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Ends up,
Time goes on,
Each on its own
Reasons determined
Mind thinks a lot before
Infancies make things clear
Nonetheless travelling together
Each thing has its own preferences
Dusk ends up, time goes on, each on its own
1. Ten Letter Word. Starting and ending with the same letter.
2. It's an Acrostic.
3. Vertical top to bottom.

First line one syllable
Second line two syllables
Third is three etc.etc .
The Tenth line is a combination of the first four lines of Ten syllables.
vircapio gale Mar 2013
i would compromise
--i compromise. i appear to i mean,
with peace-demeanor customized for show
paraded there and there, obeisant nonsense
in a confidence of meek to render compliments
crowding infancies of all

for the sake of art
i bend my frame about cliche
to have a human dragon claim
"the real persists unknown"
and gather at a sacred dolmen
fascinating morals sung beneath the stars and sun--
you said there was a butterfly
tasting at my skull, shaking with uncommon music too..
its skinny, immigrant feet abuzz
within the world they called a One, wings on pause, my eyebrows in flight.

a blanket iris cries warmth
in clusters hung ripe, filming over all
a native ceremonial, falsepolitik
i pluck at them atop a fence
obscure for comforts masking truth
discarded, found, fashioned
into furniture for candled houses
built with children's sons
where families try to see
a clearing in the warping
mirrors saddled with a dripping time no illustration comprehends
. wooden beams help it rise and dim,
the sunny lie, genuinely fake,
authentic trick of aeons hidden in the true
-- growing young, stemming back
to foil brighter undiscoveries for otherwisely
patient basements full of heirlooms,
sheik dining areas all
nodding over cheap wine we still manage to squint up at nothing at
in apple layers
symbolizing tidy crimes invented ceaselessly,
serving existential voids--
grace, fall, stumble catch
acquired tones of oak or berry--
other fruits would do, or none,
as i still feel
praised by your rejections --
when indifference gains a sweetness
like a novel vengeance won
i am indulging villainy
workshopping staling norms,
garden dark as cultivated loam.
where i am words
mooding intellect to torment,
faun complexity awry
The Pioneer Jan 2015
We have no choice in our birth
Or the time we are brought into this earth
Henceforth tis only by a want
A choice not to be flaunt
It's a fight that will only put on delay
The day when we kiss this world away
Destined for a date unfathomable
But to some the beauty is discoverable
Each soul lives by self a self goal
Wonderful wants tucked into a unique skull
To some the end is a terrible fear
Others becon it near
"Love thy neighbor"
They may be poor
Shut you out with the slam of a door
But, if you love you can do no more
We will all face the hooded reaper
It can end in a gentle whisper
Or a terrible fight of terror
For many including i
We don't wish to die
But there are those who suffer
Whose choice to live is to worse than the other
We all wish to save eachother
And yet must discover
Dieing is a salvation
To a burdened soul without any hope of a collection
Of their deserved happy memories
Denied to them since infancies
As awful truths as these
Death is no disease
I love you
And no matter what may be
That is true
Maggieburn Oct 2019
We don’t get to be young,
We need to grow old,
We need to make choices
We need to go places,
and make sacrifices.

Life is not easy or constant,
Life is a path and not a contest,
Comparing yourself to everyone else
Is simple to do but bad for your health.

We don’t get to have fun,
We need to come undone,
We need to stop smiling, laughing and crying.

Life is a lie with one sole purpose,
Which has yet to rise to the surface
“You don’t get to be young,
you need to grow old”
This is what my mom believes,
But frankly this idea is meant to deceive.

If we don’t live now,
We could just say “ciao” to all our specialties,
And get drowned in legacies,
Without finding any remedies to our promised infancies.
Tryst Apr 2019
How Morrow weaves her evensong
For buds, unwary, sweet and young,
Full-blossomed low on boughs of trees,
Still blissful in their infancies,
Beguiled by wind and rain and sun
To crawl to stand to walk to run!

And Oh! How Morrow ever-long
Shall pluck with purpose from the throng
Aged thorny vines on withered knees,
Wild saplings cursed with Time's disease,
And all betwixt whose yarns have spun
Out from the void whence they begun.

And so, sweet Morrow, shadows long
Flit fairy-like o'er milkmoon seas,
Thy cold enticing webs are strung
On oceans calm and careless leas;
A twilight rests on mountains flung
Unto the heaven that oversees
A midnight roll-call aired with sorrow
For young sweet buds who’ll miss thee, Morrow.

— The End —