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yvan sanchez Feb 2020
life comes in a constant cycle
beneath the shadow of my step
it grows and takes me into its grasp
so vile yet so soft like a satin sheet

and beneath its fabric veil, it lay:
a mirror image of myself,
o, it speaks to me
this doppelgänger upon me
who moans and weeps mine name,
in its increasingly painful grasp

who is this culprit in mine home?
illuminated by the desert moonlight,
unlike nights of neon and pavement
in its post-death wander across time:
but for where does he go?
yvan sanchez Nov 2019
O the woe that lay upon the streets
of the foggy town of London—softly
masked in the air of excitement, the
lives, the deaths, the things, O
their beauty, everlasting beyond them;
white wisps that decorate the edges
of the sordid streets

Vision is illuminated in two, four eyes
One looking, one staring towards it, O
the magnificent ocean in its might;
the destroyer of worlds lay with it,
the creator of the endless night

The sun has lost its battle to the stars;
O, those stars that sing, that cry at the
wreckage below—

“We weep,” they say in its weakened glow
The wisps forming now over sacred clouds
“Begone, O light!” cries the creature below
“Begone, O thing of death upon me, glowing
upon my translucent cape, begone!”

Away and away, the sun mourns its loss
of the sweet ivy that grew upon those walls
“Begone, thing of the night!” it cries in
its post-apocalyptic voice—O a cry not
to be reckoned with in any time nor place

There lay the victims below the bereaved
and lower and lower live they—O, the
horrid undead, the undead that stop
that force of time, beyond the pavement,
beyond the stench, they lay

“Get hence, vile animal,” say they, carrying
their voices over the sound of the wind
O that sound that leaped over the mountains,
A word that shall be the last sentiment of
the living dead, a word spoken from beyond
the milky clouds: “Begone!”
yvan sanchez Nov 2019
i will leave your door
your wooden frame
your poured foundation
your hollow garage
your quiet empty halls

a knock will come
it will be me at the door
my walls my wonders
my winters my words
i shall age just as they

i will disappear into
your stucco your sheets
your couches your a/c
your wine your books
and it will truly be me
yvan sanchez May 2019
the same birds:
flying + singing; undermines
the epitome of bad sleep

the same fan:
cool + loud; makes me
ponder the state of bad sleep

the same room:
quiet + messy; walls moving
from the edge of a drunken night
yvan sanchez May 2019
from afar you watch on a lounge chair propped
against one of the moon's many misshapen craters

quiet dawns pass by disguised by the night,
silent and barren in its tired, broken embrace
twenty million steps away from a new day

the moon ponders its silent devotion to the sun,
where you sink in the pool made from its tears―
yvan sanchez May 2019
they leaped towards their hopes
and towards solitude! towards the
fleeting life that awaited them! forward,
unbound by the restraints of time! to
think, to bond, to love, to cry!

all the time in the world couldn't
seize like the words of carpe diem
that saved them from their youth!
that transformed their lofty dreams
into reality; reality into righteous pain!
yvan sanchez May 2019
the soul needs no place to rest
beside the quiet tide of fortune
that gives way to a new day and
the rays of sunlight that pour in
and revere your skin—

all the while you sleep; slipping
between sheets and dreams
and the barely audible whispers
of tomorrow—
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