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Carl Webb II May 2018
ray of color,
pierce my soul
and brighten up this hole.
~
bleed the gloom and doom
to leave more room
for hope...
Joanna Sep 25
A desert maiden tired and worn came in out of the heat, quite unadorned: in search of her beloved, her turtledove.

Determined yet weary she looked to rise above all the images that held her back, all those things that told her she was full of lack.

A desert maiden quite comely in the form: came in from an east gate seeking to be transformed by the fire of his spirit and the purity of his love.

With only one purpose, to instruct her just as Boaz did Ruth; as a husband of valor sent from above.
To read more of my writings go to: http://reflectionsoflight7.wixsite.com/home
Chris Saitta Jun 19
The cicada husk of the crescent moon sheds in cyclides light,
Molted whispers of life, spread like perfume behind the ear,
Or like silver earrings unadorned and scattered around the night-lit table.
Here too, the garden gown of Babylon lies heaped in soiled ruin,
Beaten down to sand at the foot of the bed of the Tigris and Euphrates.
  
Though the dunes are its aerial, root-bound springs,
Though the underground nymphs tend with cicala wings,
And underspurt of incessant summer song to lure
The resurrection rose of Jericho to bud once more,
In desert-faith for the hanging garden of a full moon.
“Cyclides” are more formally known as Dupin cyclides, which are geometric forms that can be ring-shaped, parabolic ring-shaped, or take other similar shapes.

Almost all cicadas (also called cicalas), including periodical cicadas, live primarily as underground nymphs until they emerge above ground in the adult form for several weeks to months.

The resurrection rose or rose of Jericho is the name for two varieties of resurrection plants, one of which grows in Iraq (modern-day Babylon).  The hardy plants can survive extended droughts and like the Biblical city of Jericho, from which they take their name, are thought to be reborn from ash.
"I don't know what the words
he speaks to the walls
in hushed impatience mean.
A perimeter of experience
perfectly seamed
between the real
and unreal.
A portrait of the forest
with no leaves."

It goes like this:

Our noise
The wreckage of being alive
Will eventually grass over into something natural
and unadorned.

Taking our self-interest away.
Emptying decades of ego
drip by
drip.

Forgetting the birds in the trees,
how vast a neighborhood felt passing by school bus windows,
and the way dew beaded
in front the hospital when they said
“We’re out of options.”

Sorrow,
however human,
has always staunched itself just beyond each hallway’s end.

A vastness terrifying and grim.
Like the inedible gristle
from a cheap steak
forever rolling between gapped molars.

Eventually the coping mechanisms fade,
and we accept the bristling fact
it’s never going
to get better.

Bide time ruminating,
how our bodies careened off one another.
Something primally magical
about the curve of bones
concussed by freckles bloomed in desert sun.

And how time has left each appendage
standing suddenly disconsolate
and devoid of humanity.
The odd one out,
picked neither for shirts
nor skins.

You gradually get worse at self-preservation.
Faltering when remembering words
or what side of the bathroom door the handle is on.
Movement eventually follows, leaving you bed-bound.
Taking note, your immune system quietly packs it’s bags
and slinks out the back door slow
so you can wither to an unencumbered close.

I want my sloughed tissue brain
to struggle against a thin strand of humanity,
fighting the fade of your presence
harder than the fact I can no longer spell my sibling’s names.

Will yours remember me?
Or will it stay tied down elsewhere,
bruises being choked into it’s pliable facade.
A miasma of crop tops and denim skirts.

It will arrive,
certain
but unannounced.
The culmination of a life well-lived.
Feedback, white-noise, static,
silence.
Peace as stark as a womb.

Yet when I close my eyes now,
all I see is the gnashing of teeth.
It's been a long time since I wrote something through to completion. Expect edits, but thanks for sticking with me.
Detached Aug 2018
How fortunate it must be, to observe the world so happy, so satisfying, so sweet.

The slightest spark, igniting your delight. Such bliss dashing across your face, seeing the family you constructed.

Not every mortal is so privileged, not every being is so favored, to have what you possess.

Sorrowfully, there are those of us who know only despair, torment and void. The world is unadorned, vacant and barren.

We see more than we ever want.
Hear more than we should.

Feel?

Alas. No, we do not experience such things in our hearts. For to much agony at a early age has set us apart.
Some call it a blessing, some call it a curse.

Me? It's my heaven sent. I do not receive such a suffering as love.
Sad you say? Na, I disagree.

Only a small group of individuals surround me. More than I deserve.
I call them my circle, forever they shall be mine.
They are the only few who have slipped through the crack, meaning the world to me.

Until. I. Met. Her.

My Queen.

This is. Life itself.
sunshine mimosa Sep 2018
she’s wide awake, saturday morning
cold sheets and purple skies
unadorned wall and a coffered ceiling
four corners hiding in disguise
shadows through the jailed metal windows
curtains flowing with alibis
an empty chair, a messy table
a piece of paper full of lies
01/06/18
Derrek Faraday Oct 2018
No one can understand why I emote for everyday hues. I am moved by the whims of life, sick as hell, thanks to this lumbering chassis. The day stays its unadorned hand, doesn’t it? It just waves, pretending to belong to life. How can I build my life around bowling pins that have never and will never learn to look down?

— The End —