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Andrew Switzer Jun 2015
History's greatest artists would fail to do your frame justice. Their fingers would fumble clumsily, brushes and pens flustered by the impossible request of copying a face which would shame Aphrodite into seclusion.
Those with mastery of the worlds languages couldn't hope to come close to capturing the magnificence and depth of a soul that burns brighter than our sun, papers crumpled in frustration from futile attempts at capturing a shooting star in a mason jar.
Virtuosic musicians can't comprehend melodies which could equal your soothing atmosphere or complex structure. Theorists would spend eons attempting to find an ordering of notes which could sing harmonies fitting the one that pours from your eyes, each one being broken by the realization that no such string exists, that they have attempted to match the glory of a choir of angels, and that God has found them unworthy.
Reality is ripping at the seams in its vain efforts to make room for an immaculate Phoenix which can not be tamed, corralled, or controlled by a physical world, not when its immortal splendor transcends description or dimension. Moments feel like eternity when blessed with the presence of one who's life illuminates nights which previously contained impenetrable darkness, thick as ink and as all consuming as the fires which now burn so brilliantly and with such calming warmth.
A priceless work of art, surpassing the limits of what can perceived with eyes or ears, and must be experienced by the heart, felt by the soul, and loved by the whole of my being. A greater masterpiece has never been born, and can never be duplicated, for she is the universes greatest achievement, and only a fool could think to improve upon perfection.
Ason May 2017
I was not born of god and muse.
Pictures of virtuosic health  
captured in epic poetry
that I don’t want to write.

The music I make charms my world.
Trees and rocks
obey not the wind and current,
but the meter of my songs.

You too fell for tricks of snake,
though my tune called your name
long before they evaded my coil.

Forgive me, I won’t question your sleep below.
For even the rules of your warden dictate
you can’t look forward
while you’re looking back.

I could be your Orpheus.
Which is to say that even after death
you won’t get rid of me.

I could be your Orpheus,
but with the way his story goes
wouldn’t you say I’m probably
more like his lyre.
xmxrgxncy Sep 2017
everyone says to have virtues
but how can i
when everyone's are different

i suppose i'll just bang my head on the keys
and become a composer instead
Dean Eastmond Sep 2014
you called them my demons,
yet they're the ones who stayed
soaked in my mistakes
wanting more, always wanting
more and more and more.

virtuosic apologies sent off like
love notes in shaking fingers
and blushed up cheeks
won't save this.

I'm road ****, lost will,
broken records, creaking floorboards
complete incompleteness,
shattered and broken and waiting.
I am the metaphors
that still *******
feel like broken glass.
I dress slowly and carefully.
I hate to rush on those days.
I pull my socks up with care,
Sprinkle some powder on my body,
A little aftershave.
It’s almost a ritual now.
I look at the black pants
And step into them.
As I do, things change.
I become what I am about to do.

I put on the stiff shirt,
Loving the elegance,
At least for that day.
Then the vest and tie.
I usually have a little trouble
With these and the cuff links.
The cuff links remind me that
I am alone.
How strange that fingers so skilled
And virtuosic would fumble
With these cuff links.
I wish there were someone
Who could help.

The jacket comes last.
Then I am ready.
I always think the
Same thing when I
leave my house:
I think
The next time I walk through
The door, I will have done it.
But several times I’ve been wrong.
I had forgotten something and
Had to rush back.

I always try to plan enough
Time, but it seems that I
Never do.
I would like a little more time
To get ready before walking out.

I have gratitude for the people who have
Come to hear me.
I feel
Love for them.
I am no longer afraid.
Saturday, March 7th, 2020      

       The imagination has the capacity to ensky one’s entity, it is the Apotheosis of the Astral Flame. True ennoblement, therefore, cometh not of intellect; the left-brain, but of sentiment, of creativity; the right-side of the brain. What is humanity, what is life, bereft of Wonder?
      
      In all of Creation there exist patterns & distinctions, both are coeval happenstances. The implication? Creativity is our Highest Divine. Within phantasmagoria can be found paradigmata; therefore, divinity is the Paradigm of Creation.  
      
      My tribulations have been my masters in the Hierarchy of Sacrality. Every moment of darkness has taught me to rove within for the ethereal light. Suffering is ephemeral, gladness is ephemeral, life is ephemeral.

Counter-intuitively, all things are transcendent, fluid, yet, static, and impermeable. Truth, without spirit, is unfathomable. The constant amidst an order of the chaste unknown? Our spiritual heritage known as Love.
      
       When we allow the world around us to be fathom’d by the eyes of our hearts, we partake of the privilege of Transcendence. Our hearts burgeon ineffably. There are no words to describe the beauty, the splendor, and the indelibility of a spiritual perspective. Furthermore, if creativity is of the same canon, it produces similar fruitage.
      
       My intuition gainsays my disbelief. The warring within me shall bear Faith from its embattled womb. This sterling quality is the source of my resilience, the crux of my perseverance; my muse. I am, we are a miracle.  
      
There lies a hidden power inside each one of us. We must be willing, patient enough, to cultivate these virtues. Our souls shall wax virtuosic when we do.
        
       Until my last day on this Earth, I hope to continuously metamorphose, blossom, effloresce into the spirit I am ordained to be. Foreordinance means not exaltation, but humility.
      
        Light cannot exist apart from Stygian Shadow. The Stygian Shadow cannot exist apart from the Light. Each magnifies the cadenza of the One who formed all things.  
      
        The mentally feeble are so easily persuaded to believe in the inherent goodness of Light. Spiritual pedigree teaches us the fear of the Dark; paradoxically, every illumination casts its veil. Such cannot be the purest evil if placed within the hands of the Great Revealer.  
      
        We cannot discern the merits of virtue simply by its outward appearance. We must peer inward in order to extrapolate, assay its purest essence.  Every element: Water, Fire, Earth, Air, and Quintessence each play a role in the Hierarchy of Sacrality. Therefore, we must be grateful for the natural unfolding of things.
      
       The Tides of Time unveil the cyclic changes that the Terraqueous Mother undergoes. In like manner, life changes not just with seasons, but with the passing of the ages. Though life is an evanescent exodus upon the Gaian Expanse, we see so much transpire in its brevity. —Life itself is a season, a coming and passing, an experiential vicissitude. Moreover, if I am to understand the essence of the Experiential  Cascade, I must believe that these moments of clarity are sacrosanctities of the highest order.
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Dictum of Resurrection
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(Ⅰ)

“Transcendence implies the surpassing of two things, and the consequent attainment of a third thing. But there are no ‘things’ in reality, of any kind whatever: there is only the thing-in-itself, its suchness, which is Reality, revealed when the illusory dualism of inexistent qualities is dissolved.”

∞Wei Wu Wei∞

(Ⅱ)

"Wise men don’t judge: They seek to understand."

∞Wei Wu Wei∞

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Sacred Parcel:
------------------------------------------------------------------

Keep Christ
in your
Hearts,
Beloved Ones.
Without the Way,
The Truth,
And
The Life
We are without
Redemption.


“Everything is real in dream,“
Said the sage;
Therefore,
Imagine & believe.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Excelsior Forevermore,
------------------------------------------------------------



Ω



Sanders Maurice Foulke III
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Shivpriya Apr 2023
A helpless tempo struggles to perfect the composition it plays.

O humming and listening moment!
My whining voice wants to complain to you.
The deep howlings didn't pay any attention
to their bitter sobs and yelling.

I did not sing any song today.
But the chants and a warm song were ringing their inflections into my ears.

O virtuosic singer,
I recalled your conversation which you had with sadness last night!
Sadness asked you to leave its way, and you told sadness to go away from your heart.
Is this a way to open your heart?

I think I have forgotten to sing!
My heart feels remorseful for not being able to feel
the lyrical beauty of the connecting matters!

A missing companionship has the urge to sing out its dulcitude heart and a wholehearted esteem version to save some love.

O devoted aural artist!
I have felt your notation clearly in my heart like a sunlike visible light!
But my heart is not singing today, and I do not want to forget singing either!
©️shivpoetesspriya
Chapter 7, Album Name- For the inner songbird!
Sometimes Starr Mar 2021
The pregnant stars turn to nature's fireworks
When a small orchestra of muscle touches them with virtuosic love~

Or it could even be accidental,
Poking holes loose in globes of light
Knocking some angels loose with a dusty old guitar.
Jennifer McCurry Jul 2020
Of these intense and voyeuristic
Thoughts, feelings
Both startling and perversely pleasant
Satisfying glances
Into you

Into me

This vicarious thrill
Urging my own needs
Wants
Desires
Unfulfilled longings
Unexamined resentments
Some vengeance
That lies un-manicured

(I witness and own my ulterior motives
though I swear by my good intentions)

The hedge is thick
And would be trimmed with hateful design

But those moments
Glances
Are unimportant now
And should lie dormant
Until that dwelling within me
Is vacated

I sweep my own porch
As thoughts of your thoughts
Nag
My empath touched
My own soul dusty and reminded

I push my broom harder
(Sigh and huff)

Outside my porch
As I perch on wooden steps
Built of hard work and waiting

My own garden looks so ....
So....

Without touch

Yours?
No
Your words
And their touch
Have lent to rich soil

I worry I have gathered myself the wrong
Seeds to sow
in this sunlight

after this harsh Winter

But I do see
rich soil

so thank you

And to my own promise
see in this reflection
A virtuosic blooming of self awareness
And proper amends

And then I arrive at the here and now of things
finally
and...
I feel surprisingly comfy in this space

apologies for my tardiness

But oh, the distractions
They do take me
And my willingness

It aches
Onoma Mar 2020
you see how famished new yorkers

are for communication now.

virtuosic conversationalists extra,

extra-ing it up--soothsaying the disaster

of a hot minute.

beat by the path, and genuine as ****...

tidings through folding streets.

held still for what's administered.

rats brazenly showing their faces, as in and

out of step as the rest of us.

the mad dash of a coast that's clear.

with diametrical opposition.

— The End —