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Derek Yohn Oct 2013
What are these words i pen?
This ink that flows soft
and quickening?
Are they bound to the page,
as i am?
i am a metaphor for nothing,
encompassing everything:
i wring out my
tattered pineal gland
on the daily here,
photons approaching singularity,
crossing over,
destruction, creation, absolution.
Equation.
Scattered, collected,
i am scribbling.
Scrabbled.
Fractalized.
Shivering as i gain coherence,
endothermic inside,
socially exothermic.
Runed.
Indecipherably explained.
it doesn't feel finished to me....i will probably add to this....i am open to suggestions.
Alyssa Beddoe Aug 2012
A Language all its own
2 say a word
& no what it means
Iz a gift so many 4get
Do u c wat we did?
We a generashun
Have runed a nashon
With our wurds
Speled like lies.
Jonathan Surname Aug 2018
In the afternoon of a Sunday evening, all painted
in the dust lingered in sunshafts, a giant
though smaller in person, entered my life.

She spoke in common prosaic, until she didn't.
And when the sunshaft lowered itself as sun did
in the evening horizon; so did her native naivety.

She met once, or more, a man who with hands,
acted as God. And in her life he swelled around
her heart a strangling deluge. Inundation of temptation.
Regret like the pirouette of dust as faltered in dusk.

By now I saw her stature as looming shadow,
and in moonlight I read her leylines.
Runed with the abuse of self and worth a penny more,
than the collection plate gathered at friend's expenses.

I watched a stumble in her walk that never molested her gait.
In her a sprezzatura, and finally, a person deserving of the word.

She woke me with a lantern, once, and pointed to the halo--
the beam encircled as accretion disk, the darkness pulled
and we were the gravity.
And so danced the dust, again.

As of many thoughts, and her my imagination, she had to leave.
A must. A certainty. And I will never be the same.
With each stitch I sew, forevermore, her will shall exist braided within.

Somewhere in the sinews of my chasm breaths beats in pace with love.
Saudade creeps into the same cavern, now darkening;
sonatas with no moon,
shafts with no dust,
art with no art.
Leroy J Harris Apr 2014
Kevin stood by Johnathan's right side,
Inches from an axe covered by lambskin,
Dried and made in their old home,
An orchard, orphanage and music school,
All wrapped up in a bow of optimism,
Protected by a single dagger imbued,
With all there is to live for.
He was shown how malicious melodies,
Corrupting sound deviled by malice,
Words stolen from Sharin's lips,
Could be silenced by the real thing,
Etched onto his runed blade,
Written into its steel frame,
Handwritten by Sharin herself.
Andrew Rymill May 14
it hard
too know
as i collect
the leaves

under a friendly tree
when i
shall  find
"the gems"

i sew
the leaves
into books.

with the tread
and
tapestry needle
that i carry
safe in the  pocket
it is only in moonlight
that paints worlds
and i find
gems
like a period
at the end
of  moon runed
poems.

— The End —