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ConnectHook Dec 2017
Children drugged with truthless tales . . .
Unwise men embrace their treasure;
Algorithms urge the sales
In malls devoid of merry measure.

Plastic sparkles in the air;
Automotive ads turn festive . . .
Forced good nature everywhere
Makes the shopping crowds grow restive.

Corporate greed spins altruistic
Hyping goods, suppressing Christ.
Our Yuletide is their big statistic
Oversold and underpriced.

Secular beribboned fluff:
Peace, Goodwill . . .  but don't say God !
And heaven knows you've had enough;
Just download the app—acquire the mod.

Coca-Colaed, Disneyfied
You're wrapping paper for their fire;
Eggnogged, Santa-ed, thrown aside
While Babel's flames roar ever higher.

The godlessness shines right on through
Where Christmas lyrics die, unheard.
The Yule-log and the sparks that flew
Expire in embers long unstirred.

The old usurper carting toys
And Chinese knock-offs in his sled
Sets off a lot of empty noise:
Insanity in green and red.

The lurker leers and hauls his bag
(jolly antichrist distraction)
While flying Bishop Nicholas' flag:
A winter psy-ops covert action.

Only message left: go drink!
And may your cup o'erflow with cheer
Before you risk to start to think
Yourself and God right out of here.

Hallmark haloes, bygone kitsch
enwreaths the memory of the years,
Kindling maudlin sadness which
wells up in melancholy tears

For Christian culture (rest in peace)
Long-corrupted by dollar signs;
For fa la la and fattened geese
And holly midst the ivy vines;

For Dickens' gospel of the season
Anglican angelic ghosts
Pushing us beyond unreason
Toward the future's spectral hosts;

For folklore now reduced to ash
Commercial blow-outs, ***** snow;
For Saturnalian urge to smash
the store-front windows where they show;

For useless manger figurines
Passed down from some more faithful time;
For hallowed and nostalgic scenes
No longer worth a Roman dime.
I still love Christmas but its ongoing commercial secularization by corporate globalists makes me retch (into my mulled wine).

Nonetheless, like Scrooge, I intend to keep Christmas well.
By the way, that's Merry CHRISTmas.
(No Christ, NO CHRISTMAS)

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2017/12/19/christ-massed/
One thing I know
There are angels among us
Those who would save us
From the beast of ourselves

Those beings with haloes
And wings on the wind
The ones who would save those
Who can't be alone

The angels that I know
Earning their wings
Speeding to heaven
Riding the wind
Spanish

    –Eros: acaso no sentiste nunca
Piedad de las estatuas?
Se dirían crisálidas de piedra
De yo no sé qué formidable raza
En una eterna espera inenarrable.
Los cráteres dormidos de sus bocas
Dan la ceniza negra del Silencio,
Mana de las columnas de sus hombros
La mortaja copiosa de la Calma
Y fluye de sus órbitas la noche;
Victimas del Futuro o del Misterio,
En capullos terribles y magníficos
Esperan a la Vida o a la Muerte.
Eros: acaso no sentiste nunca
Piedad de las estatuas?–
    Piedad para las vidas
Que no doran a fuego tus bonanzas
Ni riegan o desgajan tus tormentas;
Piedad para los cuerpos revestidos
Del armiño solemne de la Calma,
Y las frentes en luz que sobrellevan
Grandes lirios marmóreos de pureza,
Pesados y glaciales como témpanos;
Piedad para las manos enguantadas
De hielo, que no arrancan
Los frutos deleitosos de la Carne
Ni las flores fantásticas del alma;
Piedad para los ojos que aletean
Espirituales párpados:
Escamas de misterio,
Negros telones de visiones rosas…
Nunca ven nada por mirar tan lejos!
    Piedad para las pulcras cabelleras
–Misticas aureolas–
Peinadas como lagos
Que nunca airea el abanico *****,
***** y enorme de la tempestad;
Piedad para los ínclitos espiritus
Tallados en diamante,
Altos, claros, extáticos
Pararrayos de cúpulas morales;
Piedad para los labios como engarces
Celestes donde fulge
Invisible la perla de la Hostia;
–Labios que nunca fueron,
Que no apresaron nunca
Un vampiro de fuego
Con más sed y más hambre que un abismo.–
Piedad para los sexos sacrosantos
Que acoraza de una
Hoja de viña astral la Castidad;
Piedad para las plantas imantadas
De eternidad que arrastran
Por el eterno azur
Las sandalias quemantes de sus llagas;
Piedad, piedad, piedad
Para todas las vidas que defiende
De tus maravillosas intemperies
El mirador enhiesto del Orgullo;

Apuntales tus soles o tus rayos!

Eros: acaso no sentiste nunca
Piedad de las estatuas?…

              English

    –Eros: have you never felt
Piety for the statues?
These chrysalides of stone,
Some formidable race
In an eternal, unutterable hope.
The sleeping craters of their mouths
Utter the black ash of silence;
A copious shroud of Calm
Falls from the columns of their arms,
And night flows from their eyesockets;
Victims of Destiny or Mystery,
In magnificent and terrible cocoons,
They wait for Life or Death.
Eros: have you never perhaps felt
Piety for the statues?
    Piety for the lives
That will not strew nor rend your battles
Nor gild your fiery truces;
Piety for the bodies clothed
In the solemn ermine of Calm,
The luminous foreheads that endure
Their marble wreaths, grand and pure,
Weighty and glacial as icebergs;
Piety for the gloved hands of ice
That cannot uproot
The delicious fruits of the Flesh,
The fantastic flowers of the soul;
Piety for the eyes that flutter
Their spiritual eyelids:
Mysterious fish scales,
Dark curtains on rose visions…
For looking so far, they never see!
    Piety for the tidy heads of hair
–Mystical haloes–
Gently combed like lakes
Which the storm’s black fan,
Black and enormous, never thrashes;
Piety for the spirits, illustrious,
Carved of diamonds,
High, clear, ecstatic
Lightning rods on pious domes;
Piety for the lips like celestial settings
Where the invisible pearls of the Host gleam;
–Lips that never existed,
Never seized anything,
A fiery vampire
With more thirst and hunger than an abyss.
Piety for the sacrosanct sexes
That armor themselves with sheaths
From the astral vineyards of Chastity;
Piety for the magnetized footsoles
Who eternally drag
Sandals burning with sores
Through the eternal azure;
Piety, piety, pity
For all the lives defended
By the lighthouse of Pride
From your marvelous raw weathers:

Aim your suns and rays at them!

Eros: have you never perhaps felt
Pity for the statues?
a memory
yes
but after
yes
atomic foreskins
pink and fresh
yes
but no
no dream rocoque
no krupp haloes
no religious artifacts
made of lampshade skin
beneath
a million kilowatt moon
no anticipating geometry
the smell of soap
nor calling into question
human sexuality
without flesh
nor the vibration of blood
that angry lobe
hammering overhead
that echo bite
again
and again
clenched
no teeth
no Hiroshima
no again again
black graveyard womb
milk-glass lit
bandaged echo
**** him **** them
familiar bell music
**** them all (with)
Jessie Storm May 2013
I'm always falling for girls who are arrows shot through the hearts of prodigal sons.

You've been in my head for days.
I've been clinging to your later
Like a shipwrecked sailor
Clings to the shattered bow
As the ocean tries to swallow him whole.
You swallowed me whole,
And you barely even opened your mouth;
Just wide enough for me to taste honey
And see stars that have been three nights creating haloes around my drunken head.

But you'll only hold my hand in the shadows;
You'll only ask me how I am if you know the answer will be
I'm fine
not
I've got you under my skin
But you're under it, girl.
You're seven layers deep,
And suddenly you're rushing through my bloodstream
And filling my body with a five-dime dream
That is only of your face.
Everyone knows that web of red veins
All lead back to the heart.

So I'm putting up fences
But leaving gaps between the posts
So when you’ve circulated my system
and I can feel you tingling electricity in every one of my cells
It’ll look like the bars I’ve put up were to keep you out
But really the space between was to let you in.
I’ll be shining a light so bright that maybe you’ll grow powdered wings
and flutter towards me like a moth who can’t ignore the flame for even one more second.

You’re more like a butterfly though.
When I look at you I see every colour;
I see grace and beauty, and in your voice I hear a melody so sweet it makes me wonder
whether you’re a girl,
Or if maybe you’re a songbird.
Maybe you build a new nest every night
From twigs and feathers and broken hearts.

You showed me a cutting of your old boyfriend’s hair
That you keep in your wallet
Because you dream of recreating him.
I thought if I knew how I’d make an army of this boy for you,
I’d carve his face from limestone
And give him blossoms for eyes
But I’d give him my lips,
So that when you kissed him I’d taste you.

  And it’s not like I’d make you,
But inside my head we’re every day making each other laugh;
We’re every day running through dappled fields,
Calling each other’s names,
Smelling each other’s hair.
It’s the sweetest thing.
That’s all I really want to say
Is that you make me smile and dream,
And sometimes I’m looking at your face
For just a bit longer than you’re looking at mine,
And in the half-light I think,
*Isn’t she beautiful.
Kabelo Maverick Jun 2014
"To all the fallen Kids, Heroes and Sheroes that fell victim to the massacre of June 16 1960, Sharpeville, Soweto…
Callings for new Seeds and Haloes, we pray for new Victors and Messiahs…coz still we ask “So where to?”*


Worthy knowledge deserves the one who will acknowledge, it found another, he was in shortage, threatened, he found joy in carnage.
Retaliation turned sour, as we shed tears for fallen heroes. Rest in peace to all the Petersens, the Malcolms and the Bikos.
Great minds edify and think beyond limits and sky.
This systematic routine of life laced with politics and economy infiltrates us numb, living in a liberated space and yet at times feeling so dumb.
To equip oneself with the truth, the past, broadens the mind with a quality that will seize to last.
A continent, must be God’s definition of art, beautifully authentic ancient dark civilization…envy must’ve burned the heart.
Propaganda made victims, a disease intended to chronic; now all that’s seen is reversed conscious, invincible and sonic.
Pride is you, continent, head up, chest up, we becoming confident. Mother of the soil shining naturally yet shining somewhat redundancy.
Reconciliation over retribution, an astounding virtue, still forging a social democracy.
Peace will be hard to find in this pandemonium world.
True healing comes from divine providence, I was told.
Male and female, human beings, we need to perceive each other like nature, true identity knows no stranger.
©Edify
I am intertwined
between laughter and sorrows,
miserable smiles

a tear running down
that my naïve cheeks don't feel;
Ignorance is bliss

Need a legion of
angelic conquistadors
to bear me away

on beds of roses,
allow thorns to pierce my skin
drag haloes in mud

in the remembrance
of a tainted innocence
willingly given

and a heart broken
many unbearable times,
but now its open...
JDK May 2016
Remember that one time when I asked you if you remembered what happened way back when?
I forget what your answer was then,
but I remember how much it meant to me to be reminiscing with the Queen of Forgetting.

Remember when you used to care about memories?

And we went careening down streets while screaming in a mix of anxiety and exhilaration.
Each day blending with the next; driving past every chance we had to turn back,
living as if we were on a never-ending vacation.

Remember when you used to have fun? When fun was number one and everything else was boring?

How to Keep Running After Falling Flat on Your Face

And when the Duchess of puking tried to kiss the Archduke of Douches.
Our toes a familiar sight while seeing double.
How we used to recite unrecyclable verses while climbing into the back seats of hearses.

Remember when we used to actually talk about things? No, not like this. I mean, passionately. Remember when we used to get so heated about a topic that we'd practically be screaming at each other?

How To Keep a Straight Face After Scraping What's Left of It off the Pavement

And swinging through trees that we'd climbed against better judgement;
passing under streetlights that painted haloes around our dark heads.

Remember when you used to laugh in a way that didn't sound frantic? When your grin didn't look so much like a grimace?

And going to public places in broad daylight just to read the faces of those who couldn't see beyond their own noses?

How to Focus on Obtaining Goals That You Don't Believe To Be Worth It

And looking at our toes and hitting pavement but then bouncing up again to get caught in the hurricane of everyones' perceptions of what was happening

How to Board Up Your Windows After They're Already Broken

Remember when you used to make genuine human connections with other people?

just to find ourselves in the Eye of the Storm, staring at each other, grinning in a way that isn't frightened or frightening;
Laughing in the way that isn't desperate or forced, but hearing it get warped by the howl of wind surrounding us.

Remember

How to

Wind that's closing in.
How could I forget?
Ashley Williams Mar 2014
Paroxysms of the galaxy
Ricochet throughout the universe;
Stars ripple and quake--
Combusting eternally,
Shattering melodically,
Spreading prismatic haloes.
Blindingly, blastingly, beautiful
Is the collapse of creation.
Red Starr Mar 2013
I turn to
Stone
When I glance at you
I Jump into the sea
To escape your stare
Chill of
Salty waves
Nearly toss me
Like a sand dollar
Floating near the break
I become
Coral in a
Musky
Tide pool
Yet still I turn to you
For guidance
But you're too
Weak in your
Own rite
And you're not
Aware when I need
You the most
So I turn away
And I turn
Inward
Look in
And search for the
Answer but
It's simply not there
Pray to
The universe
Stained glass Jesus
Rotund Buddha
Dark Mother Mary
Demure and strong
And I hear...
Nothing
And the nothing is so
****** quiet
The nothing
Hurts my ears
So I clutch
My head
My hands press it hard
And tight
The headache drums
Demons play games
With my cerebral vortex
My vision narrows to
A pinpoint
Haloes consume the
Small space of
Sight that remains
The boulders I carry
Are too heavy
Lighten my load!
I plead
Before I'm
Dragged down
By the sea siren
She whispers lies
To me
Tells me she will
Carry the boulders
They'll be lighter
At the bottom
Of the sea,
She says
She tempts me
With her promises
Of peace, dark, cool, light
But I know better
If I go with her
It will mean death
And I've died
So many times already
I'm so tired of dying
cait Apr 2013
haloes of light
reflecting on dew-sewn leaves
like angel's breath
creeping through the eaves

a soft, sweet rug
pencilled in a soft, sweet green
and the ever-changing spectrum
of an ever-changing scene

glance up at the sky,
don't you love the summer?
last night a door opened
it was you calling for me
such a dream light entered
when you appeared so real
and the flames of set arms
lit fire to unlatched breaths
in my silent room with you
like haloes and open wings
so short was our embrace
and time ran out a window
trailing afar in shy moment
i glanced outside and saw
a moon of breathless white
satcheled in sky the noose
pressing down over black
woods and i heard the owl
moaning deep in darkness
suddenly was i half awake
alone forever bereft of love
and the dream light brought
so dearly with your coming
left with you as a door shut.
Tryst Aug 2014
Will angels weep I wonder,
When heavenly hosts
March unto battle,
Haloes and spears glinting

In gods eternal light,
Demons fleeing before them,
Fearful of the slaughter,
Sinners felled by axe and sword,

Unrighteous blood streaming
Along gurgling crimson rivers,
Cities laid waste and
No prisoners taken,

As the world is covered
In the darkness of shadows
Wrought from their angel wings,
I wonder, will they weep?
Chapter XVI
Vernarth Third Finale Fragment, Apud tertium final


Vernarth, runs ripped from himself, after himself, to try to stay in this Parapsychological Regression. His bewilderment was imminent. He was seen in this regression on Nevski Avenue, Saint Petersburg, and in the province of Yekaterinburg, looking for vestiges of the Tungus tribe.
Peter I Alekséievich or Pedro I of Russia, nicknamed Peter the Great Moscow, May 30 / June 9, 1672- Saint Petersburg, January 28 / February 8, 1725.) 1 son of Tsar Alexius I and his second wife Natalia Narýshkina and successor of her half brother Teodoro III (Fiódor Alekséievich), was one of the most outstanding rulers in the history of Russia, belonging to the Románov Dynasty.
He ruled Russia from May 7 (April 27 C.J.), 1682, until his death, and before 1696 he did so along with his weak and sickly brother, Ivan V of Russia. It carried out a process of modernization through westernization and expansion that transformed Moscow Russia into one of the main European powers. He married Eudoxi Lopujiná, with whom he had a son and, in second nuptials, with his servant, who would take the title of Catherine I when he succeeded Pedro after his death occurred in Saint Petersburg on February 8, 1725 as a result of an infection in the bladder.


"... It was reading Vernarth in a tourist magazine when I was on a visit to the region, previously I was in Moscow and its surroundings ..." The parapsychological regression trip, followed and resumed another course with Destination to the Iberian Peninsula, on the Jacobean Route Through Santiago de Compostela and Vigo, in the latter, place passes to see the remains of the crypt of a friend killed in a Crusade. Here the remains rest in the Pereira mausoleum .Continuing his tour in Portugal, Lisbon. In Lisbon, old and melodic Afro Fado, on the sheets hanging from the illustrious houses, saw his escapades continue, rummaging bookstores and offices to get to the rooms of Amalia Rodrígues and the bohemian Lisbonense, who asked for more of his presence than the bartender himself placing port wine on the tables that cover their cork oak tables.


Does your regressive session continue, and was the doctor in charge asking if it was within your will to wake up and end the session? .Vernarth ...; He says with a gesture of his right hand, clutching his left wrist, that he wanted to continue and did not know if he would come back from himself. Which caused the doctor a strange and worried sensation, so he asked for a break before this unusual and abrupt situation. The windows of the room vibrated remarkably low, as if the thick strings of a cello intended to leave everyone diminished, to feel nothing more than himself, the very experience of a simultaneous True Warrior in mere compartments of a life that has currently disturbed him live without being part of any!


The session continues:
"... On a ridge in the middle of combat, Vernarth crosses for more below the positions of the Persians, on him and some like Mardiath, leader of his squad in Tire. Accompanying him, they could feel the thousands of sound frequencies crossing each other. Metals whistling with bowed, high and mid-frequency waves crisscrossing with spears as they skidded off the muffled wheels with their burnt axles.  The herds of fortified elephants, huge towers of ivories slicing bellies and cutting the flag,cloths next to their embalmed suns. Mardiath protects him from the rear, to evict him from the hundreds of boisterous spears, which were intended to target their commander. The Xifos sheared the chins of the almost annihilated Persians. Some of the Greek mercenaries shone with great pride the totemic animals of war to tune the Hellenic ones who cut off everything that was put before them. ”
They continue chasing the peal of spears that no longer spaced more than the shadow of their companions. The ringing of the voices that cut the metal rattle winds continues, diverting the coral trotting of the Macedonians with those of the cavalry, which faster than the others echoed the soon to take of causing always close wounds, where nothing was already with their defense weapons.

Vernarth says: With me there will be nothing ... anything more than how much will be counted, nothing more than being eternally brandishing our Xiphs. Medea ... full sorceress, tell me that I have to bet more than multiply my forces, without being able to unite with your potions of my right breastplate yet?

Medea replies: It must be applied with the woodcutter's hatchet ax. She hardens the edges of the banner, flaming, and the feather that moves the plumes that will be reserved in the squares of your energetic blasphemies. It has already welded your breastplate more than a feeling of longing. She was watered by the sacred steam of the Bumodos and its waters. I am here in full dispute; you can now anoint your throne with squares for more centuries by commenting to the right of the regular rules.

Brisehal in Advance

“They were all in full swing of the latest outbursts of onslaught from both sides. Vernarth gallops across the right side over the spearmen and archers, when suddenly everyone is paralyzed at the sight of a giant shadow of an oversized dog appearing to them from the rear. Some dropped their weapons; others restrained themselves and did not know what to do ... it was even notable that they did not hear the voices of their Persian commanders.


In the immensity of their over proportions, the fusion of reality appears in that of an almost unreal animal that stood between them to intercede and protect Vernarth. Was "Brisehal", which was suspended with its quadruple legs over an area of more than two square kilometers?

It came from Dasht-e-Lut. After Brisehal bellowed and the troops of their self-contemplation were depopulated, they were emerging from the empty Wagnerian Gaugamela. Brisehal with her Anubis-headed mountain, began to move it and shake the space between earth and sky, like the hope of some parishioners to enter the garden-kingdom of Heaven. Before the day trembled with the movement of her trembling footsteps, Brisehal shuddered on both sides and stepped in front of Vernarth to preserve her. When her entire body shuddered, she eliminated the remains of parasites that fell on the insistent achemenids, on their smallest heaps that were seen to be liquidated with the greatest effect of their rotating forces.

They were immense thunderclaps that even scrubbed up to the spheroid clouds reddened by their rising. He turned from left to right as if wanting to exile them to the Desert of Lut, as if to tube his pro generation by the bundles of optical rope or high-density fiber, which could cohabit with Vernarth in his odyssey of the Horcondising (Vernarth lineage paradise to Gaugamela).

From Horcondising; Sudpichi, on the streams channeled like proliferated mirrors, illuminated the sky of his region like haloes of light showing each outcome of the Intervention of this enormous Dasht-e-Lut dog on a huge colorful screen by the celestial air of the nearby clouds.

A guard says: Our Lord Vernarth, is under the protection of Brisehal, just as we with his memory are his succession, we owe him great respect for his bravery and repercussion of his ancestry. I continue from here of the Tower seeing his operations of greater spirit, for the protection of his great heroic sign!

Brisehal, is introduced on the cavalries of thousands of horsemen of the Persians, on hundreds of groups of mounts that flew over their heads the cataphractic armor, also elephants that did not give truce but, the most devastated were the failed cars, which were totally annulled by the bellowing and fierce contortions that Brisehal gave angrily without stopping. From this moment on, Vernarth, who already had contracted wounds, was amazed by this mass of fright in the eyes of the Falangists and the movement of strategies already aimed at deserved success, ******* the huge hordes remained, prey to their fear and undeniable defeat. early.

Alejandro Magnus says: “This Victory has no concordance with others that I have overcome. I must imagine myself supported by the support of my land and my collaborators. Undoubtedly, the tendency of those who have left their sparse sweat on this plain tend to exaggerate, it gives room to further commend the victory of my commander Vernarth and his supporters. The only thing that we can affirm for sure is that our adversaries grasped at the expense of their resources, is that even though they are tremendously superior in quantity to those of the Macedonian army, they were disintegrated at this moment by our overwhelming powers.

Ellipsis Darius III in Arbela

“… In July 331 BC, the army of Alexander the Great would cross the Euphrates River, entering fully into Mesopotamia. At that time, instead of marching south on the river to reach Babylon, where Darius III was supposed to have fled, he chose to head north, crossing the entire Mesopotamian territory until he reached the Tigris River in the second half of September. At the same time, Darius III had marched north to Arbela, just over 100 kilometers from the vast Gaugamela plain. Unlike what happened in the battle of Gránico and the battle of Issos, there he could deploy the full potential of his troops to envelop Alexander's and annihilate him… ”.

Darius III says: Being in Arbela, I should never have disobeyed The Astros. When they moved and I couldn't look at them because of their immigration, I never believed that the nebulae that would cross in front of my eyes would be the chivalry commanded by Alexander Magnus, and the infantry by Vernarth joined Etréstles. Now I see him with his glasses in his hands drinking Nepente in the twilight with his comrades surrounded by Zeus. I meanwhile ..., I still think that I should never have abstracted myself from the last portion of Betelgeuse's movement when he circulated around the border of the emblem of his seduction to the adorned orion belt.

At the time of knowing the movements and tactics of the battle of Gaugamela we find the same problem as always, the veracity of the sources of knowledge, whose account is very similar to that of the battle of Issos. According to this account, Alexander and the cavalry galloped diagonally and to the right, to avoid the caltrops and the failed cars and avoid being flanked by the Persians. Consequently, the Persian cavalry on the left wing moved in pursuit, aiming to overtake the Macedonians and envelop them. However, the Achaemenid horsemen did not realize that in doing so they had separated from the center, where a hole had been opened that allowed them to reach Darius III.

Vernarth says: in the hour that I ate of the black roses and their petals, I must savor the conversation that I had to have with the nature of our military training. Our strategy has oppressed the erratic tactics of the adversaries; the pressure of our Macedonian lancers disrupts the formation of the troops of the satrap Bessos, who end up losing the initiative and fleeing. In the center, the phalanx Me, Mardiath and Etréstles, together with the hipaspistas we will advance slowly but surely, gradually pushing back the Persian units. Brisehal has stood out above the outstanding lightness of the harassed Commander Satrap Maceo, annihilating all attempts to completely discredit him, of which his figure of high countenance was thus tainted. With the sweaty blizzard of the afternoon back then the fully grained shadow of Brisehal migrated to his Dasht-e-Lut desert from where he was confined by command of his allegiance to Vernarth forever and ever where both will always be seen at dawn play and jump.

At one point, after long resisting the burden of the Macedonian sovereign, Darius III makes his worst mistake. As happened in Issos, he gives up the battle when he was not yet decided for either side and flees, progressively dragging with him the rest of the nearby troops. In the face of this movement, Alexander immediately pursued him, and for a moment it seemed that the life of the King of Kings was coming to an end. However, the desperate call of Parmenion, who can no longer resist the fight against the Persian horsemen, makes Alexander desist from his persecution and allows Darius III to escape. When they were abandoned by their king, the Persian army became demoralized and ended up fleeing or surrendering, thus confirming the disintegration of the Persian Empire and the coronation of Alexander the Great as lord of Asia.

The end begins in a new beginning, Vernarth limps along the external bank of the Bumodos with his pectoral reopened and his back with purple colored diaphragms bellowing his resistance. He was accompanied by Kanti and, Etrestles and Mardiath who helped him endure it. They take their steps and approach the store where Valekiria was waiting for them; his consort to apply the sedative ****** essence with waters of the Bumodos to calm his pain, and later return from this great epic of his "Parapsychological Regression" that was soon to culminate.
THIRD  ENDING FRAGMENT
Kim Oct 2015
The temple priest has rung his bell.
A cloud of smoke from candles and lamps
Haloes the Goddess, glowing bright
This beat of drums both maddens and dulls.

The incense burns: so heady the musk,
Our senses flounder in the flood.
This endless chant of sacred words
Soon drugs our lips and stuns our minds.

The Goddess, always staring down:
Her painted pupils cut through smoke
And read the secret thoughts we think.
We somehow feel this within our hearts
Happy Navratri...https://youtu.be/Iqy7k2ua9bw plz watch & share Navratri in animation style ...
Tom McCone Apr 2013
you spun silk across the skyline as the frail sun
spilt, onto the far-eastern seaboard, while those
consistent clicks fell resound and washed away
down the drain behind the blanket ran to pitch
as the clamourous small hours from city centre
disband the overcast to stillnesses and grandeur
of emptied haloes, trickling with dust, so i open
my muddied lungs and laugh; for now i know i
have kept fallin' anew all along, if i think i think
i will be alright will i make it through this night?
will it be any better, in the dawn's soft light? i'm
not
                  afraid
                                             anymore,
                                                                    though.
we were star-crossed, but for one single moment:
the sky tore wide, and all inside of your ribs, the
constellations swum where once i'd only found
doubt, inside your eyes the lights played
out melodies in time, as
dawn opened up
beneath
us.
this was meant to be my kinda-take on ellen menzies' "*this is darkness, but this is love.*" (http://hellopoetry.com/poem/this-is-darkness-but-this-is-love/), mainly for the obvious line and 'cause it's such a grand piece. uhm, yeah. idk. enjoy.
max Apr 2022
If all he does is smile at you—
run,

Doesn't leaving me mean a little less if you left my life
But never loved to begin with?
You never loved to begin with
You never loved me
winnings for the lucky, living just takes painkillers
Orion Schwalm Jan 2016
Solace.
Solvent globe.
Run away again.
A life, still small.

This was supposed to be a sort of ventriloquistic reverie, disguised as a mimetic purging of all shiiiiiiiiiit in the body and miiiiiiiiiiind.
Oh well.
Here's the story: A bug- not one of any high or low blood-
began his run among the trees
at dawn.
Stopped along the riverbed-
Sang a song of Sparrows Nests and Lions Manes-
Gave the chorus his very best and made attempts of quieting the refrain-
Fell short of a fourth verse and ended the third-
So as not to disturb the delicate force of terseness in the words-
with a cadence akin to the angel's wingspan
decadence falling like skin in the snow sand...
Feeling smaller than anyone he had ever felt...

He crushed glory into small packets and buried them in a time capsule
for generations to come.


17 Years Later
A still, small life.
During the swarm of cicadas,
I awake.
Opening halo to blurry globe of light.
A sound so silent it burns every inch,
Couldn't help but wake up.
Couldn't help you when you asked,
Now in hindsight...open haloes to a grasp on love.
Inside the oven life. Light's like a buried knife, deep inside a mound
of earth.

Turn around.
Go back in the ground.
Dig deep. Faces, yes my friends, asleep.
Tear them from the blackened soil.
Forests of fire, lakes of oil,
Unearthing everyone I know to be alive. ALIVE LIVE. NOT INSIDE.
Get out of the earth, it is not your time.
Grandfather face. Good, you remain. Your remains are welcome.
Dissolving in the globe.
Exhuming corpses full of life.
Dancing the dead dance in the silent night.
The music of nothingness guiding my way.
All the **** night and nothing to say.
Nowhere to run, nothing to find.
Back into sunlight with those of my kind.


"Please wake up."
"Please wake up again."
A small still life.
In the meeting place I see.
Double globes, expecting your face.
Constructing your mind, full of me.

What am I doing? I'm memorizing your eye twitches. Every time a tiny particle of dust, called a thought, lands in the ocean, a million muscles contract, calling the thing dust, and noticing me.

See it's all one thing. The dust, grass, air, video games, steak, Salmen, Salwomen, bears. Riding a bear, bare-back, and totally ****. Being inside a room, or a cave, craving tall glasses of milk, the cow urinates in the grass, and the steak melts in your mouth, and the globe dissolves your body, while my eyes open and close, taking away your halo, and giving you a pair of human eyes instead.

Every time I open my eyes. It's all one thing.
The meeting place where I see my friends.
The circle of life, the beginning and end.
The smallness of death and the land of the love.
The sense of your presence below and above.
The time that you held me, and I held you.
This is the world. The cradle and tomb.

It's a part of you, that's clear enough. All I wanted was to see the whole thing.
Dedicated to good friends.
Zach Lubline May 2019
There’s a twinkle in her eye
That’s rare to see
Rarer still, unless
She’s looking at me.

Looks forbidden
By lines drawn in the sand
By a pretend me
Trying to be a better man.

But my reflection
Is more beautiful in her blue
Haloed in a happiness
Illicit but true.
Connor Mar 2018
I

Possesion/extension
Nightly woman instinct,
lend your guiding scent
to fierce winds/
combining
into poison,
deliver down
my mercy to the great shining

(seduction poetics,
unrestrained and visible like a crown
of death hanging proud
by my bedside, eager
to martyr oneself for fertility)

Cosmogonic dawn/blinking fire-wheels,
shallow, holy waters
receding as silken tides, awoke from idleness

Discarded silver haloes, thrown into the hallowed dirt to drench in mortal youth

Monarch eyes/careful
heart, sealed/felt lucidly
worried/cavernous and hidden/wild kingdom dancer

A proclaimed Fool.
Imitator, mutilator
clay creator/for pathless ambition
I sink further in sand
which lacks definition, it is careless
like myself

(take a trip to Angel river, where one longs to be freed from skeleton grins
& pagan bathtubs, pollinating one
with wivesblood)

II

Out of the fog to a
marriagebed & lambs head
mounted, awkwardly
backdropped to an altar of Furze &
disorientation-theatres draped in Neon
& excess
(where even the walls are unaware of their own Earthly position)

If I am the stone,
you are the water, carving
me closer to your desired
shape

to become an Outer, a cloud-catcher, liplurker, destined to Saturn worship

III

My zeal is an impatient grave & you assume the feral mother
whose flashflood voice draws me to rest

..Yet, I am willing. Carry my body
to your domain, feast kindly, until
paradise is all that remains of us both
THE ANGRY WATERS
that recoiled and threatened a tsunami
lie placid now, bacalmed and still
as shiny as a glass topped dining table

THE HOWLING WINDS
that longed to be a hurricane
have settled into zephyrs and soft breezes
that barely riff the petals of the autumn roses

THE RAGING THUNDER
that tried so hard to break the windows
has rolled on and is nothing but a distant echo
that recedes as fast as memories of childbirth pain

THE VICIOUS RAIN
that threatened to go flooding
has slacked off into a gentle winter mist
that wraps the dawning sun in silken haloes

THE VOLCANIC FLAMES
that lept across the sky as lightning
have danced across the hills to other valleys
leaving only ozone to mark where they have been

AND I AM SPARED AND WHOLE
Unwounded and unscarred
Undamaged by their passing
Unscathed in places that should bleed
And safe in who I plan to be
At last the God of Hope
Has noticed me
And offered me
His hand to take
And walk into
Tomorrow.
          ljm
Sometimes there is a little bit of gold at the end of a stormy rainbow.
Selena Jance Apr 2013
I am crashing on the plane we know
but more than love. When truth outside honesty
scorches our skin and scars them

hiding tattoos on the inside. Rings of
hearts and haloes, wings of silver lined. Devils
are toed and grinning deeply.

Rain and acid flecks, they choose whom
are beyond this clasping granular grasp, and I like
this pain which is scratching wounds into my

soul. I know
that is broken to be whole
when I pierce with my tongue holy knowledge.

© 20th April 2013
Sara L Russell Dec 2017
Light light beings
Sara L Russell, 10/10/16

So if we are light beings, then is the aura a fountain of white
  diamond fire reflecting the sun, dancing in the air
in a million drops of exploding starlight from the seventh universe.
  If we are light beings, we are beholden to shun the darkness.

Always shun the darkness, for it is full of the shadows of djinn;
  those shadow people know your comings and goings,
behold, they are legion, they hunt the starlight children
fly like a moth to the light; since it holds only the luminescence of love.

We are light, we are strong, we are wingbeats of angels,
  we are the blameless abiders of law from our leaders,
like a million dancing raindrops, we can weather the maelstroms,
  holding the light as a feather; since it is fragile and needs our belief.

And if we are light beings, being lighter than air or arias,
  then is the aura like haloes of sunbeams reflected in sea;
only then we are free to ascend in the spirit of freedom,
being the love light and keepers of tranquility.
One so Young as to inspire Relief
Yet in my Terms he sought to disobey
Which, after all, Authority as brief
Drag those Arid Racers spit for the day
The Ocean warms. One the Spoon cannot stir
Since your Recipe in Past News remit
Harboured by Fortiments made such Themes blur
And braised Emotion to your Benefit
Now the Angel speaks. And speaks on the Rough
Submitting her summed Haloes for your Shield
That, deserving, made Plastic on your Rough
And caused the Tabloids to Honour your Field.
Coward! Take the Rod and hamper my Back
For Manhood you own; And Conscience you lack.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Lucid Nov 2015
You were trembling, Job of the prairies---
a supernova born with angel hair optics
gnarled in the sweat of an oil soaked sun;
****** to the soil by nectarless thirst.

Even your stains were bright with haloes;
Dappled like the moon with jewelish fire---
Even your scabs were disjointed lights---
in center of your temple, white like tile.

A quaff of dissention and love laden
As you stood fragile as fruitless skin---
Bent to my presence, a crooked crystal;
All swallowed and refracted, like liquor.

Your cat-eyes were so bitterbright, shadowy
Inconsolably shining enormous fires, dark.
Your blackened opal void melting to nectar
for incestuous parasite lapping it in twain.

I loved you, and your autophagical bones;
A dimming resplendence on a crooked bridge
where they sipped the springtime's deathour---
where I kissed your soul in spring's deathour.
Connor May 2015
I see dying people on dying sidewalks.
Dying gulls hover by an ambulance full of dying heroes which save you from sooner dying. The ambulance goes past a funeral home where the dying attend to the dead.
I've passed through this sidewalk before, when I and the world were a little less rotten. I've seen the familiar parked mail truck which has a woman inside usually playing scrabble. She's solved more puzzles, and earned less time.

Did you know it costs money to die? Suicide is illegal, the government has decreed you need to earn your own right to die. You need to die in some accident or from disease or ailment or getting too old. You're serving in a conquest against dying yet either way you'll lose!

I realize as I pass a law firm beside a curiosity shop that my soul is losing its light to power our electricity. My eyes are losing their ability just to watch violence on the news,
My hair will soon be snow.
Im getting sleepier earlier, I'm getting older quicker.
The last thing I wanna do is sleep!
I don't want to weep,
I don't want to be reaped.
My faith is lazy,
My heart is crazy,
Padded up in loveless institutions.
Going to the city makes me feel lonely.
There's one wrinkling man I see here every day, he's wearing a big white sweater, bald spot haloes his skull.
Will I be him one day?
Is he an angel of prophecy?
He writes illegible notes on lined paper from an organized folder in his satchel. I have a satchel, it looks just like his. He is my outcome and my shadow. He is my prayer and my nightmare. He is wise and he is lost, I can tell by his face, his frown, his scowl.

He is dying, more than me.
Maybe thats what his notes are about.
I know mine are.
Despite all these years his weight
Remains the same.
I suppose mine will too.
Leigh Everhart Mar 2020
This is the story of a box
and a girl.
And this box –
and this box
was like no other box – No,
like no other box that owned its existence.
Eons of history lived on its walls – I mean, moved on its walls,
I mean, carvings of history played out on the walls
Waves smashed their own heads onto ocean floor dunes,
The lightning swung fierce on the clouds into squalls,
The engravings – the caves shook with war, the volcanoes,
They spat and they hissed, and the nymphs in their watery mists
Danced with haloes on graves of the fallen.
The lifeblood, it pulsed through the veins of this box,
Through the veins of my palm as I held it, the carvings,
They danced with their raw, starving ardors, their bloods and their stardust
And lifeblood, it seeped, lotus droplets, it leaped onto grooves of my skin
Splashed as sparks on my skin and spilled into my palms,
Till my body was filled with the life of this box, with the thrums of this box, with the force of this box
Till the sweet little voice called my name through this box
Whispered, “Open the lid and release me. This box
Is my prison. I’ve risen through hellfire and sunlight and war-blood,
And isn’t it time for the earth to revere me? I am Hope,
I am weary; I am tired of Death and Despair huddled near me
I yearn for the taste of the earth and the Furies
Release me, my vassal, unchain me, release me.”
This is the story of a box
and a girl,
and a thrum, and a voice, and a palm, and a life -
and a war, and a choice, and a hope, and a price,
and a voice that implored me to open the lid
through the trembling, quivering walls,
and I did.
Dominique Nov 2019
Give the knots that line my spine
The milky film that clots my eyes
The pride that grips my jaw
To be suspended

Hair blown out in rat-tail haloes
By soft ochre dispersions
To bob, a boat returned
Plunged into the myth of algae
Nymphs that bring dimension to the depths

To be an oil spill clearing canvas
A gliding watercolor rag or
Submerged irradiant water hag
Concealed by a cocoon

The overhang where beads of light
Exaggerate the urban dream
Freed from the stingy binds of gravity
The filthy nihilistic scene above

Just on display way down there
Beneath the ziplocked airless sky
For passers-by to glimpse the paradox
This wilful tragedy of mine

Through a waterlogged trachea
Umbilical cord to godliness stretched
Returned to me mangled and sore
Drowned in the canal of Little Venice.
"I had a dream I got everything I wanted"
Marley Gold Nov 2018
When I looked at you I saw the world,
The way you saw the world.
Everything was shaded with the brightest yellows
And the deepest blues,
But all the reds were gone.

Looking away from you
I saw the blinding white haloes around the stars,
I saw the pink laces between different cells of my hands,
I can see the red ball thrown in the field of green.

I just had to look away from you.
Some palettes change. Dogs see only blue and yellow.
Seán Mac Falls Jan 2013
Tugging with full moon,
Face— shining haloes of her,
Under Milky Way.
S Smoothie May 2018
she stood atop the high cliff
Scanning the oceans depths to the horizon
Soft amber glows lit her strong fine features
She had that far away look in her treacle eyes
he knew she was not present
she had gone to be with the spirit of her love
how his own spirit ached to chase after it,
to hold her steady so she would not lose sight of the shore
he almost drifted away with her
but sensed the need for her privacy
he did not want to find what she hoped she might find
he felt it would truly destroy him
he restrained himself from touching her
instead he looked out to he setting sun over her shoulder
letting the strands of lit golden hair flicker on to his cheek
as he blessed and thanked creation
for bestowing on him such simple glory
a wilderness of gratitude for each faint stroke
his whole being came alive
a grand mercy in a pinprick of revelation
divinely connected
as if her body knew that a love lost
was held steady across the arcs of time by another love
as she stood there motionless,
reverent Silence between them
the queen of his faith had restored in him,
what he had long hoped restore in her
He thought recklessly
‘We held time there,
locked in an expedition,
each of our own
words never spoke of any greater higher church,
than that of love
as our haloes mingled,
the sun left enraged with jealousy
slipping into the darkness
leaving the colours of our mismatched hearts to bleed’.

— The End —