"infirmed" poems
Province acreage dies for one to tilleth its deserted range
Wherein cement meets the grain
It's love wants to be an emblem upon the world's and celestial's mapped blueprint........
Sick of nothing
Infirmed by zich
Swabbed by heartache
Taping its own stitch...
Just another moorland
Who Gaveth all
Lost to
Hopeless romance merry....
Depletedness licketh...
Deprived
Scanting
Panting its last sad hopeful breathe!!!!
Tis
All it hath left
As its been pruned
And left for rocks to corrode...
Sold its soul.....
One of old,
Superannuated doppelganger.....
An obsolete antediluvian
One not meant
For loam inanimate's.....
By me( Brandon nagley) - ( lonesome poets poetry)
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
Sitting in the asylum
voices of the infirmed
call to each other.
A young man hums to himself,
keys jangling.
They carry their preferences under their arms,
judging each other by the objects in their hands.
And here I sit,
in the atrium
listening to the mad men heeding the sirens that call to them.
They obey
and beat their rhythms upon ivory tables
bone-wracked as wooden bridges slip out of their grooves
horses and trees united
in the Sistine Chapel ceilings of the lunatic's mind
epiphany and entropy painted on the skull canvases
of bridled souls.
The floor shudders as a hundred feet tap their heartbeats
in different moments.
Seizures of enlightenment
are what brought them here,
and similarly,
what will keep them.
A sired calls from a locked room
and the ivory tables shatter.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
I don’t want to go
because I feel responsible
for my seventy-year-old
infirmed father,
trapped by a self-imposed
sense of obligation,
self-erasing, and disintegrating
any chance of self-elevation
in the pursuit of
taking care of
someone I love.
So many years lost trying to
help and get through to
someone who doesn’t
seem to have a clue
what his angry outbursts do.
I feel guilty for wanting my own life
minus all this major family strife.
Ten years I’ve been too scared to leave
because I didn’t know what I would do
or if I could even afford to move.
Will I step forward or be subdued
by fear and attachments to
a situation that holds no true
future growth for me?
Nov 29, 2023
Nov 29, 2023 at 1:17 PM UTC
My art is equal to
cracks in reality
that I can
almost peer through.
Space and time
crack and shatter
with sparkling splinters
trying to force themselves
through.
Till they
pierce me
and puncture you.
I’m not as gifted
as I would like to be,
cause my language
does not fit perfectly.
It is mostly limited
by the limitation of me.
As the cracks widen
I can almost look in
and make out
a mirror dimension.
It is just an inkling,
art flowering
not yet infirmed
is interred
in my minds
frozen
mid explosion
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC