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What if the war machine
was a tarnished memory
and the void between
the pillars
Why there is not contentment for the content
but and endless series
of Roman pillars inside celibate convents.
The pillars of the Panthéon are bars in a demented prison
fermented with the stench of a rancid batch
of torrid dreams.

A palace of pain an pleasure,
a hotbox of sin for the devil's leisure.
Leapt to every level of Dante's hell
and up again

No knowledge have I aquired,
but confusion, a quiet
illusion, and I am tired,
oh, so witheringly
tired.

"We are drawn to the concept of escape"
Nietzsche said.
Louisa Coller Nov 2014
The unique buds of magic, the wondrous feeling of scents.
I can't bare to stay here in this abyss, the abyss of isolation.
The flowerbeds grow from despair, witheringly when they finally gain,
the feeling of yesterday being poured away.
I should never have bothered with grace, graceful elegance left me behind,
I know it's impossible to do the things they proclaim, I know it's impossible,
to be the way I always see my face in the fabricated world.

Listen daughter, in the future of mine, never let these people push you behind.
Curiosity sometimes rightfully takes over your will, for I was curious too on how I live.
I never wanted you to fall down this hole, please return to me in my future arms.
I couldn't bare to see the desires I once had be wiped away from me.
Scattered like ashes, of used-to-bes, nobody deserves pure hatred,
nobody deserves to feel alone.

I know daughter of mine, when I see your hair shine in the lights of the world,
slowly forming into the explosions of used-to-be life which will be left behind, please hold me tight.
There are too many flowers in this garden, the ones who grow violently shiver those who cry, the ones who are left behind to wither into nothingness should be the ones remembered internally.
I can't hold the thought of desperation, the feelings that I wish would go away from me.
The hands that I once wanted to caresses me are now the ones I wish would bleed.

I no longer want life to be, a spiraling act of infinity.
Please.
I wrote this poem a while back and I often write poetry to instrumental meditation music or just general nice piano, violin or general beats, it helps me think better.

This is slightly inspired by poetry mostly written in the viewpoints of future selves or going back to our past selves to tell us things like "Don't give up" or "Don't do it". Nobody should feel like they deserve to lose it all and fall into an endless infinity of spinning.
a tsunami catapulted cruising skiff
skyward landing with quiet thud
across undulating infinite granular waves
formerly solid state rocks and minerals

optimism vibrant upon initial unforeseen
crash asper for test dummies
foundered as undertow fostered diminishing hope
initial faith for survival quickly ebbed

nsync with retreating tidal wave
pessimism dreamt fantastical holograms
farther from beached berth
immediately transformed into quicksand,

while off in the distance
a glimmering chimera
(the first of many) appeared
amidst the desert sands one mirage

after another falsely broken promise
buoyed drained salvation
quick decision decreed each man for himself
thus disseminating banded bruited "brothers"

condemnation, damnation, excoriation, fulmination
hurled at cosmic creator thwarting intercession
dehydration, exhaustion, ingratiation, jubilation
foretold merciless portentous demise

witheringly desiccating lovely bones of mine
no doubt raw elements of nature wrought
fate worse than death sans, cabin "mates"
lost among expanse of whittled quartz

across chronometer measuring millions of years
now subjecting one measly mortal i.e. me
to cruel unforgiving, unrelenting,
unwelcoming petty coated junction

blistering hot wind obliterated
fellow travelers convoy deeply
within diabolical dunes
eternally erased doom

awaited for 21st century explorers
to discover scattered wreckage
both beast of burden, outrigged contrivance
and starry trekkers, who vanished without a trace

a handful of scrappy rapscallion existences
blotted (like ink, oil, or other liquid sponged),
where subsequent seasons
of wicked bewitched slow torture

akin to being raked over hot coals
exception made for this interminable sufferer
at the whim of sadistic
persona non grata evil spirit

n'er obliterating diehard survivor instinct
a foreigner to yours truly
but atavistic primitive fight or flight
witnessed relieved whence absently blinking

this life married to indiscriminate
clamped, harried, styled devilishness
evaporated in thin air
upon tentatively opening myopic brown eyes
horror, twas boot a dream.
Eloi May 2018
A mid May Day
Summer light
You turn
your violet eyes flash mine
And your hair dances with the wind
Causing anticipation
Setting love in

And I see you
With twinkling eyes in the moonlight
Lavender fireflies buzzing in the dusk
And you smile at me
Setting me so free
Of anguish and misery

And I see you
Floating in the mist
Of Rosie pink blossom
Carrying you away
Promising to see me the next day

And Then i see you
With him
And your eyes are black
And your teeth are rotten
And your hair is thin
The air is dense
And filled with sin

And I see you
With your Bleeding heart
Through your chest
Rib cage of moths
Witheringly thin
In your hellish nest
You will die in

And I see you
Where Dandelions grow from you
And bouquets I never bought you lay over your head
In this garden of death
Sing for me a hymn
To save my soul
From my deadly violet sin
Take, “him” as death.
Strikes relentlessly thrashing
     (from all points
     encompassing me) assigned
unforgivingly, vehemently,
     witheringly, blind
ding figurative sight, then
    I finally craft a title,
then subsequent lines

     of poem (or prose) defined
incumbent to pay
     proper obeisance deigned
then once a thread bare
     theme more or less defined
unleashing skein of thoughts,
     (that barrel thru
     muss hike key)

     utterly entangled,
     enthralled and entwined
rather then panic, a series
     of deep breaths
     decompresses,
     deemphasizes, and diminishes
a near futile attempt (thwarting captivity,
     futility, and impossibility) to find

even just a faint coalescence,
     essence, and furtherance
     pitting ma small nose
     to the metaphorical grind
stone calmly try
     to temper onslaught
     of tsunami like brain storm,
     yet no matter

     how fast fingers type,
     a sinking sensation,
     sans pursuit to process
     this tidal wave sets me
     further be hind,
this faux
cat and mouse game,
     which forces bust

ting thru out this scribe
     demand to answer himself
     with minor expletive,
     viz cheeses crust
why the ƒ¨ç˚ must
     this doggone eventual dust,
when staking claim
     on literary fame and fortune

     will no doubt entrust
yours truly to pauper's grave
     (if lucky enough
     to garner gofundme monies
or not bother, and consign
     any viable anatomical
     parts of this
     well kept body fussed

over with copacetic delight,
     holistic insight, and magic night,
     where a strong gust
of wind doth suffuse dreamy state
permeating mine subconscious,
     where inexplicable

     exemplifications doth leap
and prance, while aye
      obliviously repose in deep sleep,
which may be the condition
     of an unsuspecting reader,
     whether an generic
     guy or...a Veep.
Yavuz May 15
At the foot of my balcony,
there was an inviting hole,
allowing my eyes' vision to enter,
luminescent colors burning in my head,
like a child's fantastic playground,
retaken from memory's debris.

Running out of time,
night's veil faintly glowing,
stars reaching out to me,
asking me witheringly,
why I would treat my soul beneath contempt,
why would they appreciate my absence,
my whiskey's glass,
cascading,
down the shade's slide.

Breathy wind skimming over my soaked lips,
disappointment prowling through trembling legs,
the joy of night,
taking one's leave,
the sighs of dawn,
crossing the threshold
into waking life,
tears steadily drying out,
curling my consciousness insentient,
ruptured hole,
denying my presence too.

— The End —