning to gnaw all away
And we licked the gusts singing gossips
Of sour, raw mangoes
Then relished the cool water that
You forced the earth to puke
(I still don’t get how that hand-pump worked)
And I know you sneaked along a wilted rose
From your sister’s grave
And wept, quietly sniffing
Seeing her in all the birds I pointed out
All the leaves dried to immortality
In my notebook
I too treaded through rows of childish guava trees
And struggled to will my ghosts away
I too got stranded in the insolent rays
of the dusty sun
But we joked still, didn’t we?
And when, on the way home,
I reminded you stories
Of the silly children we once lived
Your laugh glimmered all around
And mine mimicked
And the radio was ****
So we swam in our own private silences
Got lost in the rowing birds
And I know, at some point,
All the dead days
And all the rotten mangoes
Seated themselves in the car
Along with us and our shackled beasts
And the villages and the stalls and empty fields
Ran past in silence
But we had laughed
When the restless winds nearly sent me
Tumbling down the tree
And we had laughed when
The freshly-watered soil tried
To **** us under
And a laugh is not a pretense
Urooj, a laugh is not a pretense.
I wonder if we know.
May 13, 2021
May 13, 2021 at 10:55 AM UTC
She was stripped and ***** before millions,
but she made herself believe it was not us but few aliens;
why else do you think she stands ***** gathering all her resilience,
to provide us food, oxygen and shelter throughout the four seasons.
Every night, she wonders about her fate at dawn,
Would she be able to greet the sun with that lazy yawn;
Her mates are dead in a battle they had forgone,
Now, she awaits her turn, death is pleasing than being forlorn.
Consumed with fear, the leaves once fresh, now greyed and withered,
She is too pained to decide whether to fight or stay a coward;
Before the first cut of axe, she asks “what have I erred?”,
But we have long since lost our sensitive hearts, her cries are left unheard.
What goes around comes around, do we realize that?
Every tree lost makes the world less amiable to adapt,
having brutally sinned, are we ready to face the impact?
Our acts let them bleed; now let’s get ready to don their hat.
We can’t give birth to a battalion to fight the nature’s army,
Coz our Hitlers and Napoleons are no match for their blazing heat or tsunami.
These are conflicts, which cannot be resolved by a bishop or an attorney,
we are adhered to doom when the nature says “the war is between you and ME”.
The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago; the second best time
is now – a Chinese proverb
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 4:59 AM UTC
When thunder is replaced with the screaming of an unborn child
And clouds choose to rain tears instead
When this dunya becomes a graveyard
And the seven seas give birth to one ocean of death
When the empty stomach of a black coloured men makes for a white supremacist's money bag
And when your lungs are used to carry the ashes of my faithful men
Then don't read to us from tales that greyed out your chest
Read of the walls that collected broken limbs
Read, from heart to chest
Read red to us
Mar 19, 2022
Mar 19, 2022 at 5:48 PM UTC
he leaves his
window open
so the rare
wind whistling by
through a dust-coloured
day; in a
dust-coloured cell
on a dust-coloured
treasure chest lie
his faded blue
attire, worn and
patched by gentler
days,
greyed gracefully
to dusty black;
new wrinkles
on his face
weigh him down;
a faded
treasure chest
stares at a cement
coloured wall
over his head,
and the lonely
voiceless mist,
blinding; hear it
call
to rusty,
dark and sunless
sky, reflected
in his eyes,
when a bright and
impish countenance
eclipses tired
sighs;
the tired rusty
treasure chest
five decades
hibernates,
to feel the stirring
light of grey,
to feel new
hope, awaits
the cold and
stinging storms
that pour, taste
salty youth again;
the dusty
yellow rain boots
melt, ecstatic
in the rain.
T. E. Pyrus
https://lampteacupoverthinking.wordpress.com/
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
He protects his phone
but not his ***
Sitting on a cherry
withered-wood,
it's good to remember
that in December,
he waited for this
tired world, to pass
him by, for his mother
to 'please come home.'
Casper, undercut with curls on top,
plays a greyed banjo while wearing
the green-chestnut flannel his dad
wore before he disappeared into
vermilion sky, only remembered
with lullabies from a hopeful mom
that smelled like Pall-Malls and
factory-soaked-heartbreak.
White, chiseled with skeleton intention,
he sips from within himself,
hoping to harness new direction.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
Roadways have flayed greyed arteries
Into the greenaries of the land.
A kingdom of metallic cities,
An empire built upon shifting sands.
And bombs stain the badlands
In dusty countries far ashore.
It is a time for distractive actions
And a constant state of war.
But what a dull reality!
To focus on the undulations,
The consequences of being free,
The purge of the weaker nations.
For life can be easy
If you live through glossy pages.
The life and lies of a celebrity;
The superficial ages.
A sorry state for families
Who talk only about the weather
And other temporal pleasantries,
On their proud suites made of leather.
Oh, what a poor affair!
Caring more for the clouds above,
Than the climates of our world-weary hearts,
and for all the ones we love.
And lo, we're careless and carefree
for all that does not appear on screen.
They'd gush over some royal baby,
But not pine over the unseen.
Our modern sicknesses
Are conjured and conceited too.
For what value is there in compassion,
If oneself is feeling blue?
Does charity begin at home?
You once said it does nothing at all.
But is home solely what you own,
In a world so close and so small?
These questions are silent,
But they are asked in the thousands.
By all those that are used to deaf ears,
Across all oceans and lands.
To the soft-hearted I call thee,
To not be so stilled and so dampened.
By the weight of the majority,
the crowds of the minds unopened.
And to myself I hope,
That we shall meet dear reader.
Above your recitation of my words,
To something more real,
To something much clearer.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
My mother likes to hang bells
On the front door,
And I always wondered
What they were for.
They would jingle
Whenever someone
made entry,
and glitter
With the light
from the lamppost
On the street.
But they became dull
Hanging all day,
And the giggling clatter
Mulled and dulled
to a brassy bray.
Mom has a small wedding bell
Of a silver boy
Holding flowers
With a smiling grin.
He’s asking her to ring him
And bring back memories.
But father’s guitar glistens
Whilst the sun lays low.
With one pluck
The vibration hums
Smooth and mellow.
But can you hear it
Sitting on the steps?
This house is so large
But there still lays unrest.
And through The corridor
Clacks the patter
Of greyed canine feet.
But some of us
Lay silent
And reap the past
From the sounds
That do dare speak.
the living room clock
Drones with That of a distant chime,
Because the living arrangements
Have changed overtime.
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
“I’m just bored,” she said,
but in reality she was just numb,
she didn’t want to feel;
she lay expressionless,
her hair spilling everywhere.
Her headphones tangled and twisted
to match her thoughts
her mind racing
people called her lazy
a waste of space.
Her books no longer thrilled her
“I read it already”
her music lost meaning
“It gives me a headache”
her sketches greyed
“I ran out of space."
She was bored
tired
not hungry
sleepy
alone.
Hardly anyone noticed her shadow disappearing.
-k.m.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 8:29 PM UTC
I stood in the closed space
trembling all over, cracked
eyelids slowly falling in
deadened existences, somber
cheeks sinking in the air, as
I stared at the shadowed walls,
the Spiderman comforter
covering the stained bed,
a square of Lego blocks,
blue polished tricycle,
game consoles, a spinning
yo-yo that my baby boy
used to hold onto like
he'd discovered his new
best friend. I remember
the days when we used
to watch Recess together,
his bright blue eyes staring
excitedly at the screen,
picture perfect animation
elevating into heightened
equations, ecstatic smiles
and sparkly cheeks. He was
my world, the one that kept
me working hard every day
to make sure he never went
hungry, a shining star in
my dreams that made being
a father the greatest joy.
And some days when I was
in the kitchen fixing his
favorite dish, fried chicken
and crinkled French fries,
I could hear the satisfying
delight in his face. His
exuberant words,
This tastes amazing dad,
as I smiled at him and
thought how lucky I was
to be a part of his life.
And when it came time
to put him to bed, I'd
read, "Life and Dreams,"
his chipper frame smiling
in the moment, seeping
inside the lovely diction.
And as he drifted off to
sleep, I could see his
lips moving at a slow
pace, I love you, dad.
I'd kiss him on his
cheeks and reply,
I love you too
my little man.
Now as I stand here
gazing at everything
surrounding me,
how my life is
screaming inside
and out, harboring
in brokenness, I can
feel the suffocating
breaths in the distance
creeping around me,
a sunken flame
disintegrating into
greyed ashes.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
our most intimate moment in my imagination
is painting poetry onto your moonlight-drenched chest,
hot and writhing underneath me,
mirroring each stroke by tensing the muscles in your abdomen–
your vessel of a body,
becoming frayed and singed at the seams as you
burst.
I never cared much for my words.
when I write them onto my own starved skin,
I find, disappointed, that the greyed valleys are always
a poor substitute for the scorchmarks your fingers
track behind them when we
touch.
but I imagine that
covering your skin in my ink would create a
constructive interference, that
engraving into you my
scarlet-tinged idolatry would cause
our cores like stars inside of us to magnetize –
solar flares erupting, surging through every ****** crevice –
to collide in a kaleidoscopic supernova,
tearing flesh to confetti
in a glorious funeral that reeks of
destiny.
Dec 26, 2020
Dec 26, 2020 at 11:08 AM UTC
Some moments a thought comes -
It’s so much easier just to give up.
So comfy a feeling to visualize
nothing but blank-nothing –
Not to be. Not to think
or feel or breathe. No pressure
to present a concocted identity
one can’t even see that’s not at all me.
No stress keeping abreast of every snippet
of someone else’s reality. No figuring
or wondering or worrying or plans.
Nothing to hope for or hate
or to signify or demand.
No side-eyes screaming "how weird".
No stink-eyes looking to strike.
No evil intentions peering behind
some ignoramus’s unbelievable disguise.
No more fake smiles
and rhetorical "how are you's".
No more seeing wrong numbers
and choosing them too. Absent
anxiety and anger and acrid, stone-cold fear.
Absent color. Absent pattern.
Without texture or taste. No feeling
a thing like the aching of pain.
Some moments a thought comes -
Just end this silly race sooner.
Why stick around any longer
perceiving the same old, unpolished,
frayed and slightly greyed images
on a disappearing, silky screen,
when there is glorious and
unending nothing awaiting
this little, tiny insignificant me.
Jan 22, 2022
Jan 22, 2022 at 9:25 PM UTC
8AM strikes like a *****
And romping the losing street -
The engineered reptile stalks the hound we are.
The soldiered army, oozing molten pride,
Spike me in the side with their knees
Lifted to caution, so-so below the chin
The cold, dead breath bullies like a child
Never been taught, never have they ought;
I give them pity like spit, the drool reared.
The glands of my sodden state are nucleic
They spark and fizz and pop at the slightest fix
And they mount the green turf as they say the things they say
They say them in spite
Their eyes to register a flat-line, the pulse of my eyelid
Froths staring into their granite granules, you call them eyes
I do despise, I do despise,
The heartless range of those hunter-deers,
The wet pathos that criminals invoke
And then, I woke, the rage, the rage!
A mountainous affair, cracked into your skin
You wished I were dead so you could be thin.
And when I am not hot,
Risen, aired by the microwaved Monday dawning,
I can almost laugh about the spaces between your eyes
The slight disgust, the frozen musk
Awns over me, little fist tight of pink
Ears rabbited off -- a sharp, twisted empale
And then, you are there--
Frozen and dominating, your coffin spooks to me
A spoken longing and then all we know wilts
A running red cloak of tartan regrets
Jades the illicit wail bespoken after the instrumental twist
The torture device you call your words is broken out
I ask for one thing, beg for it, screech it
To the solars like I am owed.
Knowing Death, if not heed, the spited greed--
Give me strength, for the thoughts
The thoughts, that blow through me
Windswept, gliding the dead human ash through my marsh
Do not upturn the limped greyed grass
And blow through, a harmless storm,
With nothing to say about how I carry my day.
Move on to your homeward-bound, your
Concentration plantation, reeling off dead spinners
Like your words, your cold ******* words.
You slimy ******* you ****
I have spoken, one million syllables,
For your satisfaction.
You lord it over me like a raw-meat hand
Of the disciples. Well, well, Judas, Judas --
I bite my tongue. I bite it so it jades.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
They’re faded now these shades of grey
bleeding into a brand new day
these reds these blues, these moral hues
they act like clues and tattered cues
telling of a time not here and so distraught and full of fear
it reminds me of these days gone by once full of color now grey to life
and I see now this man I’m not - the one they loved but indeed forgot
as I search this broken fantasy, I learn I plead and hope and breathe
but I can’t be the man they need, to serve under false deity
without understanding this cause for pain, witnessing another day
where faith and blindness share a fate, bound to black and white these shades of grey
you ask me to embrace belief and abandon my neutrality
your guise untrue and fueled by greed, desire, filth and hypocrisy
ask not of me to close my eyes to this world I see of untold lies
through rose colored glasses and a smile so fake, the truth does lie and happiness breaks
I realize now these thoughts so dark, so empty and cold, and contrast so stark
darkened shades, these reds these blues, so greyed out because of you.
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 6:04 AM UTC
Some of her hairs grew longer than the others
In the outline of her silhouette in the afternoon sun
they shined in rebellion
sparse and lovely and greyed with age
I'd never seen a lady move so elegantly
Defying the subtleties that marked her age
She could run and play
And speak and charm
At rest she looked her youngest
She smiled in content as her chest raised and fell
She mimicked a breeze in late spring
In the dawn of the afternoon sun
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
where once greyed the imminent destruction
of silenced, foreign words
now renews the captivating serenity
born once more to the morning light
where the sweet kisses of sun lit drops
torch pale skin that bleed vibrant colours from thinning veins
painting the world anew
the forgotten shades layed to waste
in the land of muted fears
as ardor springs to life
from the lips of my deceiver
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 9:16 PM UTC