"paralian" poems
Her voice
is softer
than the
moon, her
countenance
is that of a
fragile
symphony,
soaring
in her violin
song,
she is the
paralian
who lies
upon the
shore
and lets
the emerald
become her
dress and hair,
In the night
ocean, she
hears the
vague
waves of
memories
moving as
light in the
revolving
lanterns of
her mind,
the rose of
time opens,
she recollects
of how she was
the hidden petals
of the library,
delicate in the
secrecy of her,
beyond the old
books, within
her eyes, where
he saw the layers
of her rose
unfold before
the pages
she turned,
it was magical,
he thought,
of how the
small things,
the sea flower
of her secret
garden,
was once
revealed
to none,
realized
only by
the one
who saw
with the
heart,
the clouds
became
words
unsung
in the gentle
glass silk
caressing
her fair hands,
she mused
upon where
to begin and
end, as she,
the wanderer,
returned from
her dreams,
she closed
her eyes,
through
time,
jazz,
space
and
healing,
the loner
awakens
in the shore
and sails,
holding
the stars
In her coffee
& a vintage
camera,
and it
echoed
to her,
what she
once said
to her lover,
the gentle of
how they
floated as
petals
above the
lotus
ponds,
in the
touching
of hands
and the
secret
she held
in the rose,
I will invite
you to hear
it’s whisper,
“to love is to be
as the water,
to the silver
song, you
will return.”
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC
i find perfect peace in lalochezia ..
your being is selcouth,
this piece is adoxography to the world
but everything to me.
darling you drowned me so deep in lust,
i started to believe that it was love..
i sit by the ocean in the night time as if i am a paralian,
listening to the most peaceful sound that is the waves roaring..
the horror of my desolation,
seems to be washing away at the sound of the ocean..
i never want to leave this place.
i suffer eremophobia,
i just need us to move..
we cant stay here, we have to leave,
this is torture.
i dream of rasasvada,
i dream of apanthropinization.
le mot juste.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 8:13 PM UTC
On the fringes
eroded and distorted, she will stay;
chipped teeth, chewing on sand
and a gritty tongue, licking, lapping,
Pawing, at the porch.
Though, her fixtures – askew,
she will not weep.
Floorboards bowed and bowing
to the weight – of the air,
saturated, with salt – or perhaps –
the echoes, the chatter
of children, or ribs, cracking;
Does she tow her own ghost?
We, paralian children, are clever; we know
that though the wind may buckle her bough,
it will not break her.
Resilience, rust,
with a head upon her breast,
we will fall;
asleep.
Though nobody is home
she will reserve the right
to take a new name.
Nov 26, 2019
Nov 26, 2019 at 1:14 AM UTC