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Beyond death and life there is no separation, no frontier, no fixed boundary. What we call life and death are only names that thought has invented, abstractions to divide the indivisible, shadows drawn upon the infinite. Existence itself is seamless.

Life does not begin, as a flame suddenly born from nothing; nor does death end it, as if the flame were blown into emptiness. Life is the flame and death is the smoke — both movements of fire, both expressions of the same unseen source.

The river flows toward the sea. We say: the river dies there. But the sea replies: the river has always been mine. The star burns and collapses. We say: the star is lost. Yet its light travels across centuries, touching eyes not yet born. Nothing is lost. Nothing is separate.

Death is not the opposite of life; it is the hidden curve of the same circle. The wave rises and falls, but the ocean remains. To cling to the wave is to fear its end. To see the ocean is to know that the wave was never apart.

Beyond death and life is the abyss of nothingness — not a void of absence, but a womb of possibility. From this abyss the opposites emerge: presence and absence, form and formlessness, being and non-being. They unfold for a time, they dance, they dissolve, and they return. The abyss is not against them; it is within them. Every opposite carries in its heart the silence of its own dissolution.

To see this is to awaken. Fear falls away, for there is nothing to lose. Grief softens, for absence is another face of presence. Love deepens, for the beloved is never gone, only transformed.

Beyond death and life, we discover the transparency of being: full and empty at once, radiant and silent, ephemeral and eternal. We are not born, and we do not die. We appear, we disappear, we reappear — but always we are the universe unfolding itself.

The cosmos breathes, and we are its breath. The abyss dreams, and we are its dream. Beyond death and life, there is only the One — endless, seamless, indivisible.
This heart to love — abrupt,
a door slammed open in the storm.

No warning, no gentle knock,
just the rush of something that's
too vast to hold.


And this face, a gallery of what remains:
a canvas carved by wounds, a battlefield’s
aftermath; a work of art painted by scars —
proof that breaking is its own design.
Nigdaw 2d
angels dance in the inferno
of creativity
untouched by it's heat
just illuminated in flame
while I stumble through
a forest
with trees I couldn't bring
to life on a page
but Blake in his divine
madness
saw angels in the branches
On the corner of your pages
I'll leave not my name
Nor my wretched face,
But a word of thanks

You let me read your stories
Shared to me your worries;
I somehow became part
Of your wonderful art

I would be greatly honored
If you saw my crooked words
And remember those times
That once our pages aligned—

Where laughters are easy to find
So did our cries and whines.
our canvases were born
from chaos at midnight.
colour spilling with the smoke
of cigarettes waiting
patiently in the tray.
we wove them in
with the brushstrokes
then let it breathe
so the magic would dry.

'darkness is coming',
dark blue across white
a bird slurping
rainwater from petals.
or something like that.
art is supposed to
make you feel something.
ours wasn't there to be nice.

one day,
it wasn't there at all.

i came home,
and found them gone —
shredded and torn.
the reminder,
that hands crafted them
that wouldn't caress you,
was unbearable.

i'm sorry.
that i shouted at you.
that i couldn't respect
you needed space,
a clear head
away from the clutter
that came with me.

i would have done the same.
we don’t get to choose
who we let in,
and who we love.
the only choice we have
is whether to erase it
slowly,
or all at once.
this one is about the art that couldn't survive the weight of unreturned love.
my little pretty woman,
call'd a loser by old'r men & women—
But in a precious heart,
she wonderfully stands.

꩜ ݁₊ ⊹ .𓃠 ݁˖ .❨

Behind the gold wings, her emotional voice sings;
'What a woman I could be, If they'd just let my soul be free.

In fire and water, is for my eternally patience,
Thought I'm deemed ugly, my quill begs to create beauty.

D-don't.. w-wanted
t-to be... p-perpect!
Wanted to be.. have
simple princess traits,
Nor a ******* witch...
Wanted to..be..a princess..
of people's hearts..'

&,
she saw an ancient chair with her veiny hands,
spreading her face, as she breathes so deep,

&,
By an acrid pain,
doth throwback;

O’ my little pretty woman, as I see thine eyes so hard,
With thy tears doth marks as sounds a celestial star,

&,
In the arm of
the vintage wall, sparks;

No colors, no grey arc, your beauty never scared—
Never ever scared me, thou art a sacred heart,

&,
Watching you
cry is an art.

— candychristian, 1968
“I often think that the night is more alive and more
richly colored than the day.” –Vincent Van Gogh

I painted Tuesday with stars hoping
Van Gogh would woo the iris
to rise from their winter melancholy.
                ~ ~ ~
What is a day without stars
or night without sun?

Beyond the horizon
Van Gogh’s brush
paints sunflowers
on the cheeks of the moon.
                ~ ~ ~
The sky fell in starlight strokes
of Van Gogh.
Like a child chasing butterflies
I collected wishes on the tip
of my brush to paint joy
in my valley of sorrow.
Each small poem was inspired by a quote and brushstrokes of Van Gogh
Shane Aug 18
A painter paints a canvas full of pictures;
A picture paints a moment trapped in time.
A poet writes a poem to be pictured;
A poem paints a picture in the mind.
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