"obliviun" poems
Man starts dreaming—
greedy dreaming.
He begins to burn
a different kind of fire.
His heart like an ember
can be fiery and fervent
can burn a silhouette
a shadow in love
a ghost in grief
all in his deep shades
of crimson blue.
Here he is
here he's been
here he will be
burning memories–
photographs and things in pages
curling into black
the stench of obliviun
is one with the smoke
that is how he builds
a different kind of fire.
Plunged his hand
it shines in his very eyes
dancing gracefully
like a wild gloriosa
rustled by the winds
restlessly,
like a scarlet swan
in a lake of stonecold ashes,
as if the only thing at peace
in a holocaust of memories.
Then stares back
before it sways back
into being the ordinary flame
it was.
If he would listen
the fire has a pulse
a flicker beat
almost like his.
The flame did not burn him
as if it has always been
a part from within
as if he was made out of it
as if it was made out of him.
He felt the soul of the fire.
It's pulse—
felt like home.
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 2:26 AM UTC
I whispered a secret
to the senescent trees
while flowers breathe through
and as toadstools eavesdropped.
Within the wintry treeshades
I peeked through
the misty oceans above
upon where stealthy Mr.Thunder
has kept on skipping and hopping
and leaping from one silver cloud
over another, where for
every leap was a growling cloud
and for each brave growl
was a silver rainfall,
but poor Mr.Thunder
still couldn't give a good chase
to his fleeing rainbow chariot,
till it had sunken deep
skyrimming in the underclouds
to the mauvy meadows where
it had always frolicked through,
and me, in the underwoods
where we had always built
wreaths of purple memories
before soaking ourselves long
in the silvery mud,
bethinking in sunken moments
to just become ghosts
with only memories
because even rainbows leave.
Thursday with blue spirits
waiting for when would
this dreamy mind alight
from looking for
where my heart has crestfallen
deep at, how I had lost it.
So I bite into the mist
of the peeking dusk.
My bluest spirit has taken it,
a secret the sleepy woods know.
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 4:40 PM UTC