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It is full summer now, the heart of June;
Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir
Upon the upland meadow where too soon
Rich autumn time, the season’s usurer,
Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,
And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.

Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,
That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on
To vex the rose with jealousy, and still
The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,
And like a strayed and wandering reveller
Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June’s messenger

The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,
One pale narcissus loiters fearfully
Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid
Of their own loveliness some violets lie
That will not look the gold sun in the face
For fear of too much splendour,—ah! methinks it is a place

Which should be trodden by Persephone
When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!
Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!
The hidden secret of eternal bliss
Known to the Grecian here a man might find,
Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.

There are the flowers which mourning Herakles
Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,
Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze
Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,
That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,
And lilac lady’s-smock,—but let them bloom alone, and leave

Yon spired hollyhock red-crocketed
To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,
Its little bellringer, go seek instead
Some other pleasaunce; the anemone
That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl
Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl

Their painted wings beside it,—bid it pine
In pale virginity; the winter snow
Will suit it better than those lips of thine
Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go
And pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone,
Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.

The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus
So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet
Whiter than Juno’s throat and odorous
As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet
Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar
For any dappled fawn,—pluck these, and those fond flowers which
are

Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon
Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,
That morning star which does not dread the sun,
And budding marjoram which but to kiss
Would sweeten Cytheraea’s lips and make
Adonis jealous,—these for thy head,—and for thy girdle take

Yon curving spray of purple clematis
Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,
And foxgloves with their nodding chalices,
But that one narciss which the startled Spring
Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard
In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer’s bird,

Ah! leave it for a subtle memory
Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,
When April laughed between her tears to see
The early primrose with shy footsteps run
From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,
Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering
gold.

Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet
As thou thyself, my soul’s idolatry!
And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet
Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,
For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride
And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied.

And I will cut a reed by yonder spring
And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan
Wonder what young intruder dares to sing
In these still haunts, where never foot of man
Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy
The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.

And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears
Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,
And why the hapless nightingale forbears
To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone
When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast,
And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east.

And I will sing how sad Proserpina
Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed,
And lure the silver-breasted Helena
Back from the lotus meadows of the dead,
So shalt thou see that awful loveliness
For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in war’s abyss!

And then I’ll pipe to thee that Grecian tale
How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,
And hidden in a grey and misty veil
Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun
Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase
Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace.

And if my flute can breathe sweet melody,
We may behold Her face who long ago
Dwelt among men by the AEgean sea,
And whose sad house with pillaged portico
And friezeless wall and columns toppled down
Looms o’er the ruins of that fair and violet cinctured town.

Spirit of Beauty! tarry still awhile,
They are not dead, thine ancient votaries;
Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile
Is better than a thousand victories,
Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo
Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few

Who for thy sake would give their manlihood
And consecrate their being; I at least
Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,
And in thy temples found a goodlier feast
Than this starved age can give me, spite of all
Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical.

Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,
The woods of white Colonos are not here,
On our bleak hills the olive never blows,
No simple priest conducts his lowing steer
Up the steep marble way, nor through the town
Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown.

Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,
Whose very name should be a memory
To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest
Beneath the Roman walls, and melody
Still mourns her sweetest lyre; none can play
The lute of Adonais:  with his lips Song passed away.

Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left
One silver voice to sing his threnody,
But ah! too soon of it we were bereft
When on that riven night and stormy sea
Panthea claimed her singer as her own,
And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk
alone,

Save for that fiery heart, that morning star
Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye
Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war
The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy
Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring
The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing,

And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,
And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot
In passionless and fierce virginity
Hunting the tusked boar, his honied lute
Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,
And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.

And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,
And sung the Galilaean’s requiem,
That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine
He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him
Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,
And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.

Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,
It is not quenched the torch of poesy,
The star that shook above the Eastern hill
Holds unassailed its argent armoury
From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight—
O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,

Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer’s child,
Dear heritor of Spenser’s tuneful reed,
With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled
The weary soul of man in troublous need,
And from the far and flowerless fields of ice
Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise.

We know them all, Gudrun the strong men’s bride,
Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,
How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,
And what enchantment held the king in thrall
When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers
That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours,

Long listless summer hours when the noon
Being enamoured of a damask rose
Forgets to journey westward, till the moon
The pale usurper of its tribute grows
From a thin sickle to a silver shield
And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool grassy field

Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,
At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come
Almost before the blackbird finds a mate
And overstay the swallow, and the hum
Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,
Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,

And through their unreal woes and mimic pain
Wept for myself, and so was purified,
And in their simple mirth grew glad again;
For as I sailed upon that pictured tide
The strength and splendour of the storm was mine
Without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine;

The little laugh of water falling down
Is not so musical, the clammy gold
Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town
Has less of sweetness in it, and the old
Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady
Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.

Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile!
Although the cheating merchants of the mart
With iron roads profane our lovely isle,
And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,
Ay! though the crowded factories beget
The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!

For One at least there is,—He bears his name
From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,—
Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame
To light thine altar; He too loves thee well,
Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien’s snare,
And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,

Loves thee so well, that all the World for him
A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,
And Sorrow take a purple diadem,
Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair
Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be
Even in anguish beautiful;—such is the empery

Which Painters hold, and such the heritage
This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,
Being a better mirror of his age
In all his pity, love, and weariness,
Than those who can but copy common things,
And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.

But they are few, and all romance has flown,
And men can prophesy about the sun,
And lecture on his arrows—how, alone,
Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,
How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,
And that no more ’mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head.

Methinks these new Actaeons boast too soon
That they have spied on beauty; what if we
Have analysed the rainbow, robbed the moon
Of her most ancient, chastest mystery,
Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope
Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!

What profit if this scientific age
Burst through our gates with all its retinue
Of modern miracles!  Can it assuage
One lover’s breaking heart? what can it do
To make one life more beautiful, one day
More godlike in its period? but now the Age of Clay

Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth
Hath borne again a noisy progeny
Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth
Hurls them against the august hierarchy
Which sat upon Olympus; to the Dust
They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must

Repair for judgment; let them, if they can,
From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance,
Create the new Ideal rule for man!
Methinks that was not my inheritance;
For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul
Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal.

Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away
Her visage from the God, and Hecate’s boat
Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day
Blew all its torches out:  I did not note
The waning hours, to young Endymions
Time’s palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns!

Mark how the yellow iris wearily
Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed
By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,
Who, like a blue vein on a girl’s white wrist,
Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night,
Which ‘gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light.

Come let us go, against the pallid shield
Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam,
The corncrake nested in the unmown field
Answers its mate, across the misty stream
On fitful wing the startled curlews fly,
And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh,

Scatters the pearled dew from off the grass,
In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun,
Who soon in gilded panoply will pass
Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion
Hung in the burning east:  see, the red rim
O’ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of him

Already the shrill lark is out of sight,
Flooding with waves of song this silent dell,—
Ah! there is something more in that bird’s flight
Than could be tested in a crucible!—
But the air freshens, let us go, why soon
The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June!
Kimberly Lore Aug 2015
The world outside her window is the same
Unbearably tame
Mile after mile
Tree after tree
It blurs with the sound of her heartbeat
It feels fake
Almost, as fake
As the perfect little house
And the perfect little yard
That her imperfect family resides in
That most people call home
She can't bring herself to it as she pulls off
Hurls herself through the woods
Along the thin dirt path
Up the grueling climb
To the top of the mountain
She finally pauses to breathe
As she exhales she grins
Effervescent and sighs
"Home"
Mike Essig Apr 2015
Oh, goddess Athena.
Bright-eyed
daughter of Zeus.
Third-born of the gods
whose spear hurls thunder,
tireless hope of soldiers:
lift me on my broken shield
and bear my body home,
far from these hollow ships,
the wine-colored, loud-roaring sea
and these high-hearted men
who have called down
stony-death upon me...
Ten Homeric epithets in one poem. Thanks, Homer, for writing this for me. :)
AMcQ Jan 2017
Lazy cares not for sleep,
Contrary to popular belief.
It cares not for the easy life.
Lazy is forever catching up.
Lazy cares not for rest.
Her mind is racing; exhausted.
She hurls herself over the finish line,
EVERY time...
To embrace the other procrastinators.
Marge Redelicia Mar 2014
I can dance in the rain
And even in hurricanes;
Face the giants with a wide smile
Stay still even in earthquakes.
No matter what the world
Hurls and throws at me,
I am happy.

No, wait!
I am more than that actually,
Because happiness is just based on happenings.

I have something that defies
The laws of calamity and crying.
I have something that is stronger
Than any outside pressure. I
Have something that is
Not reliant on present circumstances,
Something that still blooms forth
Despite the most unfavorable chances.

I have
Unconditional joy
Because of my
Unconditional faith
That my God
Unconditionally loves me.
we call these stars.
white strips of clarity bursting through pinpricks
spotlights through feather falling dandruff

thunder buckles the plexiglass sheet with it's shoulder
crackles little eggshell triangles past the dancing dandruff
pale veins spread like ink in fabric
thin burnt parchment
holding back thudding pulses from the Amniotic sun

We call this a sunrise
when the Sun hurls the final flaming shoulder into day.

Not the giggling gums of a baby faced Tele-tubby sun
not the serenade of "goodnight moon, and goodnight you"

My sunrise is A dragon-glass egg,
pulsing to the drumbeat of a feathered heart

A tea-light spider spinning webs into an inferno shoulder
flexing flamesilk muscles through each pinprick star

lamp posts hum a prismatic prayer
Grassy fields catch light with their fireflies
old country porch lights attract moths
dust hung in stasis
starts feather falling when light catches

tubes of Mercury fashioned into bar-signs
flicker as ghosts hum on the gas
poets flick cigarette ashes
call in stardust for the wind to carry
up
to Gatsby it up in the pin ******
there is nothing more beautiful and warm
then stardust Dancing rich in the suns desperate pinpricks

Watching the Debut of struggling birth
throwing itself against confinement
shedding light, on the tiniest flurry of dandruff
before filling each vein of the broken sky with fire.

I love to watch gasoline soaked parchment
curl in on itself like an old handwritten letter.
I call this the night sky.

Catch the falling ashes on my tongue like snowflakes.
If I swallow enough of them
a tiny pheonix fire in my belly can hurl it's little shoulder against my rib cage.
Pounding until it bursts out through all these pinpricks.

I will call out to the mothsdust, dandruff and fireflies
invite them to dance in the combustion.

If I am anything like a starlit night.
I will buckle before I burst

Thunderclap an invitation
Shatter the street lamps and mercury tubes
with the winding bass drop.
direct the audiences attention to dust hung gentle in a cold still sky.
feather falling in silence
A blossoming caged sun.
No one expects a gentle sunrise
Sally A Bayan Jul 2015
(10w x 6)

Grass hurls back raindrops
as wet soil clings to feet

rain no longer pours
gray disappears
sky turns pale cerulean

eyes journey, to where soft
colors make a heavenly arch

telling of zephyr
a bit of sun
rains, on hold

i wind over...close my eyes
unicorn's music
is
soporific

"somewhere
    over
      the
      rainbow

         blue birds fly
                          
      ............................­........

      ....... why can't i.".......
                          

Sally

Copyright July 11, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Somewhere Over the Rainbow
           Judy Garland

Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high
There's a land that I've heard of once in a lullaby.
Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream,
Really do come true.

Someday I'll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me.
Where troubles melt like lemon drops,
High above the chimney tops,
That's where you'll find me.

Somewhere over the rainbow, blue birds fly
Birds fly over the rainbow
Why then, oh why can't I?
If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow
Why, oh why can't I?

~~~~~~~

***I have a musical unicorn figurine that plays this music, which I had been playing over and over while we were having continuous rains.***
Tanner Angelo Oct 2013
Fingers cut palms as hands turn to stone
And a catapult hurls the projectile home
Knuckles collapse from bone meeting bone
Down in the alleys where miscreants roam
Suggestions of violence fill gutters with blood
Fill heads with the sense of nefarious thrill
Their skin turns to ash and their brains into mud
Rage in the kingdom of eager to ****
The children are soldiers who train everyday
Cowboys and Indians, Robbers and Cops
****** is plot and the actors will play
Portraying the place life will come to a stop
Violence is cancer, and love is no more
Edge of our seats waiting for the next war



*Dedicated to the deceased and forgotten, Love and Peace
Mikaila Dec 2012
There it is, the mirror sky, reflecting all that is beneath it and throwing it back upon itself like rain.

The flowers unfurl with alarming swiftness-delicate, they are, made of shadow and moonlight, flourishing in the dusk-and the tides rake the shore with desperate fingers, wrenched back from the land as the night pulls the day down under the water. The sun sinks crimson within the glass sea, cracking it, and it shatters into a million stars trapped inside a harsh black sky. The shore is littered with a desolate battlefield of broken shells, scarred bits of wood, rocks beaten into smoothness by the unforgiving water.


Where is the moon? There is no softness here. Hard lines, the world washed black and white, and such a stillness even in motion. The sky does not see a moon, and so the moon is gone-trapped with the sun beneath the black sea? The last shards of fiery gold and red have been swallowed by unnaturally silent waves.


Where is the life? Every creature is gone, hidden away. It is not the night that they fear, but the image of themselves reflected inside it. The world does not sleep; it waits, coiled like a spring, for whatever is coming. It is as if everything is holding its breath, silent and full of tension.


The sea isn’t alive like it should be anymore. It’s been tainted, poisoned. Why do the waves shine black and blue like a raven’s feather? Where are the whitecaps and the foam? No, this sea is smooth glass, flowing and morphing, licking cruelly at the shore. Cold as ice, but not frozen, it leaches the color from the world, drawing all the light into its frigid depths. Look down inside it and there is nothing but hard blackness, as if the water is solid now but still moving. The silence is perhaps the most terrifying. Wrong, for the world to move so fast and be so quiet. The clouds and the stars all move dizzyingly, racing across the sky, growing and changing before a real form can be discerned.


Now even the stars are going dark, falling one by one into the sea, a sad parody of rain. They are swallowed instantly, their cold lights extinguished until not one is left. For one long, silent moment, everything is dark. How long does a moment in utter despair last? A day, a year, a thousand? It is impossible to tell, with the unchanging quiet.



There it is, somewhere above, the mirror sky, reflecting itself. For that is all that’s left- darkness reflected in hallways and tunnels and funhouse mazes.


Until the moon slices through, and everything shatters. Shards of darkness fall and change, hitting the ground and seeping color into the soil. The waves crash upon the shore, released- still brutal, still cold, but free and deep cobalt blue under the golden moonlight. The wind sighs, the trees rustle, the grasses bend and sway with the whisk-whisk sound of silk on silk. Thunder and lightning roar and flash as the sky hurls itself into the sea in a torrent of bitter rain. The world is awake with a vengeance, and the moon reigns, full and golden and glorious, over the deep purples and soft blues of the night.
8

There is a word
Which bears a sword
Can pierce an armed man—
It hurls its barbed syllables
And is mute again—
But where it fell
The saved will tell
On patriotic day,
Some epauletted Brother
Gave his breath away.

Wherever runs the breathless sun—
Wherever roams the day—
There is its noiseless onset—
There is its victory!
Behold the keenest marksman!
The most accomplished shot!
Time’s sublimest target
Is a soul “forgot!”
Waverly Mar 2013
it's no good,
no good,
no good.

No good for tomorrows,
where coffee's been cold,
tastes like battery acid,
kicks nervous systems up into highest gear--range = infinite.

then kills.

It's no good.

No good for saturday afternoons,
lonely as clear blue sky
on open highway
hurtling through ferocious air.

No good.

Definitely not a monday morning thought:

A day for hangovers,
tightly-capped lips,
****-smelling ****,
and linoleum stained as an old man's scalp.

It's no good for that time.

It's good for moments:
the window open, the tune of hurled air humbling your eardrums. Music loud, but not unbearable.
someone laughing in the back, kicking up their feet on the headrest
and taking the last sip of Wild Turkey.

Asleep in a securely blue bar;
laying your head on the wood paneling;
feeling the hum-drum earthworm of puke
on your tongue: Tasting guacamole and seared steak.

When the cop hurls around, cuts the lights, and hops out the squad
like a monster with a conscience.

You know you're drunk,
but fear doesn't hit you
until everyone involved
has peeled off.

Fear lingers, like shaking a dead man's hand,
but there are other things that wash well.

you and her.

It's good for moments perplexing,
it calms.

It's good for moments of fear,
it throttles you into sanity.

It's good for moments of confidence,
it humbles.

It's good for clarity,
it maintains.
Over the darkened city, the city of towers,
The city of a thousand gates,
Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers,
Over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates,
The slow wind flows, drearily streams and falls,
With a mournful sound down rain-dark walls.
On one side purples the lustrous dusk of the sea,
And dreams in white at the city's feet;
On one side sleep the plains, with heaped-up hills.
Oaks and beeches whisper in rings about it.
Above the trees are towers where dread bells beat.

The fisherman draws his streaming net from the sea
And sails toward the far-off city, that seems
Like one vague tower.
The dark bow plunges to foam on blue-black waves,
And shrill rain seethes like a ghostly music about him
In a quiet shower.

Rain with a shrill sings on the lapsing waves;
Rain thrills over the roofs again;
Like a shadow of shifting silver it crosses the city;
The lamps in the streets are streamed with rain;
And sparrows complain beneath deep eaves,
And among whirled leaves
The sea-gulls, blowing from tower to lower tower,
From wall to remoter wall,
Skim with the driven rain to the rising sea-sound
And close grey wings and fall . . .

. . . Hearing great rain above me, I now remember
A girl who stood by the door and shut her eyes:
Her pale cheeks glistened with rain, she stood and shivered.
Into a forest of silver she vanished slowly . . .
Voices about me rise . . .

Voices clear and silvery, voices of raindrops,--
'We struck with silver claws, we struck her down.
We are the ghosts of the singing furies . . . '
A chorus of elfin voices blowing about me
Weaves to a babel of sound.  Each cries a secret.
I run among them, reach out vain hands, and drown.

'I am the one who stood beside you and smiled,
Thinking your face so strangely young . . . '
'I am the one who loved you but did not dare.'
'I am the one you followed through crowded streets,
The one who escaped you, the one with red-gleamed hair.'

'I am the one you saw to-day, who fell
Senseless before you, hearing a certain bell:
A bell that broke great memories in my brain.'
'I am the one who passed unnoticed before you,
Invisible, in a cloud of secret pain.'

'I am the one who suddenly cried, beholding
The face of a certain man on the dazzling screen.
They wrote me that he was dead.  It was long ago.
I walked in the streets for a long while, hearing nothing,
And returned to see it again.  And it was so.'


Weave, weave, weave, you streaks of rain!
I am dissolved and woven again . . .
Thousands of faces rise and vanish before me.
Thousands of voices weave in the rain.

'I am the one who rode beside you, blinking
At a dazzle of golden lights.
Tempests of music swept me: I was thinking
Of the gorgeous promise of certain nights:
Of the woman who suddenly smiled at me this day,
Smiled in a certain delicious sidelong way,
And turned, as she reached the door,
To smile once more . . .
Her hands are whiter than snow on midnight water.
Her throat is golden and full of golden laughter,
Her eyes are strange as the stealth of the moon
On a night in June . . .
She runs among whistling leaves; I hurry after;
She dances in dreams over white-waved water;
Her body is white and fragrant and cool,
Magnolia petals that float on a white-starred pool . . .
I have dreamed of her, dreaming for many nights
Of a broken music and golden lights,
Of broken webs of silver, heavily falling
Between my hands and their white desire:
And dark-leaved boughs, edged with a golden radiance,
Dipping to screen a fire . . .
I dream that I walk with her beneath high trees,
But as I lean to kiss her face,
She is blown aloft on wind, I catch at leaves,
And run in a moonless place;
And I hear a crashing of terrible rocks flung down,
And shattering trees and cracking walls,
And a net of intense white flame roars over the town,
And someone cries; and darkness falls . . .
But now she has leaned and smiled at me,
My veins are afire with music,
Her eyes have kissed me, my body is turned to light;
I shall dream to her secret heart tonight . . . '

He rises and moves away, he says no word,
He folds his evening paper and turns away;
I rush through the dark with rows of lamplit faces;
Fire bells peal, and some of us turn to listen,
And some sit motionless in their accustomed places.

Cold rain lashes the car-roof, scurries in gusts,
Streams down the windows in waves and ripples of lustre;
The lamps in the streets are distorted and strange.
Someone takes his watch from his pocket and yawns.
One peers out in the night for the place to change.

Rain . . . rain . . . rain . . . we are buried in rain,
It will rain forever, the swift wheels hiss through water,
Pale sheets of water gleam in the windy street.
The pealing of bells is lost in a drive of rain-drops.
Remote and hurried the great bells beat.

'I am the one whom life so shrewdly betrayed,
Misfortune dogs me, it always hunted me down.
And to-day the woman I love lies dead.
I gave her roses, a ring with opals;
These hands have touched her head.

'I bound her to me in all soft ways,
I bound her to me in a net of days,
Yet now she has gone in silence and said no word.
How can we face these dazzling things, I ask you?
There is no use: we cry: and are not heard.

'They cover a body with roses . . . I shall not see it . . .
Must one return to the lifeless walls of a city
Whose soul is charred by fire? . . . '
His eyes are closed, his lips press tightly together.
Wheels hiss beneath us.  He yields us our desire.

'No, do not stare so--he is weak with grief,
He cannot face you, he turns his eyes aside;
He is confused with pain.
I suffered this.  I know.  It was long ago . . .
He closes his eyes and drowns in death again.'

The wind hurls blows at the rain-starred glistening windows,
The wind shrills down from the half-seen walls.
We flow on the mournful wind in a dream of dying;
And at last a silence falls.
Nathan Collins Jul 2016
Air
In air we breathe
In air we thrive

The Pale blue shroud
The fortress high

A prison from
the starry expanse

That bears us up
On wings to dance

And hurls
The aerial oceans down

And smothers us
Until we drown

In sunsets
Bathed in tangerine

In air we thrive
In air we breathe
Meghan Marie Dec 2010
Some call it weakness.

But to me, it is all strength,
The rush motivates in me
A threatening power engulfing
Every ounce of fragility.

Like dancing on shards of broken glass,
Like prancing across hot coals and flames,
A simple game of who can outlast,
Yet dangerous, this playing with fire and pain.

The poison stings
As it hurls and flings
Its sharp jagged wings
Against my throat.

Some call it weakness.

But to me, it is pure energy,
Pouring into every pore on my body,
Filling my orifices, filling my cavities,
Exciting every nerve ending.

Lightening shoots from my eyes
As I glance indifferently at the world around,
It's always like this at first, everything disappears
I'm just waiting to be filled with the thunder and storm clouds.

The liquid burns
As it froths and churns
And settles into the cistern
That is my chest.

Some call it weakness.

But to me, it's a release,
With my judgment altered I forget not to care,
Suddenly I possess all these liberated emotions
That nobody knew were there.

Maniacal laughter as I'm screaming inside,
Filled to the brim with this fluid fervor,
Everything is honey, finally feeling something,
Participating in living life, not just an observer.

The spirit flows
And the feeling grows
And it only goes to show
That sometimes those
Who seem predisposed
To glow...
Are froze.
Joliver Sep 2017
Selective, elective, feigning acceptance
Nodding your head in that knowing way
“It’s just a phase” isn’t just a phrase
With every passing day your ignorance tests my patience
Forgiveness is a virtue
But you “forgiving” me for what I am
Doesn’t make you a better person than
those who hate, discriminate, separate us as wrong
Why can’t you wrap your head
Around what I’ve said
I like boys, I like girls
And yet even my own community hurls
Misinformation and false narration
LGBTQ
LGBTQ
Bisexuality is valid
We aren’t confused or indecisive
This shouldn’t be divisive
You dare to say
That we shouldn’t stay
Because we have the “choice” of being “normal?”
When did bisexuality become not gay enough
When did bisexuality become not gay enough
When did bisexuality become not gay enough
I don’t mean to be callous
But bisexuality is valid
Mara W Kayh Oct 2016
I walk around this house
with its half rebuilt body
and battered soul,
calling it my home.

Can't quite tell
what it's hiding,
If you don't look carefully.

but if you do
you might feel
resilience and fortitude
coursing through its bones,
entering through its broken
magic door.

12 long years now
since that act of
divine madness,
staged within these walls,
changed
Everything.


- ~

You took your beautiful life,
on an otherwise ordinary
Saturday eve
while the summer sun
hung high
above the moody waters of the lake
and rays of light,
I imagine,
flickered through
the basement window

I was on the phone
with you..
not knowing
till later,
the immensity of what was created
in that moment.

the one that blew me apart forever,
the one that hurls me toward infinite still,
like a dying star seeking a galaxy.

You stayed with me
in silence
until death gently choked you,
then kissed your hands.

You stayed with me
until in lifelessness you dropped the phone,
privileging me with your last moment
honouring me with your last breath.
How else do I try and relay this.. 12 Years after, this is my 2nd attempt at putting it into gravely insufficient words
Don Bouchard Apr 2015
To see this old man shaking here
In rage at boys whose apple-throwing jeers
Reduce him to impotent rage and tears
Is to know Odysseus, home from Troy,
Battle spent, no Cyclops left to blind,
And no more Stygian puzzles to unwind.

The threats he hurls are hollow stones
Coming now from a man whose bones
Once cracked beneath a decking plank
As Scylla searched with serpent heads
For men to crush and swallow, dead,
But ***'dy now remains to save the day.

The hapless tree whose apples green are peltering his home
Is now an oar, pole-planted tall a thousand miles ashore
As penance for the years of taunting gods of wave and foam,
And boys be savages unaware of what an apple's for.
LA Hall Nov 2013
Blaze of a rubble-car a man in faded jeans shouts, hurls a bottle -- smash -- a thousand shards of
        broken glass shine orange on crowded street.

Shouts, cries, infants sobbing loud---sirens, car alarms, a man ***** back his hand,
         holding a brick---the crack of a driver's-side window breaking. Wild yells---everyone is
         sprinting. Fire & wailing.

Sunny afternoon---birds sing in treetops; a woman under shade on sunlit grass in brown rags & an
         old hijab sobs over a slab of concrete, decorated with flowers
and a photograph
with a golden frame.
Jenn Gardner May 2011
Your omniscient presence kills.
Burrow, Burrow.
Deep into my gray, ailing soul.

Intuition is a symptom of a failing system
I am, I am.
A golden statue corossed into air.

The livid crowd hurls their stones.
Running, Running.
Toward the spotless sunlight.

With blistering feet and blood shot eyes.
Bask, Bask.
In the darkness the dead do not fear.

The spaceman resides in a field of daffodils.
Pondering, Pondering.
Their effortless conformity.

Extraterrestrial eyes look into me.
Turn away, Turn away.
To face an orchestra of shrieks.

The rope around my neck.
Tightens, Tightens.
As I step off the wooden platform.
Anthony Moore Jun 2010
Your voice so bitter sweet
Hurls me into painful reality
Everytime you speak
You don't see
The things you say eat me alive
They rip me apart and **** me inside
They beat and abuse
This weather worn hide
I looked at you seperate
Something you unique
There was something about you
Something mistique
Your love had me spinning
It pinned me down
With sintrifical force
I was stuck to the ground
Overwelmed by sorrow
As I rise with a frown
I make my way to the door
No longer stunned by your love
My feet flat on the floor
I wish we could have worked this out
And made everything good
Now I'm walking out
Like I said I would
On our Paradise
The door I now close
It was all a waste of time I suppose
As nightfall settles down
All is froze
Frost bites the trees, flowers
And the tip of your nose
My footprints echo in your mind
Like a stomp
Our crystal clear creek
Now a bubbling swamp
That's haunted by the sounds
Of the frog
Our once was Paradise
Covered in a solid white fog
You must have put forth a tremendous effort
To turn a place like this
Into the horrid, dreadful mist
Our Paradise's destruction is done
You broke my heart
Because you thought I had none
But I do have a heart
Just a chipped and cracked one
You thought that I feel no emotion
But I do and they flow
Like a storm plauged ocean
It's just anger is the only one I put into motion
You just never bothered to look deep inside
And try to find the feelings I hide
As you contimplate on the damage of your dents
You look down and see tear drops
Next to my footprints
All stops
And everything makes sense
You drop tears next to mine
And step into my footprints
Then dark turns to dim
As you begin to follow them
Anthony J. Alexander 2006
Easterly Sep 2018
My soul clanks when the hammer of Truth hits
And beflats my whole existence, that rusty one sits
On the anvil, there I lie half conscious, half sleep stricken,
My Smith hurls and my soul clanks!
Had I been plastic rust wouldn't dare to touch it!
I would be perfect to be moulded into a dummy,
A gentle lifeless creature, dancing on the notes of their fingers,
Loved and longed, and the sleep's harbinger;
In a sick fluke as metal I was sent,
Strong against storms yet vulnerable to the wind.

O my Smith! Would you make a tool out of me?
Or am I long gone? An useless fish out of the pond?
Are my pores too many? O my Smith! Hit me
Until I be the sword of a king's pawn.
Mitchell Apr 2014
Dead plains
Open air
My baby, my K,
Smells of lavender petals,
Defined despair.

A known
Vowel howls
Like she does at night.
Turning right she lights
All former antiquities
Prove wrongful due regularity.

A pressing matter topples
Next to the standing tower of rubble.
Grey stubble tumbles
Like hours out of the hands of a clock.
A kaleidoscope of horror
Makes the mind entrenched in narrow.

She tells me the name
Of a former lover of another
That pressed no buttons, rubbing
Everything
The wrong way.

We compare, we see a sea of troubles
Illuminating nothing but the past,
Never meant to be free.  

Trees shallow swinging singing
Like scythes across the yard.
Burgundy yarn weaves through my heart,
Cold as you were today,
I got nothing else to say.

Pressing matter, dear dead hatter.
Craziness is a beauty
Only the Cleopatra's of the world
Have to truly suffer.
Cradle me naked, cradle me dreamed',
Ain't no love like the
Broken sick and broken hearted'.

At least the darkness
Harkens thee dead ghosts of
Former lives forgotten.
Grey gravestones smell like
Roses given my former lovers;
Each hour with her is
One that will never be forgotten.

Present pasts pass me in the
Mirror; these shop windows are all colored
Green.
Caretaker saint, apple apricot skate, a
Note for the doctor stating
All is forgiven, all is about.

I remember the dream,
Shallow and filled with steam.
Fine patent leather, stitches and cream.
She pressed her face to mine,
Like silk string woven into seams.

Nothing is the matter.
Nothing passes the time.
Dylan hurls the harpsichord,
Gripping the nails,
Repositioning the boards.

The ice was to thick to climb,
The snow to heavy to see through.
Where you see your life is
What you think you can do.

Books on fire.
Trains of heavy steam.
Life is nothing but
An unforgettable dream.
God's Oracle Aug 2021
As I navigate thru the hurls of Life my mind gravitates towards the seductive temptations that linger in the subconscious mindset that I have attained via constant repetitive behaviors that scar me beyond my control and understanding. I hold onto my faith and my sublime thought patterns that perturb my inner soul. Unknowingly recollections of subjected torture and sorrow that I am involuntarily accustomed to...I recite a prayer to my Holy Lord that he remove this impending feeling of agitation and aggravation towards how my mind works and self sabotages it's sober state of being. Maladapted and a Degenerate ******* I am because I do NOT have the strength nor courage to remain in constant contact with my inner self to be able to control my impulses to use Narcotics. Truly, I have finally realized am powerless and deathly spiritually sick with endless intrusive thoughts of ******* on a suicide mission alleviating the symptoms by succumbing to escaping reality thru the Narcotic Amplification slowly self destructing by the utilization of this ******* substances that keep me trapped chained and imprisoned within my body's constantly nagging me to continue to use the drugs to escape my feelings, thoughts and emotions...am left exhausted and incompetent to deal with Life's struggles and circumstances. Without doubt I know I need to learn to retain my sobriety NO MATTER THE COST. I cannot allow myself to continue to indulge in this illegal substances to temporarily make me feel better make me feel special make me feel extremely desensitized from my current problems I cannot afford to keep running like a ******* coward I must learn to face Life on Life terms...maintain my impulses under control retain my spiritual growth and keep grinding towards keeping my commitment to myself to NOT use anymore because it's slowly making me evil more devilish more violent more sinful and in the end it's just killing me to know I am not practicing self care nor loving myself enough to NOT practice this erroneous behavior that it's making me hate myself more and more daily because it's total insanity to continue to contribute to slowly **** myself due to the fact am literally paying for death every time I use drugs to deal with Life. A decade of this **** **** am so done with it... please Holy God take this punishment away from your Son who without fail believes in you loves you and has unfailing faith that does NOT shake because I rely on Christ to keep me alive and well. Enough of this madness I have walked thru enough darkness to know that am literally losing my willpower to maintain my health, happiness, comfort, belief, faith and livelihood. God I pray thee you relieve my destructive addiction and relieve my painful past allow me to LET IT GO...I know I will continue to fight this enormous disease with a strong composure and continue to sanctify my temple slowly but surely...God May You Walk With Me Thru This Journey Now & Till My Death. Amen!!!
A decade of addiction.
Mikaila Dec 2012
There it is, the mirror sky, reflecting all that is beneath it and throwing it back upon itself like rain.

The flowers unfurl with alarming swiftness-delicate, they are, made of shadow and moonlight, flourishing in the dusk-and the tides rake the shore with desperate fingers, wrenched back from the land as the night pulls the day down under the water. The sun sinks crimson within the glass sea, cracking it, and it shatters into a million stars trapped inside a harsh black sky. The shore is littered with a desolate battlefield of broken shells, scarred bits of wood, rocks beaten into smoothness by the unforgiving water.


Where is the moon? There is no softness here. Hard lines, the world washed black and white, and such a stillness even in motion. The sky does not see a moon, and so the moon is gone-trapped with the sun beneath the black sea? The last shards of fiery gold and red have been swallowed by unnaturally silent waves.


Where is the life? Every creature is gone, hidden away. It is not the night that they fear, but the image of themselves reflected inside it. The world does not sleep; it waits, coiled like a spring, for whatever is coming. It is as if everything is holding its breath, silent and full of tension.


The sea isn’t alive like it should be anymore. It’s been tainted, poisoned. Why do the waves shine black and blue like a raven’s feather? Where are the whitecaps and the foam? No, this sea is smooth glass, flowing and morphing, licking cruelly at the shore. Cold as ice, but not frozen, it leaches the color from the world, drawing all the light into its frigid depths. Look down inside it and there is nothing but hard blackness, as if the water is solid now but still moving. The silence is perhaps the most terrifying. Wrong, for the world to move so fast and be so quiet. The clouds and the stars all move dizzyingly, racing across the sky, growing and changing before a real form can be discerned.


Now even the stars are going dark, falling one by one into the sea, a sad parody of rain. They are swallowed instantly, their cold lights extinguished until not one is left. For one long, silent moment, everything is dark. How long does a moment in utter despair last? A day, a year, a thousand? It is impossible to tell, with the unchanging quiet.



There it is, somewhere above, the mirror sky, reflecting itself. For that is all that’s left- darkness reflected in hallways and tunnels and funhouse mazes.


Until the moon slices through, and everything shatters. Shards of darkness fall and change, hitting the ground and seeping color into the soil. The waves crash upon the shore, released- still brutal, still cold, but free and deep cobalt blue under the golden moonlight. The wind sighs, the trees rustle, the grasses bend and sway with the whisk-whisk sound of silk on silk. Thunder and lightning roar and flash as the sky hurls itself into the sea in a torrent of bitter rain. The world is awake with a vengeance, and the moon reigns, full and golden and glorious, over the deep purples and soft blues of the night.
Meghan Marie Feb 2011
The poison stings as it hurls and flings its sharp jagged wings
against my throat.
I am not hesitant as I press the firm lips of the bottle against mine for a long cold kiss,
knowing it only gets easier after the first pull,
knowing that it will probably all be gone before tomorrow.
They call me weak.
They say I'm addicted, I've lost control, that I'm a wreck.
I'm a wreck, and they watch me weep, week after week,
until my reputation reeks of this recreation
and they call it weakness.
But to me, this liquid is strength,
The rush radiates in me a threatening power,
engulfing every ounce of my fragility.
Is it weak to seek out strength?
The liquid burns as it froths and churns and settles into the cistern
that is my chest.
This liquid fire scorches through my body,
leaving me to stagger, and lean,
and eventually capsize, like a tiny ship
swallowed up by a ravenous sea.
But as my body breaks down into bits
that scatter across your living room floor,
my mind has managed to put itself back together.
No longer afraid to admit to myself
that I felt like I belonged here somehow,
No longer afraid to spit the words out,
To stop holding it hidden inside and just let you know.
Here. I hand you my heart on a silver platter.
It's so easy to do right now.
Alcohol is my cover, it is my security blanket,
it lets me say what I need to say without taking responsibility,
it lets me reveal myself without the risk of rejection.
Because, "Hey, I was drunk. I didn't mean it."
And let's be honest,
You probably thought, "She's not herself right now."
That those weren't my words, or my thoughts, or my feelings.
You probably thought it was 'just the ***** talking,'
and honestly, that's probably what I was hoping for.
So yeah, call me weak.
It's true, it's easy to see.
But as for protecting myself from you,
until you've proven you're not deserving
of my being wary, cautious, conserving,
don't you dare ******* judge me.
Andrea Schmidt Oct 2016
Hot, tempered glass shakes peeling paint from
the paneled siding of our house.
Flecks of muted blue drift softly away,
some slipping between cracks in our deck.
My mother grabs and hurls another cup,
Framed neatly in the kitchen window,
she's a furious vision in floral and sweat.

Dew seeps through my jeans,  
and a sweet chill runs up the back of my knees,
leaving my fingers tingling.
I knot and unknot strands of grass.
I see her anger and I let the birds dub kinder words.
Turning my eyes directly to the sun,
I wait for thoughts to burn to ash.

I sit outside and hide in the open air,
loving the quiet moments between the shush-
ing of the trees and the swollen beats of my heart.  
Such small perfections we all passively observe.
The chatter of windblown petals, the noise
a moving snail makes; they comfort me today.
Tomorrow it’s our big, obnoxious chimes.
You'd be surprised the beauty you can find when you just rest in the midst of chaos.
I will not cross the river
those boundaries in my mind
I can move across the desparation
not the dessication of my time

There's the threat
of another breaking dawn
Too late to contemplate
the all night mental storm

But al least there is one beast
That has kept me
in all night company

It seems the mocking bird
hurls threats to no one
as he flies by on the run

Just to remind me
poets are just one poem
from ever being done

He makes for
such poor company
I wish I had a gun
I wish I had a gun
I wish I had a gun .
Bye by birdie . Whose feathers line your nest . Fly by shooting .
Scott Madden May 2015
She changes the weather.

A day when parasols turn into umbrellas,
And when umbrellas turn into parasols.
Undulating thoughts on an undulating day,
When the weather syncs with the mood lulls.

Howling wind hurls at the cracks in the house,
Shrieking at the effort to keep standing strong.
Walls bowed, timbers shattered, beaten, out.
The shell remains, a home that doesn't belong.

Lashing rain on the pane of the pain.
Flooding the banks of the river eyes.
Only relenting to an apathetic dawn.
Left marooned on an island of lies.
sam Jun 2013
The approaching army of the sky silences
cries of loss and sorrow.
The rapidly darkening clouds above,
whilst pouring out a growl,
stirs the citizens down below.
Awakening with innate fear,
the streets clear.

The blue skies and sun succumb to the invasion;
fear reigns.
The murderous grey mass hurls deadly spears.
Carefully directed.
A volley of missiles is followed by a ground-trembling roar,
and yet more spears,
more ferocious, silent, but lethal.

Hearts beat, fast, close, one, two.
Awkward conversation is struck.
All hide their fear behind a tattered curtain of optimism.
The pinnacle, the flourish of the storm,
leaves powerful impressions.
Reminiscent of a warning;
a timely reminder.

The roar of the beast slowly creeps into the distance, subsiding.
Leaving only the rhythmic pitter-patter of tears
from a thousand floating monsters
decorating the night sky.
marianne Apr 2019
Slim whispers under snowfall
warblers vanish, send a postcard
bloom and batten just a memory
while wind hurls sheeting rain
against my window—
my heart melts, open to
the inner wild,
my soul sings
words through pen on paper
I come alive
in the stillness, in the
bleak months

Sun is warming skin and soil
hatchlings calling, can you hear them?
cherry blossoms pink to bursting
while springtime beckons little faces
to my window—
my heart skips, one eye
to the quiet
still my soul’s urge
to be open to the passage
ebb and ease into
the rousing, the
bright months
I'm not quite ready for Spring yet.
k e i Aug 2020
the date reads november 18.

there's 6 days before our anniversary

-i think i've finally gotten it right now.



the air's crisp with that autumnal scent of dried leaves. the coffee’s what keeps me from losing the last of my grip on this cold morning, indifferent to the iciness of our early days i currently heed through.



my forgetfulness had its way of having us spiral down to endless fights-our anniversary was one thing for instance. petty back and forth bickerings resolved with my “i love you's” met with eyerolls failing to cover up the smile that slides it way on your face. heated stares and suffocating silences. “i'm sorry, i'll make it up to you's” soon lost its charm. conflicts hung with one of us walking out. compromises wavered, melted into emotionless pleas to end it all-us saying "**** it" to the rings glinting on our digitus quartus.



the day we've chosen to surrender it all true to life inevitably came, that september 7 five years ago. if i force myself to stop thinking about the specifics, i can brush it off as our homage paid to the same day i was first made known of your existence as you passed by me in the campus grounds, the day we scratched our angst upon a match box-little did we know it would become the same fuel that extinguishes all the embers we've lit aflame. that year winter followed but it simply couldn’t come up with blizzards raging with more cruelty.



autumns ago we gave up on being each other's stressors and stress reliever. we’ve turned out to be the boulder rolling on all the spaces we shared, flattening the dreams, the dayfalls, the vows we’ve exchanged and wherever it was that we’ve only quite reached the middle of;



our midpoint turned out to be our ending.





for so long this wondering nested in the crevices of my hollow. have we done or not done some small thing, done or undone it some other way, would the course of things have ran differently for us?



maybe they’ve been right all along,

and their fingers pointed to our temples were justly served.

maybe they were right and we were just two kids unsuspecting of just how much an involvement of forever would cost us.

such hasty entanglement, infinitely falling unto acts of impulses yet again.

maybe we should’ve saved all that trouble of gown and tux thrifting and cake tasting and tying the knot until the years proved ripe with stability.

you should've said “we should talk about this first.” instead when i got down on one knee five months after we’ve gotten our degrees.



you could have offered a spillage of precarious uncertainty instead of easily giving out that hearty yes, flinging us both on top of the world only to be mercilessly pulled six feet under, forced to breath still.

you would’ve stomped over the shards cut out of the shape of my heart but at least i’d eventually come with an acceptance. we wouldn’t have turned into ten years worth of grief.



i know you’ve always been born for higher things, always been on the lookout for greater pursuits. that’s what made me drawn to you in the first place after all. you were someone who knew where she was headed to despite the fuckedupness of all that surrounded you while i was some beaten down misguided boy who needed that pulling uprooting force of a direction.



maybe you should’ve gone off to medschool and i with working my way for a promotion before we dealt with rent and bills and threading on the line of what it truly meant to be parents.

i’ll always thank the heavens for having the thorns leave that part unharmed, our daughter cradled by peace, swaddled in the softest of petals, later on forging the steps where wildflowers bloom; it was only right we named her after one. celandine.



she’s got your doe eyes, the exact tinge of blue. i can see how much she looks up to you. she told me how she wants to be a doctor when she grows up the last time i picked her up from the place you both live in now. during the drive, she was humming to the chorus of that old nirvana song, you know, that one we repeatedly listened to. i couldn’t help but have my heart swell, nearly tearing up. it felt like a memory the three of us shared like her first nights at that house. her loud cries quieted down as you hummed that alt song into a lullaby. she’s very inquisitive for her age though she’s still yet to ask questions about us or why her parents don’t live or spend time together or why she only gets to see her dad during the weekends. but i think for a five year old she somehow understands.



i can imagine you scoffing, a cigarette dangling from your lips just like the old days where you’d light one whenever you couldn’t help but be annoyed. your belief that regret is stupid and what if’s take you to a drive to nowhere still stands strong. but baby for a long time the what if’s have kept me going, as with all my unhealthy coping mechanisms-when we peeled off the last of the wallpaper, pulled out our clothes from our shared closet, even still when i gunned my old corolla to ignition.



we lost it all.

to our fights. to their i told you so’s. to the vows we’ve memorized since our dates around the college park. to the milestones framed. to autumn and winter and spring and summer.



it's years later and we've managed to unstuck ourselves from the rubble this marriage has become like how adults are expected to deal with everything else this sorry excuse of a life hurls at. but hey, maybe you were right. maybe us separating was necessary to **** off the beasts that tore past the skins of our monsters in unison.



i know you don’t really regret any of it. i know what we’ve birthed from the sadness that trailed down our tailbones patterned from dysfunctional upbringings held out to be intentions pure, offered for a ravaging love. i saw it, felt it the years that led us to the altar and the years witnessed by those housewalls, those fall afternoons the three of us napped in the same room as a family.



there’s 6 days before our anniversary and i’ve finally got it right.

10 years too late.

forgive me for longing, but i think it’s only right that i make do with what was saved from the skeletal framework of bruised years;

the gold ring i’ve strung on a necklace.

the state magnets from our old refrigerator.

the photo album filled with pictures from that white sand beach on our honeymoon.

the pinstriped tie you made me wear on my first day at my third job.

even the way you used to hog the covers and how you’d tend to burn the breakfast eggs.



there’s six days before our anniversary and now, i’ve finally gotten it right.

10 years too late.





“our relics are still yet to meet their grave. but their epitaph would read happy anniversary”.

— The End —