"moribund" poems
i.
Salamat, I was abjected now uplifted
Salamat, for the gift of life thou hath gifted;
Salamat, for the lung's thou hath given
Salamat, now I'm free, not a slave, I'm living.
ii.
Salamat, for thy smile in the dark
Salamat, thy beauty is God's spark;
Salamat, once moribund, now shining
Salamat, I'm moving forward, not rewinding.
iii.
Salamat, day's ahead art full of grace
Salamat, queen of Yahweh, messenger to the human race;
Salamat, forever we wilt be
Salamat, empress of Asia, mine Reyna, mine sweet.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication-filipino rose
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 9:23 AM UTC
No one else, but a poet...can bring colors
to scenes...with verses, in crass or subtle
tones......gather words together in lines,
uncertain in their ebbing and flowing...
the results create surprise in many
hues that could make one cry,
grimace......frown......or smile
readers are led to far, or near
destinations...to the cool, sweet air
and peaceful atmosphere of paradise,
or, to unlit corners...uncharted waters,
or deep into an abyss...or, a black hole,
an unknown corner, where moribund souls
are biding their time, maybe, they could
now define by themselves, purgatory and hell,
understand those sunken souls who have lost
all...except their arms, and begging eyes...
then, through appropriate words,
a poet paints a laborious path, or
a stairway...so an enlightened reader
may climb back to safe, calm waters...
a poet makes the mind see a human heart,
beating in many rhythms...throbbing,
.......aflame with longing and desire,
bursting from ecstatic, sublime moments,
then, later on, shift to grayish thoughts
that cut deep....tormenting...crashing,
............gnashing the heart...
a poet paints a soul walking on cloud nine,
later, to dip feet in celebrative pools.
sometimes, a poet would rather not, yet,
an inner force prevails, thereby paints a
drooping soul...dying, in total surrender,
ready to fall..............but, again, with a
barrel of lively-colored words, a poet
takes this despondent soul to berth,
with soothing verses, bring it to a rebirth...
every human being is worth an effort
..............even those that have fallen
.........................are worth savin' .....
a poet's palette is uniquely
enriched with colorful experiences,
a poet paints life in its truest colors,
..........could be dark...or bright
.....nothing more......nothing less...
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
January 29, 2017
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 6:13 AM UTC
Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.
So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres
that tomorrow never happened.
He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
Ornery odious ordinate ostensive opulence ornate optimal
Motivity meatus meticulous morsel moribund mendacity monstrance
Lucidity lingam loquacity longevous licentious lurid languishing
Votary volition verve venery vector vauntness vast
Talismanically telepathy tantamount terrestrial tellurian transition tractive
Idolatry -ics incus ictus ichor icon icky
Yogi yowl yore yoni yerk yenta yantra
Gimpy gesticulation genre gestational glitch genuflection grandiose
Dastardly douceur denouement denigrational deplorable despicable desperate
Paltry potentate portentous plagiaristic pandemic plenipotentiary plenary
Jouncy jocular jeopardy jettison jurisprudence jaunt juxtaposition
Ramify repartee radix recital rectitude rendition repertoire
Beastly bartizan bodacious belligerent brusque blatant blasphemously
Enmity exigency exacerbation extemporaneous edifice eulogy exoneration
Zoolatry zoomorphic zilch Zephyr zoic zygosity zealotry
Sultry solace subtlety substantiation suborn subliminal sensorium
Unity ultimatum usurping unfathomable uncanny unbridled unary
***** hornswoggle horizon huckster homogeny holistic heuristic
Nugatory notch nostrum notorious nihilism nimiety nimbus
Wrathy wreak wroth wrought wrest wrangle warranty
Artistry autonomy articulation agility acuity asperity acerbity
Keeky kangaroo court kowtow kobold kleptomania kinetics kinesiology
Xylography xenophile xerophilous xylophagous xylem xanadu xenobiotic
Critically credibility critique coercion conjugational conjunctive corporeal
Queasy quasi quantum quintessence quagmire quixotic quantify
Flighty flippant flamboyance faux pas fornicatious fictitious finite
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 5:31 AM UTC
In the parched path
I have seen the good lizard
(one drop of crocodile)
meditating.
With his green frock-coat
of an abbot of the devil,
his correct bearing
and his stiff collar,
he has the sad air
of an old professor.
Those faded eyes
of a broken artist,
how they watch the afternoon
in dismay!
Is this, my friend,
your twilight constitutional?
Please use your cane,
you are very old, Mr. Lizard,
and the children of the village
may startle you.
What are you seeking in the path,
my near-sighted philosopher,
if the wavering phantasm
of the parched afternoon
has broken the horizon?
Are you seeking the blue alms
of the moribund heaven?
A penny of a star?
Or perhaps
you've been reading a volume
of Lamartine, and you relish
the plasteresque trills
of the birds?
(You watch the setting sun,
and your eyes shine,
oh, dragon of the frogs,
with a human radiance.
Ideas, gondolas without oars,
cross the shadowy
waters of your
burnt-out eyes.)
Have you come looking
for that lovely lady lizard,
green as the wheatfields
of May,
as the long locks
of sleeping pools,
who scorned you, and then
left you in your field?
Oh, sweet idyll, broken
among the sweet sedges!
But, live! What the devil!
I like you.
The motto 'I oppose
the serpent' triumphs
in that grand double chin
of a Christian archbishop.
Now the sun has dissolved
in the cup of the mountains,
and the flocks
cloud the roadway.
It is the hour to depart:
leave the dry path
and your meditations.
You will have time
to look at the stars
when the worms are eating you
at their leisure.
Go home to your house
by the village, of the crickets!
Good night, my friend
Mr. Lizard!
Now the field is empty,
the mountains dim,
the roadway deserted.
Only, now and again,
a cuckoo sings in the darkness
of the poplar trees.
5.1k
Finite fictitious fornicatious faux pas flamboyance flippant flighty
Quantify quixotic quagmire quintessence quantum quasi queasy
Corporeal conjunctive conjugational coercion critique credibility critically
Xenobiotic xanadu xylem xylophagous xerophilous xenophile xylography
Kinesiology kinetics kleptomania kobold kowtow kangaroo court keeky
Acerbity asperity acuity agility articulation autonomy artistry
Warranty wrangle wrest wrought wroth wreak wrathy
Nimbus nimiety nihilism notorious nostrum notch nugatory
Heuristic holistic homogeny huckster horizon hornswoggle *****
Unary unbridled uncanny unfathomable usurping ultimatum unity
Sensorium subliminal suborn substantiation subtlety solace sultry
Zealotry zygosity zoic Zephyr zilch zoomorphic zoolatry
Exoneration eulogy edifice extemporaneous exaserbational exigency enmity
Blasphemously blatant brusque belligerent bodacious bartizan beastly
Repertoire rendition rectitude recital radix repartee ramify
Juxtaposition jaunt jurisprudence jettison jeopardy jocular jouncy
Plenary plenipotentiary pandemic plagiaristic portentous potentate paltry
Desperate despicable deplorable denigrational denouement douceur dastardly
Grandiose genuflection glitch gestational genre gesticulation gimpy
Yantra yenta yerk yoni yore yowl yogi
Icky icon ichor ictus incus -ics idolatry
Tractive transition tellurian terrestrial tantamount telepathy talismanically
Vast vauntness vector venery verve volition votary
Languishing lurid licentious longevous loquacity lingam lucidity
Monstrance mendacity moribund morsel meticulous meatus motivity
Optimal ornate opulence ostensive ordinate odious ornery
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 5:48 AM UTC
We sense it because it comes inexorably,
this is the beginning of good-bye.
Her eyes avert his, a touch with no
feeling, a caress more cautious than
caring, a kiss when lips do not meet,
this the beginning of good-bye.
A perfunctory placement of the hand,
a conversation moribund, sipping
scotch and sodas in silence, a call that
never comes, memories that have grown opaque,
this is the beginning of good-bye.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 2:37 PM UTC
Dostoyevsky said, “your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.”
I've felt rage seething in my chest for as long as I can remember. I've felt as his talons ripped open my sternum, digging for a place to call home. this rage has nestled deep into my ribcage, devouring my will to survive while carelessly residing within my nightmares.
I've surrendered to this forsaken depression fury has vacated deep in the confines of my irises - despite witnessing myself across grey-tinted glasses; a smoldering storm rippling miasma throughout my body, manipulating my hands into a devout pyromaniac; suffocating every chance to heal.
I've known nothing but bitterness congesting my heart. My dreams were burdened dreadfully with the stench of wrath. it mutilated my arms; burrowing into capillaries, and asphyxiating my habit to vanish.
This incessant sin I've endured has brought me to my knees, existing only to ***** out my ability to be a mortal in an unforgiving universe. I am not a cosmic metaphor, the iron residing underneath my skin has become impenetrable.
I am adorned with stillness while this betrayal has bloomed into a supernova. the things in which I lack have ignited into an endlessly violent explosion -
Atomizing my bones, swirling stardust into a forlorn emptiness.
A world that was held by the unfaltering resistance I persevered against, it has ravaged my memories, my moribund existence trembled; shivering from the growl of the recoil - the remnants of creation kissed abysmal lips within the faraway distance of a boundless abyss, raining tears for the last time as the destruction leaves a life void of meaning.
The last words ever heard in this universe spoke softly as if to lull the existential bereft into a long hiatus -
"This was all for nothing, just as destitute as this vacant nothingness, human life is ill-fated to be star-crossed and powerless."
Sep 25, 2024
Sep 25, 2024 at 6:51 PM UTC
The apartment hasn’t been cleaned for so long and has housed a depressive in it for the same length of time so that there is a glaze of slime-dirt on the floor, made of dried coffee, hot chocolate, maybe some **** or some spillage from a tube of steroid cream to treat an inflammation that never really goes. The rate of ooze changes?. Clean textiles are piled up on the floor, never having been folded, and mix here and there with ***** practical fatpants that make me look like a geologist and white-white cotton blankets that can be washed on HOT with lots of bleach that I purloined from some mentalhealthfacility. The inbox is full of—is bristling with—remonstrances from Programs for the Nondoer—you haven’t filed, haven’t turnstiled, haven’t had your hologram chip assessed by central CENTRAL intelligence, what is wrong with you. Upon stepping outside there is a beat during which I think maybe somewonder might swirl and buoy but no, just wethumid and ***** sidewalks cruddy and Haitians and quasi-Haitians muttering “taxitaxitaxi” in front of their Gypsy conveyances with their dubious certifications. I should go for a ride in one, a dubious passenger for a dubious palanquin. I tried the library but it was too hot and decrepit and too filled with Books For African-Americans, which always ****** me off; are only African-Americans going to read Wright or Douglass or Brooks? Everyone is overrated, anyway, movies and theater and the moribund beat of commerce, and as the dangerous autos pass, sometimes not running you over, you can see morechange in the pockets of the shareholders of BeePee and Iacocca Coach-Wirx. Any friendliness exhibited seems to contain an underovertone of You’re Not Included Whiteboy White ****** Ghost ***** all archaic names I’ve been almost astounded to be called usually while balancing on tiptoe on some lurching, roaring dieselbus, grinding past off-off-off brand groceries that do a dubious business. While making my police report I wink at a sevenyearold boy and I get a lustrous wink back butalas this is not enough to beat back those slurrycolored brainfazes.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 2:09 PM UTC
Wicked nether-land. Nether world, white, askance. Capitulating mangroves, verdant trees spliced with hyperbole, onomatopoeia, and manilla envelopes; her world is stuffed with secrets, she listens to gorillas cracking mussels a kilometer away, near a rill. Never she thought. Nothing that could provide....providence. Mangled heliographs sprayed all over the everywhereworld.
"Don't be S.A.F.E.," she whispered. A bouquet of gorse, cistus, and pimpernels squished in her small fingers. She climbed her way through the pedimented stairway, then collapsing on the porch. Legs spent, and spread out upon the desiccate grayed four by four planks of the portico.
And as time elapses, the shuttering shake of the hemlock, which writhes through her skinny nimble dactyls, upwards straining the heart as its toxic bends appendages- crisp cerise lumens bend on the Titanium White walls, where only shadows bend time. The hour, still nine. Every adornment, furnished with red and its hues. Not purple, periwinkle, or any masked enhancement.
These are the symbols that reticulate splines, that curve temperatures, perverse hemispheres and debunk worlds. Upped antes, verbs that terns flirt worth, birth words. Ooh. Aah. Camera. The forest wraps her in its verdant pasture, where at last the moribund tamarisks disperse.
While at the plateau she is quiet and longing. Arms astride, dangling. Vaunt with highs and bliss- a kiss of withstanding pleasure serves her the cure for a lifetime of whining. This, yesterday where her body rattled through crooked vines. Square ships toasting her vocal melancholy in the sweet-waters of Time. So that all of her ripened limbs could grow, no more sheepishly than the magic she knew as a child. Stress free. First among the Earth-words, verbed-up and made jealous by pronouns that encompassed her joy-brimming hide. Closing down her voice and hugging her from behind.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:44 AM UTC
The curtain of night descend upon the sky. It is aphonic, psychotic and dark.
Perpetually calling for daylight, but it is hours before the sun can, if, reply.
Those remote, desolate hours are intolerable, hurtful.
They bring the piercing screams of silence and poignancy.
My wasteland is inhabited with moribund trees in the middle of spring.
This world knows regrets and disingtegrating logic.
Although the constant clouds conceal my world, no sign of rain befalls the thirsty earth.
The trees curved to the scorched ground, seeking mercy, weary and restless of this static infertility.
The throats of the passing birds have dried, no song can brighten the sky.
Insipid and dimlit, not even the sun can filter through the clouds or the thickness of the fog.
Somewhere in this world my body awaits demise.
This decaying rationality bringing peril and incoherence, not a breeze or a murmur of rain,
to quench the aching and consuming thirst.
I beg in silence, but the words seem to hang confined in this inclemency, alone 'till my waking hour.
The curtain has not risen, the night still falls in place.
How long before I can succumb to oblivion and quiesce this raging, tormentig thoughts?
There is no answer to follow the question because I am this world's, this hell's, this limbo, wretched creator.
And so with cracked lips, with ragged breath and stinging chest I remain in the inside of this deserted, and cracked state of mind.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
wrapped in the tatters of my body
in this measureless place
I search for release
among the disconsolate boles
thin as hope
hard and dark
wearing pallid shrouds
of frozen lace
proudly displayed
in their alfresco mausoleum
an inexhaustible study
in the extremes
of leaden purity
their moribund limbs
and ice sheathed fingers
reach into me
pulling me on
tears of other lives
in frosted glory
cold upon my wintered face
always renewed
and living on
in fractal eternity
Dec 18, 2022
Dec 18, 2022 at 2:35 AM UTC
The blood in your throat
Milk for the moribund
You choke on need's euphemism
want
Because that is all you have left inside
Solipsism's slave,
Getting down to get up to get down
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC
Oh hopeless romantic
Wouldst thou walk for thy love?
Hopeless romantic,
Thou may sayest that thou would live for her,
Yet shalt one die?
Oh hopeless romantic
Wouldst thou kiss her in front of the crowd?
To embarrassed art thou?
Thy mouth speaks openly,
Yet thy heart dont seem to loud!
Romantic
Wouldst thou dine with her in bath?
Bubbles and wine glass
As two da Vinci's of new days age!!!
Romantic
Thou art to a slave
To moribund days as I!!!
Romantic
Get the beam out of thy eye
For thou canst see clearly!!!
Hopeless romantic
Thou may buyeth her roses
Yet does thou pick out its thorns?
Canst handle truth?
Hearts torn?
Romantic,
Wouldst thou give thy other half thy soul?
For she is gold,
And thou art aluminum!!
Still dumbed!
Canst thou see the queen up on high beside thou?
Forgetful hopeless romantic!!
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
There is a dull ache in the pit of my bossom-
maddening and riveting as the alcohol scalds
my tongue, my throat and settles in my stomach.
Far away,
In the different weather and scent of-
streets, alleways and my bed not quite the same.
Long way from home,
Amidst a place not quite my taste-
missing and kissing in the the corner streets.
Epiphany as the place; that is not quite the same,
reminds me that it is not the missing piece;
Rather, that I am the lonesome traveller.
A stranger, a moribund
In this far away land of sorrow and of memory.
Long way, homesick in the vast expanse of-
memory lane;
A place not quite the same as the one left behind.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
With obsolescent clarity
Amid moribund metaphysical
Mutations
As the iridium ball rolls
From eponym to epitaph
Engeneering an epoch diarama
In surfeit metronomic hysteria
While time chases time into infinity
Episodic vagaries celebrate
The metaphoric metamorphosis rising to
Metaphysical majesty as vacuous
As any minutiae will
When abstract vagaries
Become the vagrant epitome
Of a mordant mosaic
Made entirely of the lost causes
Torn from the very core
I surmise
As being the virulent....
.....Tragic and irridescent pieces
Left along the allegorical antipathy
Where those that are left behind
By the stigmatation
Of any irascible involutions
Mired in the mesh
Of scribbles and scribes
Left
After the iridium ball rolls By
Leaving vacuous irridescent
Symbols of epigraphical
Proportions
Stymied by
The obsolescent clarity
Amid moribund metaphysical mutations.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
True tangled Gordian thoughts entwine
Amid labyrinthine paths that wind
Sliding sledding serpentine
To assay value and extent
Braid a mind a shoreward end
Seeking weeping thrashing send
Infused with knowledge deep and sound
A consciousness cogitabund
Within the portals self confined
Disconnected judgements breed
Diffuse journeys often made
To darkened places
Where no light
Of vision lucid sparkling bright
Will penetrate and seem so safe
Writhing heavy leaden womb
Elusive dissolute abound
Reclusive and so moribund
But in the darkened space there seems
A distant tendril sparkling white
A reaching focal point to strive
To make that leap
Great grasping bound
Wrapping arms so safe around
Clasping forgone lines abandoned
Sublimating impasse upward
Strength of purpose
Welling forward
Great eruption spewing outwards
Lava flowed eureka moment
Spreading outwards
Flowing downwards
Cogent sentient live born
Brewed in darkness
Drinks the bright
With clarity and strength unite
Dazzling brilliant shining moment
Cleft asunder glorious light ....!
Oct 14, 2009
Oct 14, 2009 at 2:13 AM UTC
the astrologer within
has made a prediction....
this heart has about
a billion beats left
so dance Kali
dance
fully dressed
or naked
not in the amphitheaters of Rome
but over my corpse
in the ghats of Manikarnika
where my cremated ashes
will be dissolved
in that same river
you so heartlessly condemned me to
as you cut a rug in ecstasy
with bloodied eyes,
forget not that
this body of mine was your theater
my eyes, the showcase lights
my in and outgoing breath
the music of the orchestra,
my heartbeat
the tintinnabulation of your anklets
the candle of love
that i lit and housed
within me
kept your id and ego
in perfect balance
this candle is fast melting
but it’s my tears
which now run like a river
that will remain forever
this show is closer to its end....
the sound that you now hear
which fill the moribund skies
emanate from the cosmic drum
which beats louder and louder
©2019
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 11:20 AM UTC
He stands tall and sanguine like a beautiful sunflower;
always facing the sun and absorbing its positivity and strength hour by hour;
never allowing the darkness to swallow him whole or cause him discomfort or pain -
he just brushes it off and grows more compelling and powerful through the storms and the rain.
And here I am, the opposite; a wallflower
who hasn't got the strength to go on (nor the willpower) -
I am a wilting, moribund soul with dwindled leaves and descending dead seeds;
suffocated by the never ending nightmare - I join the worthless weeds.
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 5:55 AM UTC
So I m sitting in the mall
Waiting for life to entertain me
As I know it will
Feeling moribund and gloomy
As if a full belly and a dry bed
Aren't good enough.
Like the universe owes me a back stage pass, right?
And access to the green room
And the groupies,
And how no matter how much I get,
It will never be enough,
This is the most depressing thought,
That I am insatiable,
And any form of happiness
Will remain at a distance,
Because I can't shove enough pleasure
Down my throat
Or get enough women to lay down,
Or find an end to this need to
Consume.
Ekhart was right.
Just go sit on a bench and shut up.
So I m sitting in the mall
Waiting for life to entertain me
...
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 7:09 PM UTC
She does not meet my gaze
as she enters, she sees me
and exorcises me with a bleak past.
Her consort sailor, sick or moribund.
She felt lonely, herself and only
considers thoughts
to another life with someone else.
Her eyes value
phantasms swimming.
She is a prisoner and beckons me away.
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 3:19 AM UTC
Unfolding into itself, inviolable
in prosaic self-penetration,
a boundless repertoire
of shape yearns forth surreptitiously
from inscrutable amniotes to claim
time as its own:
Here a thicket
of sycamores, there a baldaquin
of pinnate branches, yonder
a periphery of marigolds, below
a cacophony of hyraxes, above
the corpuscle of a lynx, the mid-flight
jink of a darting swift and moribund
crawl of a mollusk;
Hymenoptera coaxing
their haploid broods into teeming
life as a cell of the swarm
and viviparous apes cajoling
suckling chimerae at the fathomless
fountainhead of a rosy breast;
Higher still,
Cirrus cephalopods traversing
the trench of sky, dandelions
hitch-hiking the drift of a barren plains'
wavering hum on cockchafers'
forewings and a turbine's
bombinating pulse, the chattering
of roots ravenous for depth --
Jittering bangtails the hallowed echoes
of lascivious manes --
inchoate sprout-hood the daedal
nonage of towering evergreens --
the plaintive shrift of elegiac
redbreasts a goad to silent elation --
A likeness unlike
(vocabularies of vertiginous blinds)
(the eyes of ignorance closing)
(the mouth of the mystery)
that spurns the truth of tongues
is nature naturing.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
Faltering declarations of love
Floating like incense on our fingers
Like slime on moribund monuments
Like filth lingering on the dead
Like wasps on an infected wound
Like babies of bats
Kissing your gangrenous feet
Like hollowness of two hearts
Enclosed in a horrid infinity
Like lungs filled with black water
Like bones intertwined with each other
In a discomfort so immense
Like a cat choking on her mother's milk
Like a scar that heals and still exists
On our bodies like a curse
Like an air balloon that bursts in our chests
But doesn't **** us
And still the pain of our dying love
Is greater than all the ghastly metaphors
And we know we can't save it
So we have to let go of the dead fishes
We have to let go of the dead wishes
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
There was nothing in this vast landscape of delusions, only illusions.
A flower, a friend, a gift, a betrayal, a tear, a shattered mirror and perdition.
The music of the euphoric nothingness enticing the darkness,
calling for the shadows, everlasting, never ending.
I know, I deserve this. Always threw the stone and looked the other way,
the sin, the penitence, the lament, the void, the shallowness, the meaningless.
Living each day a moribund marionette moving through the crowd an empty mess.
The ticking, the hunger, the instrument, the mending of the ending,
but then came you. An unexpected gaze wondering through my maze.
Navigating each passage as if though you knew the way, a hindrance.
Let me corrode here please, go away, I thought. I never said it.
You remained here almost an embodiment of the hope I sought for so long,
Perhaps this is another of my creations, a desire from the dire.
Your hands are tepid, driving the frigidness away, maybe it's real?
An hour, a day, a week, a period of time slowly passes.
You are hope, my hope, my desire, my wish, my light and gentle day.
I found the impatient clock fast-forwarding each hour until the time had come,
to see one another.
Your world was intriguing and vivid everyday was fun, every night a pain.
Without a warning you brought the richness of the paint in to the callousness of mine.
The sky once again blue, the birds with songs, the grass now green my world anew.
Mere words such as “i love you” can't paint paint the picture, for it was more.
And yet here I am again. Alone.
Alive, not dead, back on the path to my journey.
Collecting, standing, walking and eventually running through the paradox.
Anew, exhumed, hope plastered once again against my chest,
and as I cry, tumble, fall and learn;
Each days is new, each meeting a joy and each moment thanking you.
Good-bye! I bid farewell to you, let our past be remembered beautifully,
and the present lived and the future build, as once again;
I construct, destroy, collapse, laugh and dream.
As today the ticking resumes and I commence from where I stopped.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
Dear Cupid,
Next time ameliorate your aim
for our affection should be the same.
Your arrow is in very bad aim
this labyrinthine game is such a shame
and you cupid is the one to blame!
Dear Cupid,
I’m in moribund because of your bow
hit him with your arrow!
Is the only thing that can save me now
but the chances seem too narrow?
Dear Cupid,
I know i look stupid
but please cupid
next time hit us both.
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 1:24 AM UTC