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Saanvi Sep 20
Fog and mist rising,
And then disappearing behind the peaks.
Fog and mist rising
From the lake as if
The water itself is burning beneath its lurky surface.
Fog and mist rising and dissolving into the meadows,
Painting the grassland in grey and white.
Fog and mist rising and nestling in the deodars,
Reflecting the icy surface of the water in its vapour.
Fog and mist rises higher and higher than the mountain peaks as if teasing the ***** of the hill.
Fog and mist rising and tainting the hillside until nothing is visible,
Not even the roads in haunted small towns.
Fog and mist rising from nowhere and covering the hills
In blue and grey and white.
Fog and mist rising like an old curse after the rainfall dances.
Fog and mist rising and then disappearing
behind the peaks,
Where there is only the open sky.
Fog and mist holds secrets within....
Tony Tweedy Jun 2021
I lie upon the soft field grasses,
and look up upon the blue.
To ease the mind to rest,
and let my eyes take in the view.

Vapour shaped by wind,
that drifts high upon the restful scene.
To float upon the pastel,
leaving no trace where it has been.

Shapes of white and grey,
like soft pillows in the air.
That by some subtle contortion,
transform, 'til naught is there.

Others drift across the daylight,
as if on some predestined course.
propelled across the sky,
by a breath of nature's unseen force.

I wonder where they go,
what bidding do they do.
As they glide along their way,
until far beyond my capsuled view.

Sun's warmth in temporary instalments,
as shadows come and go.
The shade and shadow's fall,
slightly cool all that is far below.

Through my eyes now closed,
of soft patterns I remain complete aware.
As warmth and slight chill mark the clouds,
that march upon the springtime air.
even if my wings overfill with remorse later,
I really need to leave for my pilgrimage –

angels, stars and janitors wait for me there.

they do not make merry
do not mourn
cannot marry, will never reproduce
my *** soon will be undefined, they say my spirit will too

what do I do with my freewill that you all so envy?
those who are born in prison,
do not know abusing certain privileges –

this is an impudent wastage of luxury.

terribly, now, the unwells too have mastered
celebrating medieval poets,
forsaken sonnets –
and rejoicing in complete despair.
jl Feb 2019
You are smoke.
Mesmerizing.
Dangerous.
Beautiful.

You are smoke.
Impossible to touch,
Soothing,
Intoxicating.

You are smoke.
Because even though you slip
through my fingers,
And I can't hold onto you,

You suffocate me.
You make it hard for me to think.
You seep into every inch of my lungs;
You are harmful.

You are smoke.
Evaporating vapour;
And all I want to do is breathe you in.
~j.l.
"Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs." - William Shakespeare
Poetic T Jan 2019
Every breath is a balloon
    rising and floating away.

We never hold onto them,
as its nicer to watch
                         them soar.

And who want to hold on,
  when we have our
           feet on the ground.
And can watch them dance in the air.
Watching your breath in the crisp air :)
Lyn-Purcell Jul 2018
Moon mantled in clouds
From it falls tears of Heaven
Lotus kissed with dew

Barefooted, she walks
A lithesome body in white
Rose cheeked, tear-brimmed eyes

Her skirts made of mist
as she twirls and piroettes
and reaches for you

Her sleeves are water
They wave high, above her head
Drops become crystals

As she shines so bright
Crowned with cassia-blossoms
on her silk black hair

But why does she cry?
She hears the music of life
and yearns for the flame

The flick of her wrist
The lake murmurs its sad song
And she's reminded

As the petals rain
In hemp or rich brocade
We are like vapors
Appreciate life.
Poetic T May 2017
I'm clouded within the vapor
of droplets that collect
                   in my lungs
to verse a drowning motion
                               that others swim upon

— The End —