"indomitable" poems
His strong hands gripped me everywhere, he knew my sensitive places.
My eyes shone due to my intense obedience and humiliation.
I started to perspire in an excitable way.
My legs began to shake.
I could feel his affection through his endless kiss.
I felt intimidated.
He loved me.
I can still feel his indomitable hands around me, he knows my vulnerable spots.
My eyes glisten from my potent passiveness and embarrassment.
I break out in nervous sweats.
My legs are trembling.
I can feel his devotion in an infinite smack.
I feel terrorized.
He's attached to me.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
There's something about the sea:
In feeling a force of nature,
So much stronger than yourself,
Surround you in its embrace.
There's something about the waves,
Their raw power,
Their cool, demanding strength.
And there's something about his hands,
His voice, his eyes.
The way his body pulls mine under,
Like waves,
Indomitable, forceful,
Alive.
And I'm floating.
I'm sinking.
I'm thrown around in the current.
In his arms: the sea;
The breath he steals
Then grants it back.
And I pray only
That the tide never subsides.
Aug 28, 2022
Aug 28, 2022 at 4:56 AM UTC
whereas by dark really released,the modern
flame of her indomitable body
uses a careful fierceness. Her lips study
my head gripping for a decision:burn
the terrific fingers which grapple and joke
on my passionate anatomy
oh yes! Large legs pinch,toes choke—
hair-thin strands of magic agony
….by day this lady in her limousine
oozes in fashionable traffic,just
a halfsmile (for society’s sweet sake)
in the not too frail lips almost discussed;
between her and ourselves a nearly-opaque
perfume disinterestedly obscene.
5.9k
Open bramble gate, morning lets itself in,
eyes open in welcome. Water stirs – a
glance outside. A jade tiger rises,
blue herons fly to South Mountain.
~~~
Forage through herb abundance on South
Mountain sunlight pooled in cassia leaves.
It’s why you reclused here, hermitage entwined
in viridian mists. I find your footprints
headed to the clouds, so I leave this
poem on your wall and on a whim
ascend South Mountain ridges. Sticks
snap underfoot – blue herons startle away.
~~~
Boundless and empty to townsfolk,
South Mountain peaks. But here
immortals dance among indomitable pines.
Above the sun blue herons fly into
paper crumpled clouds – clouds the body,
clouds the wings. Sonorous bird song -
radiant clarity – makes mountain forests
sing, each beat moves the clouds, red
dust cleared from rivers and peaks,
ochre streams flood forests and fields,
canyons and gorges, jades and emeralds rise.
Petals scatter on crystalline swells, night
lengthens slowly – coldness wanders by
but I will linger here, a little longer.
Version 2
South Mountain peaks, boundless and empty to townsfolk.
But here immortals dance among indomitable pines.
Above the sun blue herons fly into paper folded clouds
- azure heaven change – clouds the body, clouds the wings.
Sonorous bird song radiant clarity – makes mountain forest sing,
each beat moves the clouds, red dust cleared from rivers
and peaks, ochre streams flood forests and fields,
canyons and gorges, jade and emerald rises.
Petals scatter on crystalline swells – night lengthens slowly -
coldness wanders by but I believe I will linger here, a little longer.
Version 3
South Mountain peaks, boundless and empty to townsfolk.
But here immortals dance among indomitable pines.
Above the sun blue herons fly into paper folded clouds
- azure heaven change – clouds the body, clouds the wings.
Sonorous bird songs radiant clarity – makes mountain forests sing,
each beat moves the clouds, red dust clears from rivers
and peaks. Streams of ochre flood forests and fields,
canyons and gorges, jades and emeralds rise.
Scattered petals on crystalline swells – night slowly lengthens -
coldness wanders by but I believe I will linger here, a little longer.
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 8:02 PM UTC
Beauty like hers is genius. Not the call
Of Homer’s or of Dante’s heart sublime,—
Not Michael’s hand furrowing the zones of time,—
Is more with compassed mysteries musical;
Nay, not in Spring’s or Summer’s sweet footfall
More gathered gifts exuberant Life bequeathes
Than doth this sovereign face, whose love-spell breathes
Even from its shadowed contour on the wall.
As many men are poets in their youth,
But for one sweet-strung soul the wires prolong
Even through all change the indomitable song;
So in likewise the envenomed years, whose tooth
Rends shallower grace with ruin void of ruth,
Upon this beauty’s power shall wreak no wrong.
4.6k
I am a white, Jewish girl from Florida.
Hit me.
Hit me with your white girl jokes,
Your Jewish American Princess stereotypes.
I will giggle and squeal right along with you.
Because yeah,
I do order white chocolate mocha frappuchinos from Starbucks,
I Instagram pictures of my nails,
I take selfies, whiten my teeth, straighten my hair,
Shop at Forever21 and drink Naked Juice like it is my job.
Yeah, my daddy buys me things,
I don’t pay for my data plan,
There’s no way in hell I would drive a sedan,
I wear Nike shorts and avoid any nearby cameraman,
And let me tell you, I love jamming out to old school Britney Spears.
Hit me one more time, because none of that means I am any less intelligent,
Any less diligent,
Any less likely to face judgment
Than any other slice of diversity around me –
I am a white, Jewish girl
My nose is not its own cartoon,
I eat bagels (but I absolutely hate lox),
I’m not tan or even the least bit tinted,
And god knows I don’t wear Uggs.
Tell me I need to get married young,
Major in business,
Wear clothes that leave me airless,
Get some of that European gracefulness,
But don’t tell me I’m dumb.
Don’t tell me I’m not thoughtful.
I’m a white girl.
Take a glance at my resourcefulness,
Understand my goals of being ambitious,
Get rid of your own stereotype-inducing cockiness,
And notice me in all of my flawlessness.
Because I am a white girl,
And I am unique, strong, inventive,
Empowered, passionate, adventurous,
Indomitable, unbeatable.
I am an individual –
Not part of some whole that you put me in to stabilize your mold,
Not the example of a societally scatterbrained ***** meant to be your centerfold,
Not a previously worn-out piece of clothing thrown to the gutter unsold,
Rather a human being of my own rules and my own morals
A human being with ideas and intelligence and power,
A white, Jewish girl,
A person.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
red stains, fading, cracked, scented
_if i kissed your prints, would they kiss me back?_
sighs, thoughts, spaces between prints
spaces between words, between parted lips and floating thoughts the world! is so crowded with space but yours is the one i want to fill .
but where are the lines? lines of loss, lines of lawns, lines of ink and rips and more stains and letters, in the hands and on the pavement
where are the lines?
why won't you go there?
why do you hover in these foul, indomitable spaces? why do you seek that which you should not?
if the shadow of lines slinks in your quiet expression, then why are you still here?
if the echo of your soft face lingers in my hands, if the whisper of your breath and the heat of your skin still singes my own, then why do you disappear?
lovely wraith, lovely memory of a thing that once was, why do you sit so alone?
because i am coming to your space, and if you can see me, of shadow and fog, then i will meet you there,
on a line of our own.
_>because it's a death premeditated and i can see it unfolding,_
_sharp wounding painful_
_and the discourse in the sky is telling me so, yet why do i keep walking west?_
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
One can easily become disillusioned in a world senselessly
Filled with confusion and upheaval – evil at every corner,
and it appears as though good has become unsustainable
Bleak as tomorrow’s tidings may, I stay on bended knees
Looking upward with unanswered questions - let wisdom
Rain down like libations, to quench thirst wrought off miles
upon life’s rugged road, and before the end has come I want
To have left behind a legacy of achievement, taking whatever
Motivation I can get to buildup up conviction, until cynicism
is converted into action - my spirit soaring like an eagle propels
My ambition to loftier heights thought unimagined – so I wait
Patiently for a windfall gain, made from choices to facilitate change
For I’m indomitable, from a lineage of kings rising above the worlds
condition, like a sprightly star among the constellations…
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
Edifice erections surreal mistic heights
Wayward excursions and catenary's bight
Communal collusions of harmonies site
Ethereal subsistence on exsertion's light
Lingam and yoni are indefatigably tight
Exponential overload was communities plight
Semantic regalia is myriad temptation
Finite being a mutual oblation
Vicarious recalcitrance an obeisant sensation
Conception's vastness like incalculable equation
Ephemeral effulgence is indomitable pervasion
Treacherous traverse and eternal occasion
Succinct salience is symbiotic allegory
Fecundity's verve a transcendent promontory
Imperative ascension the conjunctive's divinatory
Audacity's exigence and fertility's invocatory
Erotica's erectile like mentality's trajectory
Futurity's fatidic and inherent delusory
**** it fell right over like categorical imperative's contradictory
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
An empty pub is the worst place to be,
In a city, Where even gods stay a bit longer every year,
Perhaps persuaded by the halcyon laughter of that half dressed street urchin,
Who has learnt to celebrate her comical existence,
In the pregnant underbelly of a false saint,
Who refuses to give birth to anything but naked poverty.
Small wonder the gods have never chosen to intervene in the city of joy,
After all its the fault of these urchins who refuse to abandon their filthy smiles,
And have the audacity to peak through the walls that we annually paint,
With the victorious colours of human values.
But why do they peek,
Isn't their world filled with the unmatched profoundness of black and white photography?
Isn't their world the home to poetic muses and romantic poverty ?
Indeed, why do they peek ?
Before the label on the bottle in front of me,
Makes you judge the potency of what I utter,
Let me tell you why.
For them our world is a constant theatrical which has run different shows annually,
Yet the only complaint they have perhaps is that the genre of the shows,
Have somehow never changed.
Its always been the darkest of satires,
Like the running satire in which half our society,
Sitting safe within the beautiful walls ,
We built around our indomitable prosperity and culture ,
Indulges,
In the hysterical condemnation of a man,
Who wants to build a beautiful wall on a different continent .
To protect the same
You know, I don't speak urchin-tongue,
But I have always had the gift to read feelings I shouldn’t,
And something tells me the urchins have titled this theatrical,
“Moral ************
But that’s not all,
An empty pub is the worst place to be in a city which refuses to let you give up hope,
And gently reminds you with every drink
That even when the rest of the world is out there dancing,
To the drum beats of happy endings and ephemeral farewells,
There’s one place that will never close its doors on you.
The only thing is.
The place isn’t the home you never ended up building with her,
It’s just an empty pub.
And that is why an empty pub is the worst place to be.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 3:13 AM UTC
She stands as pale as Parian statues stand;
Like Cleopatra when she turned at bay,
And felt her strength above the Roman sway,
And felt the aspic writhing in her hand.
Her face is steadfast toward the shadowy land,
For dim beyond it looms the light of day;
Her feet are steadfast; all the arduous way
That foot-track hath not wavered on the sand.
She stands there like a beacon thro' the night,
A pale clear beacon where the storm-drift is;
She stands alone, a wonder deathly white;
She stands there patient, nerved with inner might,
Indomitable in her feebleness,
Her face and will athirst against the light.
2.8k
Collaboration with Alyssa Underwood!
*I'm not getting much from life,
it makes me want to scream!
Won't achieve my smallest goal...
let alone my dreams!*.
**Your life's hidden in Christ's hands
and your competence comes from Him.
His Spirit's working His purpose in you...
despite how things may seem.**.
*I'm frail and I'm weak,
I'm sorry. I'm not strong.
You say I can handle this test...
You couldn't be more wrong!*.
**Frailty's the best start
for watching our egos flee.
Once we know WE can't do it...
we begin to get set free.**.
*I am sick and tired
of the daily drudge!
And fellow believers?
All they do is JUDGE!*.
**So lay it all down.
Jesus died to bear
the indomitable weight...
of every burden you wear.**.
*Does God answer prayers?
I wonder if HE DOES!
If you go and backslide
He seems to hold a grudge!*.
**I find He answers differently
than what I might seek first,
for what's pleasant now...
May not fill my deepest thirst.**.
*Alright. He makes us patient.
But I can believe the lies!
He has no provision
to make me savvy... WISE!*.
**If wisdom like the world
is what the soul most craves,
where's the contentment...
in those who are its slaves?**
*The believer is the candle
Jesus is the flame.
Thank you sister for your help...
I'm calling on His Name!
I will heed your sayings.
I have been absurd!
He's good to all His promises...
They're written in HIS WORD.*.
**It's not absurd to question
or probe into our doubts.
HIS WORD can stand resistance...
through every skeptic's shouts.
We're here to help each other
find truth along the way.
JESUS IS THE WAY AND TRUTH
AND LIFE WE LIVE EACH DAY!
Alyssa Underwood (the voice of Truth)**.
SoulSurvivor (the doubtful believer)
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 7:59 PM UTC
*Stellar spirit, fearless flier to high skies, your wings are gifts of freedom,
your florid songs, tug at my heart as much as those plumage,
your elan, though subdued a bit by harsh weather, takes new shoots,
never in disquiet, indomitable, your inner lamp, now burns with camphor light.
I see you fly above the storm clouds, singing anthem of your soul,
spectacular, in clear weather, cheered by your dear ones near,
the hillsides, valleys and dales resound with your dulcet tunes.*
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
The serpent dips his head beneath the sea
His mother, source of all his energy
Eternal, thence to draw the strength he needs
On earth to do indomitable dees
Once more; and they, who saw but understood
Naught of his nature of beatitude
Were awed: they murmured with abated breath;
Alas the Master; so he sinks in death.
But whoso knows the mystery of man
Sees life and death as curves of one same plan.
2.5k
The Great Outdoors
Doors open every which way
and it's impossible to escape you
since you are behind everyone of them.
The overflowing cascade
that is your hair
the splendor of the sun at noon
that is your smile
and the ever present flawless work of art
that is your body.
The gorgeous landscape of your chest
needless to say how much I love the view.
The great outdoors lives
and breathes within you.
Let me take you indoors
so I could breathe you at dawn
take off the weight of all those weary kisses
and slowly nourish me in your lips.
Let me spend an eternity
attached to your hips.
Let our anatomies condense into one another
creating record setting heat.
Let me taste the warmth of your mouth
and feel the cold of your feet.
Your implacable thighs,
your indomitable abdomen
the pearls of your eyes,
your button nose and pillow cheeks.
The softness of your hands
as your fingers run all over me.
The flirtatious ways of your walk
inhaling your fresh essence in the air
with your aura by my side
knocking down the door to my lair
and awake from my self-imposed hibernation
to dedicate this loving prose in ode
to Mother Nature's greatest creation.
Like an impatient Great White
I can still sense your flesh when I can't see
devouring everything in sight
and this hunger towards you it leads
because my waters are yours
I can smell your thick blood
algae, seaweed or other life forms
are not nearly enough
to keep me from craving you
and fulfilling this unfulfilling love
to find a way to repress
what my flinching body has become
from the Savannah to the Sahara
I can't suffice this longing
night, afternoon or morning
for your great outdoors.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 3:49 PM UTC
The twilight speaks of greater
Greatness, for your spirit soars
Across the horizons of life and
The living--- leaving an era of
Idealized legacy of redeemed
Human equality and possibility.
The indomitable soul you once
Wore under your colored skin
Fuels our aspirations for a better
World of kaleidoscope of faces,
Races, and happiness. Nelson,
Now that you have entered
The narrow door of immortality,
Let our tears be a vindication to
Your ideals of freedom and
Democracy. Rest in His peace
Our dear old man. For the world
You toiled to change is now our burden
Just as how we are burdened with
Your humility and humanity.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
All so grave and shining see they come
From the blissful ranks of the forgiven,
Though so distant wheels the nearest crystal dome,
And the spheres are seven.
Are you in such haste to come to earth,
Shining ones, the Wonder on your brow,
To the low poor places of your birth,
And the day that must be darkness now?
Does the heart still crave the spot it yearned on
In the grey and mortal years,
The pure flame the smoky hearth it burned on,
The clear eye its tears?
Was there, in the narrow range of living,
After all the wider scope?
In the old old rapture of forgiving,
In the long long flight of hope?
Come you, from free sweep across the spaces,
To the irksome bounds of mortal law,
From the all-embracing Vision, to some face’s
Look that never saw?
Never we, imprisoned here, had sought you,
Lured you with the ancient bait of pain,
Down the silver current of the light-years brought you
To the beaten round again—
Is it you, perchance, who ache to strain us
Dumbly to the dim transfigured breast,
Or with tragic gesture would detain us
From the age-long search for rest?
Is the labour then more glorious than the laurel,
The learning than the conquered thought?
Is the meed of men the righteous quarrel,
Not the justice wrought?
Long ago we guessed it, faithful ghosts,
Proudly chose the present for our scene,
And sent out indomitable hosts
Day by day to widen our demesne.
Sit you by our hearth-stone, lone immortals,
Share again the bitter wine of life!
Well we know, beyond the peaceful portals
There is nothing better than our strife,
Nought more thrilling than the cry that calls us,
Spent and stumbling, to the conflict vain,
After each disaster that befalls us
Nerves us for a sterner strain.
And, when flood or foeman shakes the sleeper
In his moment’s lapse from pain,
Bids us fold our tents, and flee our kin, and deeper
Drive into the wilderness again.
2.2k
In the Church, I met a woman so old
Bending under the weight of years
I wonder what made her steal my attention
Was it her struggle to hold back her tears?
In spite of her frail stooping figure
She seemed to have an indomitable will
Defeating all infirmities of age, she stood
With a face though sad, yet tranquil and still
Strange enough, she recalled to me
The determined, but decrepit old man beside the pool
Whom Wordsworth had once encountered
Gathering leeches so scarce, but resolute and cool
I watched the woman humbly prostrate
And feebly rise and straighten her aged form
Surrendering herself at the feet of God
Imploring grace for life’s little tasks to perform
In her gnarled hands, she firmly held a prayer book
With the other supporting her frail figure on a staff
And with a sigh of relief, she left the church
As if her afflictions were reduced to half
As the Congregation dispersed in all directions
She feebly walked to her accustomed haunt
At the rear side of the church was a Cemetery unkempt
Where the ancestors slept, devoid of earthly cares and want
Among all the tombstones in marble and granite
Erected in memory of the kindred dead
There was a newly dug up grave
That stood aloof as a heap of mud
I watched the old woman approach this spot
Where she knelt down with a calm demeanor
Her withered hands clasped together in piety
And her eyes closed in silent prayer
With a convulsive motion of her lips
She rose up and once more knelt down
As if searching for a face so dear
Whose memory she could never ever drown
Within that mound, slept her only son
Who died in his prime, a month before
Leaving his widowed mother behind
To brave the shafts stinging, so sore
As Time by seconds and minutes ticked away
The bereaved mother stood up at last
And heavily yet quietly walked away
Leaving the one who was once her own part
*** *** **
While the wounds of the young are quickly closed and healed
And their ductile affections entwine around new passions
The aged withdraw to the silence and desolation of life
Once when deprived of the love that life no more sanctions!
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 7:09 AM UTC
Words…..because words are all I have……..:) Edgar
endearments generosity incantatory new sagacity surprise heresy dissipation violating abyss language warning culminates dalack obdurate serving waiter ossuary occurrences tortured beware silence calm bow physiognomy paucity occurrence exegeses transmogrification effectuation Adjunctive dairy tenure contention tenner reins happy indomitable, connoisseur artifice concatenation vivacity voluptuous solemnity enigmatic burdened glorious line huge……………………some I made myself…..:) Edgar
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC
Hypnotizing Swirl
The last time I saw you, my mind was an intensified and frigid blast from the polarized north.
I held onto your body and our breath emitted a spiritual corona which enveloped us in love.
We dwelled within a single abode intertwining our illuminated vessels.
Within this shrine resides the sacred enamorment that placed me in a trance…
-A hypnotizing swirl.-
Spirited away, in this moment, I moon the time away awaiting the evolution, the bloom, the metamorphosis, the efflorescence of your quintessence.
Like a delicate orchid of the brightest evergreen stem.
An exuberant and illustrious flower, a symbol of our love, it has intertwined our beings with the seeds of rejuvenation sown into our souls.
Today when I see you, like a broken record in my mind, I am detached.
I am a juggernaut, a sentinel who guards sanity within the confines of an indomitable fortress.
My dream has been nurtured in a pink dreamer’s chest; my treasure is a myriad of aromatic petals sealed away.
Upon this parcel, the benediction of amor has been bestowed.
Moonbeams and iridescent butterflies dwindle upon its rosy and stout exterior.
The Universe’s tears glimmer upon the castle walls housing my fantasy, my tenuous and ethereal hope bound to break at any moment.
-An epiphany can change things you know.-
“How do I know that my beseeching cries shall reach the Transcendental in the Realm of the Tenuous and Divine?”
-Only faith and virtue can allow me to reach the pinnacle of my desires-
To a Shattered and Reassembled Dream.
By, Sanders Maurice Foulke III
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 9:03 PM UTC
If the clouds went away,
far away from me,
they would continue
to rain on my parade.
Nobody should march to
the beat of someone else's drum;
I will always be a
disappointment to somebody.
They come they go-
the compliments and sacrifice.
How inconsistent
they always are.
How can I firmly
establish my identity,
when my identity
is what they disapprove of?
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 10:06 AM UTC
I am indomitable, untouchable
I am wrath embodied
The rage of the downtrodden made flesh
Nothing will stand in my way
Their corpses torn apart by my hands
Their blood soaked into the soil
I have wrought destruction upon them
And brought ruin to their hearth
They dared to provoke me
To spit upon me when I was weak
And what was sown
They have reaped
I am the berserker
Blood streams from my wounds
The horde overwhelms me
Yet I refuse to be defeated
I smash through their lines
A roar ripping from my throat
As I rend my enemies asunder
And cover myself in their gore
I see terror in their eyes
As they see the blood frenzy in mine
I lay waste to all who oppose me
And still it is not enough
My lust for battle can not be sated
It will not be satisfied
Until I have annihilated them
Until I have erased every trace of them
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
When Death resolutely comes
Abrupt with his deadly summons
Tarry not like a galley slave
But like a courteous warrior behave
Do not waver and do not droop
As if you are to be hung on a loop
Never dread lying under the dust
With the body in a narrow vault ******
Know, it is only when seeds rot
That fresh and florid lives sprout
So when it is time to go
Strut like an indomitable foe,
With swinging hands and head held high
To be welcomed by angels of the sky
With the music of clanging cymbals
And the rising rhythm of sounding bells
Into a kingdom, bright and cheerful
And a state far radiant and blissful
Where the sun shall never set
Where blessed souls will joyously meet
Where Truth and Beauty preside
Where peace and bliss abide
Ousted out of terrestrial space
You’re enfolded in God’s sweet embrace
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
An old man sits in an even older rocking chair.
His skin was midnight, as was his hair once upon a time
When it had adorned his head
Within its very curl was a diamond, a ruby,
Like the crown of the richest king
But now the only thing that curled
Was his back
Hunched in that old chair
You couldn’t tell by looking at it
But it was once a strong body
Yes, the old man was young once
He was strong,
He was beautiful
He was proud
As he should be
But he was too strong
His exterior was that of ice and steel
Not the fieriest touch
Nor the most jagged of cries
Could penetrate
And he was too beautiful
His boisterous laugh, his perfect smile
Most found loud
Obtuse
And blinding
His greatest sin was his pride
He thought himself a mountain
Indomitable
But when the valley burned
All he could do was watch
The old man sits in the even older rocking chair
Weak, ugly, and disgraced
He once dared to think
God was proud to have made this body
He wondered what He thought of him now
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
what is this love
for I have beheld it
cast in metamorphosis
a love that makes
transformations on the mind
permissible transformations
improvisations of the self
in ****** intensity
which emphasises the drama
of sometimes, dark, violent
and repressive potentials
vicious energies of hate and ambition
that propel the enactment
of intense and exhausting experience
of vigorous vertiginous chaos
indomitable in its desires
what is this love
is it a registered predicament
made memorable by vivid language
that would butcher in ritual
gratuitous memories and testify
to an urgency of unwisely relinquished emotion
what is this love
does it flourish in flawed
and unreasonable understandings
accumulated upon the mind
in vicarious thrill of sympathy
where traits are highly exaggerated
and eagerly anticipates
the oppressive weight of the past
that functions upon a common collapse
of distinctions
or does it manufacture artificial precepts
pretending in attractive collaboration
to associate fiction rather than fact
what is this love
is it that by treaty or inheritance
with loving ferocity would embalm all tears
and hide all those collaborations
in flared conflagrations of the heart
and yes create a turmoil in the mind
hotter than a thousand summers
and vividly stamp upon a twisted body
a moral viciousness of fathomless malice
that wouldst close its ears
to the admonitions of conscious
and thus through an improbable
incantatory verbal rite
touch the hidden order of all things
in disassembling nature
what is this love
if only it was known
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC