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April Jul 2018
A labyrinth expands before me,
Its only prize, the truth; reality
Awaits the shrewd of mind.
At every turn lie misdirections,
One wrong choice and I am
Lost, for perils lie ahead;
Webs of lies lie waiting for their prey.
I pray for wisdom that I may not fall,
Misguided by a ghost I thought I saw;
My own illusions turn me from the light.
The path ahead is cobbled from the shadows,
Bits of truth among them shining gold,
The only light to guide my weary feet
As Darkness beckons me with gentle hands.
Temptation offers respite from my search:
“Sit down and rest, poor ragged
traveler, you search in vain
For worthless lies. I tell the truth;
One as beautiful as I is honest, sure.”
I pay no heed. The truth is rarely beautiful or pure.
a l e x May 2017
You set me free
From the labyrinth
That I was trapped in

Couldn't remember how
I fell into the darkness
Until you came to get me.

Pieces by pieces
You picked me up
Tried to fix of what's still can be.

Letting me shine
like the brightest
Of all stars living.
Been a while . #labyrinth #suffering
Ashley Chapman Mar 2018
Everyday caught
In the labyrinth of mind,
I am,
Where dreams,
And desires
And lust,
From nothing
Conspire something.

Destination: Canada Water.
The next station is Surrey Quays.
Doors will open on the right-hand side.
Exit here for Goldsmith's College.

In the cerebellum
Fragments flash cerebrum bright:
Wheels in tunnels burn,
A neural screech amplified deep,
As waves of electrons churn,
And in multiple places keep.

This stop:
- My birth -
Is in Westminster!

It’s time:

Do you love me?
DO YOU LOVE ME?
          Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

In the space-time continuum,
The labyrinth is forever,
Within a fourth dimension.

It’s time …

You love me, right?
YOU LOVE ME, RIGHT?
    Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

DO-MI-NA-TION
DEATH FREE
DO-MI-NA-TION
ASH FREE

Lost in the labyrinth: a journey to an exit.
The Overground train pulls!
And from floor to ceiling,
Between vertical orange pins,
A medley of languid listless limbs lulls,
       Seated hips,
       Angled legs,
       Dangling feet,
And neck-less heads,
Lost, ghoul-like,
The disconcerted move doggedly on,
Everywhere somewhere; but forever nowhere
Through London's hills and bogs.

From  STOP to STOP,
In the labyrinthine network,
In tubes splayed out on cubes,
Of bright brushed viscose comfort,
Overhead, the ads exhort:

       Top Up Your Soul,
       Fast Forward Your Escape
And
       uSwipe
       uSwitch
       uSave

Like these,
A hundred escalating messages,
Each more insistent than the last,
Compel, enough to distract,
So man’s desire enslaves his heart.

Its time…

         You love, right?
YOU LOVE, RIGHT?
    Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

DO-MI-NA-TION
DEATH FREE
DO-MI-NA-TION
ASH FREE

How? Why?
Has bacterial sludge,
Built these edifices of glass and steel.
This labyrinthian cage,
Whose walls race up at the speed of light,
While the inner commuter flame gutters,
Everywher, in multiverses,
Supernovas explode in showers.
And for a moment, in the moment, The Overground chromatic glows.

New Cross Gate, Canada Water, Southwark.

Lit and digital and LCD:
        
  ALL CHANGE, PLEASE.
  THIS TRAIN TERMINATES HERE

A few automated steps, and:
       Southwark,
       Green Park,
       Then Baker Street,
Appear, fade and disappear.

Now walking down Belsize Road,
On the evening of the
Super Gibbous Moon,
As it rises high over the Ziggurat dimensions of the Alexandra Estate,
And all is blood orange at dusk,
As I, a slinking silhouette,
Make for the event horizon of home,
For surely given, and taken,
A few more bends, another turn,

It’s time, again.

         Love, right?
         LOVE, RIGHT?
    Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

DO-MI-NA-TION
DEATH FREE
DO-MI-NA-TION
FREE ME.

To the event horizon of consciousness,
To that black hole at the core.
In death's star-like eye,
Embrace, pass through,
(Fear not),
On, through the labyrinth northward,
Entering and exiting,
We go awhile, a little longer.

Stars, my Stars,
Again, it's time.

You love me, right?
YOU LOVE ME, RIGHT?
Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
DEATH FREE.
LOVE!
BE,
WINGS FREE:

     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL

One more stop:

       New Bond Street.

GET BEYOND
DESIRE,
BEYOND THE LABYRINTHEAN LIE,
CONSUMER, DIE!
BE
MATERIAL FREE.

Last stop:

       No-name, this one:

BE:

     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL.

SAY IT:

     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
     DEATH FREE.
     LOVE!
     BE,
     WINGS FREE:
    
     WE ARE:
     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
Dedicated to Steven Hawking, RIP, this poem is designed to be read to a live audience. To this effect, it was performed at the Hundred Year Gallery in Hoxton, London, and has been altered considerably ahead of being performed at The Mediterranean Cafe, Berwick Street, in Soho, London. All welcome, March 28th at 7pm.
Umi Mar 2018
The start is empty and dark, a realm of shadows consumes your mind, your soul and your fragile eyes with no hope for light to unfold
Try leaving the rest, or better,leave it all up to your imagination,
So you may not get lost in this loitering darkness which everlasts!
As you progress it becomes clearer, the picture begins to form alike pieces of an distorted puzzle with discord in between each of them.
When you close the door and enter once more however you will never know what you find, the image truly has corrupted itself,
This place is a secret which holds no meaning; Absolutely Undefined
A shadow can change its shape, reconstruct itself and resize too,
What you get may be what you see, though is it really what you get if you aren't able to trust your eyes through this ominous tenebrosity
A labyrinth, unhinged, seemingly endless cast away in illusion awaits those who make it through without being blinded by their eyes,
But why make progress, I will send you back to the start, empty and dark so that the joy of exploring this world of change never ends.
All or nothing, what is the goal, in this undefined loitering darkness.

~ Umi
Tee Morris Feb 17
If I got lost in my labyrinth of a mind,
Would you find me and greet me with a smile?
Would you miss me if I ran away?
Would you realise I left you in the yesterday?
If I lost this battle I'm fighting with myself,
Would you keep my family strong, and focus on your mental health?
You make me happy,
I rarely frown,
You keep my head high,
You gave me a crown,
I can barely feel the sadness,
Thank you for helping me out of the Labyrinth
- Written for my boyfriend -
Katie Feb 24
Words caught in my throat like glass
I want to tell you all about me
I want to explode with my story
Dance on the words that glow
Coax the sentences that hurt slow but with chin raised high
I want to breathe past the fiber glass worry in my chest

What do you read in my eyes when I’m positively bursting to speak but mute with the honey stuck worry that you’ll take one real look and run away

My palms are open
A map
Pale and lined and filled with my stories
If you could see my world on them like I do I think you would find it beautiful and sparkling and terrifying and dark

I’ve lived a lot
And not in so many years
I like to pretend that the scars I’ve gotten from the wrong people are gone
But this scraping on my nerves when I try and let you in speaks to the lie of that

It scares me to want something
-someone-
I think I need to open my palms and show you the path through it

Try and believe that you won’t close them tight,
place them back in my lap,
far away from you,
and tell me you never wanted to see how to get through to me in the first place
In the maze of my
Memories I search
For a safe place to
Rest before going back
In to the darkness

I breathe in a cup
Of cocoa having
Sledded down the hill
By my childhood home
But I can't stay long

I take in all the
Air my lungs can hold
Return to the dark
Unsure if the next
Turn will hold cocoa

Or hands on my crotch
Or around my neck
Much bigger than mine
Amazed at how small
I am compared to...

But I continue on
Cause trapped in each dark
Corner are tiny
Fragments of myself
Waiting to be whole
Again
MDMA Assisted Psychotherapy
***
https://maps.org/
zebra Apr 2017
i always imagine you so very graceful
through the masochists ordeal
a god form of supplication

seeing your face
in love
fascinated by shimmering kisses
that hurt, yet please
wet lips and sharp teeth  
glamors that excite

cold blade licks dragged across
tender bellies
naval
buttocks
and flexed toes
stinging
then radiating outwards

wounds become lilies
mouth *******
tremulous weeping kisses
ecstatic cruelties
blood glitter sacrifice

your supplication
love pangs

i'm shaking apart over you
your countenance
a cascading dream
moved to tears of adoration
your  limitless
yielding
like surrenders caress
an infinite communion
with fragile limbs
silky wrapped spools
innerness of desire veiled in a shroud
a faltering star that glistens crimson
nymph of purgation
ash volcanic
cells en-flamed with tongues that bite
subsumed in scented vapors
a confection of **** and ***
waves embrace ineffable shores
passed the discontinuity of life  

I have the most immense feeling of love for you
am i not
the saint death  
quietly following you
through life's labyrinth
innocuous  
waiting humbly in the wings

i am all ache for you
a vice of kisses
a brief encounter
that eats your sight and senses
ushering you to immortal freedom
a swooning garland of fire that enlivens
the body electric
a mist of molecules

your tears intoxicate
i am new life with in you
budding embryo
that consumes its mother for nourishment
and saturates like dew drops  
as it echoes through oblivion
My poems remain explorations of the subconscious ******
If i where a film maker or a novelist  you  would see me telling a story, and yes  i admit to my paraphilias.
These poems  are lunar anamorphic streams of consciousness from the deep chaotic subterranean glitz of transgressive  impulses we all share
Read them if you dare...You might find that part of yourself that you don't want you to know about and then again  you may feel more complete some how if you do....I always loved that dark thing that sleeps with in me
False Poets May 8
when you understand my poems perfectly then,

their utility is inutile,
their usefulness is, will. always be, in the

nth  

reinterpretation, a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth inner wired construct,
be pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
two lives (yours, mine), a paired wine tasting, we together,
believing in the greatness of joyous frustration

some say, as I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our at last armed embrace,

when at last we understand our mutuality of need and salve...
D Awanis Apr 2017
She has lost count on how many nights she spent alone,
spoiling her thoughts while sipping her whiskey at the balcony
looking at the stars and the moon with intimate longing,
and wishing to be one of them as if she was one, once

They say that to live is the rarest thing in the world,
as for her, life is always a puzzle with one missing piece,
an endless labyrinth with no way out, let alone the dead end
an unsolved riddles with no absolute clues, let alone the answer

Sometimes at times like tonight, she'd let her mind wander
to streets she has never walked before and people she has never met,
with language she barely understands nor familiar with,
thinking maybe solitude is not a bliss after all—it's an agony
Peter B Mar 1
Labyrinth of life
has only one exit:
through its entrance.
Ashley Chapman Jul 2018
Pressesd tenderly,
your carnal flower opens,
its butterfly released,
hovers like a hummingbird
drinking from the bill.

Oh, I too would steal you away
and cage you happily,
to get under your black-fringed skirt; 
to see that pretty dress,
fly off once more,
and see you bare;
burned now forever in my banks,
a first sight,
of dark curls!

As I think of it,
my desire stirs,
but of us
I have already masturbated twice:
jammed,
hips pinned,
sliding over our wet perspiring bellies,
in our jungle heat:
'cause in the firmament of our embrace
- it's hot -
where glued we **** into each other,
stoking flames,
until sleep,
when we disappear from each other.
My mind crowds,
with niggling neurotic inanities;
yours with manic dreams where bed-wetting criminals in cages beg to be freed,
before better spaces overtake.

When I awake,
I am lying next to you,  
Gwen over the horizon of your fertile valley,
a mountain,
white and reposed.
You,
murmuring desire for me.
****!
I can't wait to answer.

It is late,
late morning,
and we are all half asleep.
You have your back to me,
as we lie,
rubbing feet,
stroking hands,
(the oiled bulb at the end of a finger),
your fine shoulders,
(that delicate but persistent bone in your wrist that stretches with pointed elegance);
as quietly inside,  
(warmly enveloped),
my couched *****,  
rocks us:
each diffusing into the other
like the early morning brew.

Lust and love,
closing-in,
which for a good while on edge had been:
the weeks,
days,
hours;
faint promises from afar;
sometimes a little closer,
our shadows in daylight cross,
as one over the other storms;
and once (or twice),
a sleeve brushes,
even better,
hair crackles,
as a speaking lip touches lobe,  
and for a moment,
taking in the other's scent,
a hint sublimely overpowers.

And these,
dearest of fancies,
are just some,
with which to penetrate your mind,
as you have mine:
the energy of my yielding tenderness,
inviting you to complete me,
as I spread for you with desire.

Much later,
those daring looks you have,
the way you walk our stage:
your beautiful elongated face,
those quick-fire arousing eyes,
your sultry self-assuredness,
your pre-possessing self.

I could talk about your couple,
of generosity,
reaching up,
beyond mere comprehension:
of the fact that I like Gwen
(his love gift for you, me);
but actually,
in truth,
I prefer to take this moment to make love to you;
to say how wrapped I am,
folded in your limbs,
in our mingling sweat;
how with your joy,
you touch my desires,
into yours,
so they flow,
run rather:
honeysuckle from your blessed nymphae.

You love my smell,
you say,
and I dream of gathering you in pheromones,
of drugging you,
of intoxicating you,
so once again you will find me,
take me,
have me.
Entice you once more like a creature from its shell:
Come!
where I can ravish you,
all of you,
lay naked to me,
flesh,
sinews,
everything,
your very bones;
those fine elbows,
those knees I would like to ******* over;
wash their smooth surfaces in my come:
from these cliff heights,
rain ***** on the rocks below.

To once more cast aside your socks and get at your toes,
to pour oil on 'em,
to rub and squeeze' em,
while in the moist cavern of your insides,
we ****,
half washed over by our own tide.
And as we do,
I quail,
speaking sweet nothings of appreciation;
from full lips,
your sounds return,
the hypnotic rhythm of your breath:
I engorge and in our labyrinth,
- the maiden and the bull -
we consume ourselves.

There,
Sweet Lentiform,
you did it,
you got me rolling in flesh,
lusting after your intimate parts,
wanting you in bed as I know you must have me:
pulling me on you,
kissing and biting;
my arousal in your palm,
pops,
as you run a curved finger over my nethers.

Lying,
lying,
side-by-side,
lying prone,
lying ******,
never unconsumed,
because,
please,
please us,
with more;
so rarely,
unfucked even for a pause,
nothing doing more than sleeping and carousing;
our sustenance barely enough to keep us at it,
an occasional comic thrown in.
Oh,
God,
throw the ******* comic at me,
will you?
Beat my ******* flesh with it if you like.
Anything to see you standing in all your pearly naked glory!

And if you can,
keep texting me,
so I can hang on your every word like a ******* puppy!
Beautiful
long-haired,
skin tight,
upright,
wise,
gorgeously wild,
woman ...
Now pull me by my **** into your **** -
where I love it best.
Jonathan Moya Jun 19
Icarus’ sister exists only in living stone,
the watchful daughter of the craftsman
in the middle of his own labyrinth,
once his prized creation, placed in
the prime line of his drafts, design, eye
of his genius, now a relic existing
in a dusty nowhere cobweb corner
stained with Minotaur blood,
watching her fleshy father
falteringly stitch wax, feathers, twigs
to a frame that could not
take the water and sun of every day birds,
not even the weight of a son’s pride
who complacently raveled and unraveled
his father’s clew, half hearing  cautions,  
his mind flapping beyond the planets.

She cried over how Daedalus could
dote over such mortal error
while she exists in perfect neglect,
cried a tear turned prayer that
mixed with the dust, the murderous
blood crusting the rusty teeth of Perdix’s saw,
knowing hence  that men **** their best dreams,
fear the successful  flight of  their ideas, and  
that her faith, trust now forever lived with the gods.

Hephaestus heard her and bellowed her mind,
taught her to seek inspiration in the rejected
metal slivers that littered the workshop
like the sand of Naxos where Theseus
left Ariadne in her abandoned dreams.

In the cry of that other lost daughter
she heard the sound of ascent,
saw father and son in erratic flight
and followed to the top of the labyrinth
to watch two glints align in descent
and one splash into the sea.

Graced with the knowledge
that forbearers would
name the waters below for this fool,
she deposited Icarus in their father’s arms,
and flew away on brass wings of her own design,
wingtips skipping waves, seeking the sun.
Seema Jul 2018
Like spools of thread, pilled in the midst
Darkness draws attention to the danger
Up few miles, is that place
Where the sign reads, welcome stranger
Curiosity jumps on each step
As the enchanting forest gets deeper
The sun rays sparkle the early dews
And awakens the sleeping keeper
Birds chattering, singing melodiously
Giant rocks, stand as guards of century
Silent kills the morning songs
At the dark weaved, heavy grown entry
Myth say, it may be a portal to another world
But reports and researchers find it their own way
What's there to be afraid of
Besides an approaching thunder day
A torch in hand, walking cautiously
Humming sound follows through, alerting my ears
Tripping, few times on dead branches
Triggers my lost unwanted fears
It's almost past mid day, but not a single string of light
The passage seems like a hell deep
Strange scribbles on near stones, alert
"Do not fall asleep"
Hours of walking on turns and paths
Tiredness and hunger grasped in well
Don't fall asleep rings in my ears
I was not alone, I could easily tell
Within this labyrinth, mysteries lie of all kinds
An evil crackling laugh, shakes my fears
Looking in the direction of the sound
There is an "it" and it hears
Run out now, my gut feelings kick in
Hoping for sun rays, but thunder beats the sky
Peculiar heavy steps seems to follow
I wish, I could just fly
One exit, echoes another entry
A swirl labyrinth has woken today
Running in circles, lost my routes
I can't find my right way
A small spark of light in a corner
Disguised as the suns ray
Traps my vision to walk forward
Like a poised lucidest prey
What happened next, I do not know
But not alone now, as more walk my way
Finding their own possible routes
We have become abundantly stray...



©sim
Spilling imagination. Fiction.
vanessa ann Jan 2018
this is a tale
of two star-crossed lovers
with a love so powerful
they tainted the heavens
with bursts of colours

they were never meant to be;
mischievous little kids
finding love in sinful glee
in laughter, between dreams and reality

and though it was lawless,
they found solace
because in every prison,
they found a rhyme and a reason

but even for a love so great,
they could not escape
the fates’ wrath and envy

destiny pulled on their threads
cut them loose, thrusted them into misery;
for their memories were wiped clean,
but feelings remained as strong as they had ever been

the boy exiled in a far off land
across the pacific sea
the girl trapped in her need to break free
in a realm both boring and bland

ensnared in a labyrinth of woe
the lovers yearned for anything—
for something, for someone,
to obliterate this endless longing

the gods answered them
in the form of two loved ones
polished in every edge,
a perfect someone

but perfect felt too perfect
and not perfect enough
to fill up the hole
left by a perfectly imperfect

until one day the gods whispered
for the winds to push the two
and the birds to tug at their sleeves
over mountain and sea
even through the darkest valley
so their paths would finally meet

and so they did.

in the flurry of a moment
a pair of brown eyes met
and time was frozen
once more

the two stared intently
as if remembering a broken melody
a lost childhood song
branded as a wrong

the birds fluttered and flew
taking the cursed red fibre
snipped them in two
and the lovers felt all the lighter

it was the girl who spoke first:
“**** the stars.
i don’t want perfect,
i want you.”


eyes dazzling, the boy nodded:
“we’ll invert the universe—
the night sky a blank white
the stars pitch black
the earth moving in reverse”


the fates saw and surrendered
as the stars began to wither
for this love is love
in all its splendor

so the lovers walked away with a promise
under their breaths, they both swore:
“i lost you once,
but nevermore.”



they say no one can rewrite the stars,
so i propose we orchestrate supernovas.
Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
      overwhelms  unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge


A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace


Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed


The naked truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
     unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind


An emotionally enslaved  heart
tarries,  marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
     lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless


Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate;  vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake


It's getting harder and harder
   for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
   climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree


  Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp


A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“  
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil


Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas



Jesse Stillwater
June     2018
Notes:                                                                                                          
a friend sent  a link to a deeply thought provoking modern classic 70's song about Vincent Van Gogh and the complexities of imperfection some of us relate .... i'd listened to the words prior but never heard before now.

  Title is last final lyric line from:  "Vincent" (Starry, Starry night) 1971
Writer(s): DON MCLEAN, ENRICO NASCIMBENI,
ROBERTO VECCHIONI
Rowan Ash Jun 2015
I have stretch marks
that arc over my hips
and my stomach like
white lightening;

Veins create a labyrinth
beneath my skin,
broken by protruding scars
on my shoulders and arms.
I am a vortex of blood
and thought and feeling.

I carved words of love
into my thighs
and on my fingertips;
but you only ever traced
my body with
your lips, never
your eyes.
Sura Oguz Jan 30
You're tangled up in the labyrinth of
the confused mess that's called my mind
Oh love, promise me to take me with you
when you find your way out.
zebra Aug 2017
i am much younger than i am
my hair is dark and thick
instead of pruned bald
i am lean and meek
feeling hollow
as if weightless

we are at an airport
with no memory of getting there
i had left my hotel room urgently
in a jacket that is not mine
i can't find my Swedish wife
whom i miss like a panicked child
and my Asian wife whom i've never never met before
and know all to well
is angry
and could care less if i got lost forever

i am going home to my parents house
i remember that they are dead
but we had just spoken
there will be soup and Hors d'oeuvre's
they wait for me
on my way
the streets and boulevards are unfamiliar
yet old hat
and no matter how long i walk
i can never find their house
it's located somewhere in Brooklyn
on Haze street in San Francisco
bright is the sun

i have a business
and retain no idea of what i do
i left my cloths somewhere
and i don't know why
in a locality i cant remember
for a reason that doesn't exist

a beautiful woman smiles offers me ***
she is friends with a girlfriend whom i'm committed too
but do not know and never met
i want to cheat with her
but guilty kisses will ruin everything
so i turn away
murdering desire
in an already anchor-less miasma

i remember a past
my life a continuum
of disjointed vagaries
tears well up

i fear myself a figment
a bodiless revenant
stranded in a fog
sparkles and smoke
incandescence and shrouds
a dis-junctured soul
that clutches memories
like braids of dust
living in the eye of nothing
a labyrinth of shades
lighted by the sun of cognizance
a wretched phantom
transparent husk
living a dark fiction
my grave a womb

i am the dead living
Irish Ditty.. One fine day, middle of the night, two dead men got up to fight. Back to back they faced each other, drew their swords and shot each other.
Every time, once in a while
I would think to myself,
oh how I wish I had never been born

yet then I'd find myself
thinking of the Labrinyth movie,
where Sarah had made
the same wish towards her baby brother,
and there followed a night
of when the Goblin King
took her brother away

and it was quite a journey
to bring the babe back,
from traps, thick stone walls, and timeless sunsets
within the maze
to the shimmering dance of the illusion
with the Goblin King himself
who seemed to make the world fall down
around Sarah's shoulders

if you could describe
the mingling of dazed wonderment
and the dizzying fear of consequences from
wrong choices made in the split second
it takes to wish
you were never born,

it would feel something like
wandering through a labyrinth, where nothing is normal
and everything eludes sense,
thriving on the split moments
of ignorance, anger, and sadness
that result from the world
and everyday deeds,
and the character of the person you are

no matter how tempting
or dazzling
the world full of shimmering illusions may be,
it is in the end, still
another bottomless dark hole
to spiral down into

I guess that's why
when things take a turn for the rough
in life
and I turn to wish that I had
never been born,
I always find myself
thinking of the Goblin King coming to
****** me away
to lead me into the world of
luring, beautifully twisted illusions
that drain the soul out of you when you've
had enough.
01/09/18
awknight Feb 4
Fear lingers the air
A rush of emotions
unprepared
my guard was down
safety in the plush maroon
blanket shrouding my tear-filled face.

I have begun to escape the bliss
I have seen the bad in myself
I have seen that you see them too

I am no longer the epitome of your
perfection, you scrape across me
with your saddened eyes

You see the flaws I let seep from my shell
The labyrinth of my mind invited you in
but you got lost
slamming against the walls
an anger is misunderstanding
an angst in the unknown

I wish I could calm the tempest
that has found home in your temples
veins arise in anger and lack of oxygen

my dear, I used to be your breath of fresh air
now I am toxic waste
flooding your system
only to drown you in the short comings of
me.
Osiria Melody Feb 14
It is I, who is shaken by the subliminal
lies said through your eyes
Which are unfaithful to the truth
I'd rather feign my sadness, lest my
existence disturbs you
Drown me in my apprehensions, a
labyrinth of my fragmented ego
Savor my tears, for I have cried enough
to **** my pride
Yet, it is I who is still shaken
My dearest friend, lover

I do not know how to mourn by the river
Taking my soul, all torn and withered
No one can tell me where I lie
Standing upon my ground, goes awry
Hastily making the gravest mistakes
My heart trembles, never quakes
Such tender darkness, so trivial
Makes my voice come alight through my upheavals

Oh, tell me if my fears mean nothing
Throwing my tears against an unknown something
Only burns, the reprimanding light of day
Night, only sense of freedom, in shape
Thunderous words strike my being
Negative washes do cleaning
To breathe is to draw in one less breath
To speak is to utter one less regret

I don't know how to mourn by the river
Drawing me in, my faults come hither
Relentless suffering that visits my head
I wish something else could visit me instead
I don't know how to mourn from the river
Secret despondence, my only killer
My dearest friend, lover
Show me how to mourn by the river



Melody
2/14/19
Grief is like a river which ebbs and flows.
Olives, figs, dates and mastic, wyrd or oracles, fates and magic, wars and loves and all that’s tragic.


A Father’s lust, an Uncle’s hate, a puzzling labyrinth, through the gate,

A Cretan born, another covered, a starry symbol, placed in the cupboard,

Special place, where heroes meet him, mindless creature, murderous ******,

South in winter, man below with a bull above, placed in the heavens by two father's love,

A strangeness here, the seat of trade, in forbidden tryst, a beast was made,

Man of blood, tortured soul, stalks the maze, that stalks the pole,

"Stranger still, this wild pattern, revolving Seventh, Circle of Saturn?"

Unholy corridors made of granites, trace out the movements of the planets!

Life of horror, a soul of pain, terrorizing, with no refrain,

Smells their fear, scents of sin, raging actions, threshing men;

“They call me Moloch! They call me Baal! Tear your body, festoon my hall!”

In trepidation, to gatekeeper sent, a ****** start, for your punishment;

“I collect the hearts, I eat the eyes, I eat the liver, before he dies!”

Olives, figs, dates and mastic, wyrd or oracles, fates and magic, life and death and all that’s tragic.
The Minotaur is the constellations of Orion with the "bull's head," or "bull at/as his head," -Taurus inside the, "labyrinth," created by drawing the lines of the celestial motions, planets and stars, inside a circle or spherical graph. The Bull is the Apis Sun God of Egypt and the Man is the Orion-Aryan symbol of the harvest in Sumer-Persia therefore Minos was the ruler who combined the two kingdoms into one. Most likely the second to do so since Narmer/****** was his father.

In Greek myth each myth contains three celestial items found in the heavens and they are combined in story as, "Heteroclitic," according to Plato meaning assigned by the author as the author sees fit to tell it. In short, the myth is put together by the teller in any way in which the storyteller wishes to convey it.
Shofi Ahmed Nov 2018
The hallowed turf is a six seasonal
always one step ahead on earth.
So exceptional a land is out of the box
acutely drawn down the Moon
and sublimely unique is written in stone!

A patch of land every star loves to touch
so much so the Mintaka know they can mirror
the pyramid on the surface of the earth
but not the tucked away zenana here
the planetary gem, the earth's gold dust!

Go with the southern breeze on play with the sun
here it colours the wind gives it its Midas touch
and strikes a deal to part a silhouetted cloud.  
That a beauty spot raises the eyebrows of the day on a high,
on the shining face of the golden Bengal in broad daylight!

If that scores blowing the wrap off a geometry in reserve
somewhere in Sylhet, meet the Hebrew king David here
he would offer his thousand and one melodic symposium
and King Solomon princely his whole affluent shebang.
'Cause the rolling down sun from heaven this time
hitting the ground could sparkle right on the palm
holding up the very cherry-picked handful of earth!

Oh, what's that? Keeping now and then the times in tune
the earthy depth's pearl or outburst of the enduring master art,
the jewel on the foundation stone from the root of the earth?
The golden ratio foot is so firm still is a wisp of cloud
hanging over the ocean of life what loses plops in it
smooths out a rainbow tantalizing every looking eye!

The ascended fairy is a stealer that no hand can touch
seven colours shine on a patch of blue null to touch
took on a meaning for Sylhet in a handful of earth.
It matches the soil of Makkah the centre of the earth
the birthplace of the prophet king Muhammad (PBUH)!
One who is in the know hops on the foundation stone
and rose to heaven in the Night of Ascension.

How is it done a regular soil mirror the very pivotal one?
The labyrinth is out of this world, relate to Queen Maab
let alone a native maestro that not a genie can describe!

Every atom loves to discover the meaning of that.
It knows the constant vibrations the never-ending dance
that keeps it on its toe the choreography hails from outside.
With most polished foot and motions is butterfly dance
can't move an inch away there is always a canvas
is blank beneath the foot yet to lay on it candlelight!

Light a candle in Sylhet I wonder is it the moonlight
spills through even down into an atom's black canvas
or lovely dropped down the sun on a handful of earth?

Meet here the open future shows up at the earth's
hub-moon's anew rallying to the untouching-sea
the Indian subcontinent's corner to the ancient wind!

Hark the morning birds follow singing deep in the midst
mellifluous-shrills fill the air unveiling the dream scenes!
Ah, the deep footed earth how mystique, every morning
the sun off the heaven's hill lays in a new diaphanous
gold-light-rug beneath it, but yet to paint a footprint,
the colourless magic let alone the centrepiece!

The times anew numerating the bounties of our land.
Craving to sip in a dew-potion on our blossoming rose
cirrus clouds dancing over the seven seas here they drop
Banish the midday blues singing the deep sea's song!

Nestled amidst the Rivers Surma, Kushiara and Monu
Perched on the shades of the trees, each one is a canvas.
Glows with changing Bangladesh's unique six seasons
as they swing and leap in the branches of the trees
and murmur with the upstream and the autumnal breeze.

Stunned angels on their way heaven taking one more sunset
potted in the starry bowl look back at the wee hours.
They can hear pianissimo on this preserved perennial land.
It never falls asleep is awake with a numerically perfect
circle of 360 spiritual dynamos from the centre they hailed
with a handful of earth and lived here as it matched.    

A deep-seated truth, rock-solid Shilahatta in Sanskrit.
Clothed in an enduring vesture minted Sylhet loops in
with the Hebrew Bible's Shalet, a ruler, a shield!  

A little drop makes the mighty ocean.
Like one single word on the lips
the maestros' great epics begin to be told.
Just with a mundane handful of earth
Primed Sylhet's masterpiece begins to unfold.
With the whole ball of wax keeping us onboard
lo, before the face of the earth, it unveils the mirror!
With the whole nine yards on her least hold
Believe it or not, Sylhet is cherry-picked chosen by God!
The subject matter is about a land possessing a deeply seeded truth. The prime significance of which is its scattered afar but matches the pivotal soil of the centre of the earth!
ryn Nov 2014
these thoughts...
they are my own,
walled within the deepest recesses
of my
cerebral labyrinth.

sprouting out of vine covered walls,
are multicoloured blooms
brandishing thorned stems
and
thirsty stigmas,
dripping with
absinthe.

mind full of poison in
permissible amounts...
i am caught in a
web of restless stupor,
anguish...
and regression...

these thoughts...
rationed out sparingly,
for they're not for unready ears
blooms of thought meticulously
triaged before
necessary expulsion.

hairline cracks between
insanity
and peace...
i tread precariously
the fine,
meandering line.

still clutching my flowers
in a tight obstinate grasp...
not letting go
for these tainted blossoms
are
undoubtedly
mine.
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