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Michael Briefs Nov 2017
It seemed so much had been lost.  

So much had slipped through
A grasping hand,
A yearning heart,
A desperate mind
As mine.

The dull march of days present
Was shadowed by the
Gloom of regrets and
Shrieked by a shrill wind at lonely,
Bitter hours.  
What was mine? What was ours?
Gone for good and all?

My love, it seemed, was only
Ever a dark dream.
In my swelling and stinging agony,
Love was
As a locked door
And my heart was a bloodied fist
Beating against it.  
A wraith-like specter of doubt clung to me
With oppressive raiment,
Scrapping over exposed skin
Like course, mortifying fabric.  

Then, from out of a pristine past,
A voice  
Called out to me.  
The herald of an angel
Rung clear and glad as winter bells,
Celebrant!  
The dark narcissus of mortality was
Driven off!
The burial cloak was split;
The stone was rolled back!  

A hope newly found
Surrounds and soars above me,
As a deep, azure ribbon of
Stretching, unending sky!

I am imbued with cheering thoughts
Of our days gone by!
Glories recalled in a moment relived;
Revelries and song lifted with voices
And hearts, stout and full!

Together,
With my beautiful Eurydician queen;
Returned, she was,
From an underworld of time.
We coax and stir
The memories of first passions,
Innocent, powerful and pure.
We are now bending
The arc of our history,
Rending the precious pearl of affection
From the murky domain of
A love denied.  
Renewed and viewed through  
Prismic fractures of sadness
And through the sharp focus
Of blue eyes, in rapt recognition,
Surprised!  

Today is reborn,
Lived again and again,
With each pulse of the clock,
Each beat of my heart.  
The blood within
Is purged of that familiar poison.  

All is potent and refreshed:
You, your face, your voice, your touch, your scent,
Your vibration pours to and through me, once again!
Oh, true friend,
Tender lover,
Gently knocking at my door.
You return from distant lands
Remote and misty,
Bringing light and love
To my lonely shore.
I approach from my realm,
Far removed.  
Age and ages have chiseled
The shape of my soul.
In part, it is smoothed;
Refined with wisdom, empathy, and clarity.
Also, though,
It is,
In part,
Broken, jagged, and cracked,
As the forgotten sculptures
Of ancient empires,
Renowned
And doomed.

Yet I realize, all at once,
That I am not forgotten.  
I am not doomed
To shadow.
I breathe,
I seek,
I still have hope and
Words to tell!
And I still have my love for you!
My life is now freed from that
Sad spell.  

This breath,
This stony soul
(Sculpted by the Artist of Pain)
And this trammeled heart
Trembles in desire of
Your beauty,
Your touch and
Your presence --
Your calming presence,
Bringing levity,
Reassurance
And familiar stories of
Hopeful remembrance.  
From love recalled,
Comes your unexpected
Embrace and
Sweet sign of friendship.

That time of distress has come and
Gone and we turn to discover that
Our tender connection remains,
True and undefeated!
It rises with the earliest song
Of still sleepy birds,
Lilting on the cool air of the morn.  

This uplifting emotion
Again flows within me,
As an angel granting absolution,
Touching me in a place
As deep as first love.  

Welcome!
seraph Sep 2019
i am prismic and entrancing, refracting - always reflecting my insides outwards. you will know how i feel if i want you to know so, i will tell you how to feel and by my will you will do so, i am hypnotic and sympathetic. i am blinding and righteous.
Larry Potter Jun 2013
Washed ashore
By the angry ebb
Of lost Atlantis,
The ocean brims
In liquid Jade
And grains of gold.

The sun won't sleep
Under the blanket
Of the vast horizon,
But dances with
The velvet moon
At heaven's feet.

Divine rays pierce
The prismic clouds
Bleeding spectrum,
Rain that seethed
At the apex
Of nature's bossom.

They gushed forth
Like raging horses
To a thirsty basin,
That slithered down
The silver rivers
And shallow streams.

Neon vines
Creep in the floor
Of the sleeping forest
Cradled by the songs
Of Mockingjays
And willow dryads.

The zephyr hums
A joyful song
In the laughing thickets
As flowers bloom
Like newborn stars
In the undergrowth.

In the mellow heart
Of the deep forest
A *****'s cry
Echoed woes
Of the hidden land
And its deadly curse.
“People are strange when you’re a stranger”
                               – Jim Morrison

I’m a freak of nature.
I have for my eyes
One blue, one green.
And my eyes

They talk to me.
They tell me stuff
Like “you’re strange,
You have one green eye
And the other blue.”

They would point to people
And say “see, see,
That is what normal
Looks like.

Deep black eyes.
Brown eyes,
Red.” Red? Where? That one’s
Definitely an addict.

Such strange eyes they are
Telling me that I’m strange
When they are the ones
In different colors.

Yes I’m a freak of nature.
I may not see the blue in things
Or the green. Colors, it seems,
Are mere prismic reflections
Of memories.

The green, the blue,
The blood-shot red,
The normal and the strange,

They are all in white.
The wheel never stops spinning
And the spectrum of voices
Are all mine.
Nervous butterflies
emerging from a chrysalis
of chrysanthemum wings of doves.
Flying towards burgeoning horizons
fluttering erudite on solar winds
lost amongst deranged proximities
bounded by blackened skies
Escaping realisation
subterranean rainbows flicker in prismic identities
diverging depleting
diminishing deconstruction into distinctive dominions
waning light that merges into surroundings
(bound together by the unfortunicity of birth)
[aren't all?]
Falling since conception
“all things are a part
all things are apart”
Loud
crimson daylight
excess is the prerogative of the crystalline
...
time
distances
people
such a petty quality

one feels more distance
by degrees
the closer the surroundings.
(and when I say dancing, I mean jumping through galaxies)
[oh good, I am better at the latter]
(it's like tumbling,)
[was all there ever was]

[a can? Or a cylindrical box of tin?]



[but I digress.]
(My my my
Don't touch the apple pie)
[if you do I will cry
antelope bones down a chalkboard.]
(what?)
[Screaming “sirens, sirens
Sleeping alarm bells
show me madness,
I am cluttered”]
there are no gods
only pillars of marshmallow
transforming, caressing
endlessly

-oliver and jonte
phocks Nov 2013
Take flight! Bright Iris, cirrus sunken cloud;
Paint heralds through azure unblemished skies,
So all may witness your wild repose avowed,
Reflected and collected for reprise.
I rise, soft solemn dreams with you so high,
And oft decry that chasmic space between,
Where spread across angelic wings we lie/die
Our temporary deaths down deep ravine.
Now over the rainbow Destiny she stirs;
Her prismic glances scatter spectral Sun,
And Moon with endless eternal eclipse,
Awaits the Synchronist to come.
  Awake! Dear dreamer you alone I see;
  A ghost, a dream, the rise of Mercury.
Sandman Nov 2017
You fall into the worping ground and you melt right through into the other end.
Traveling back in time.
Free falling, you are hurtling with a back clenching force; space time pushing against you.
Shoving you into the never ending abyss.
Intense ringing vibrations are echoed through the tube pressing against the prismic walls bending and warping it to its control.
You hit the bottom.
Time stops.
You never existed.
The pantheons demand the poets limn vision
‘Motionless inside dreaming still shores,
—I sleep lucid, prismic eternally awake.
In the absence of beta waves, alpha
—echoes unfold stretching into theta dives’.

Galactic chrysanthemums implode tearing—
liquid waves into writhing silver storms.
A thousand moons of mercury evaporate, reappear
and explode into black diamonds spray-painting
—cyclopean skies.

A supernatural alchemy beseeches, whispering inside
—my bloods dying, resurrected—breathing magic
that sips from rich ****** rivers; rushing through
distant canons of twisting blood vessels;
whereupon a billion red cells form aromatic pools—
igniting into an endless sea of bellowing fires.

‘Orphic, I am enchanted tasting a sorcerous nature,
angels conjuring eyes—burn mortal tinted memory shores,
bestowing ashes of what was, what is—the ‘I’ exhumed,
—raptly in deaths breath to unseen wisdom’.

Dust devils transform into ether crystal blown screens—
—bending, jostling, wrapping around nameless fluid planets,
luring my eye forth into dimensions lost, pulsing—
—only in sirens earendel song.

In black diamond stars, ‘spirits dream in frenetic pulses,
the cosmic lotus-eaters waiting in sky pearls—
—purveyors of ethereal dreaming, poets weaving
eternity before mortal life.


© ASPAR (A Sol Poet Arnay Rumens)
Queen of the ember
so deep with in her
fighting off winter
yet none of us remember
what the winter really is

Just like west like
death like dying
cool disease.

You could hear her crying
it rolls up off the seas

Mothers hair grows in many shades of green
Natures course is an ever changing sheen

Prismic
how the father loves the mother
Prismic
How the light changes the weather...
laura Dec 2022
Drawn alongside one another
All the colors bled together,
with sprinkles of new life
Sometimes hard to see, but always understood
The smither of life blurred
the prismic light we emitted,
refracted, perhaps?
A pair of mirrors, we were
Not like those flat, picturesque reflections but wavy,
like that of the wind and sun
imperfect but untraceable
Tiger Striped Jan 2021
I slept with your silhouette stapled
to my eyelids again,
and woke up without you
again.
I cry thinking of
how the morning light would
skitter and fragment colors across your prismic skin.
Next to me on the couch,
you fracture my thoughts before
they reach my lips -
"I love you-"
All that escapes.
It's time to go, you tell me.
Wait, please - I try to say -
but instead
"I love you-"
again
and you go,
leave only your imprint on the pillow
again.

— The End —