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S R Mats May 2015
Antiquity was waiting to breathe
And awaiting the moisture of lungs.

A hole, eyeball wide, offered just a peek;
Along with an ancient mote,
Which flew from eternity into sight.
Remarkable things were seen!

In the heat the buzz was slight.  
As was the bite.  But, ultimately,
The fevers started burning in the night
(For after all, the cobra had eaten the yellow canary).

How your coverings and remains sparkled like the sun!
Thousands of years of hiding suddenly undone.  

But, we all rot together, eventually eaten.
mûre Sep 2013
It's pouring rain and my backpack is full of strawberry kefir.
I think when we decided to take a break,
you took half my brain with you.

Kefir is a delightful crossbreed of Yop and Perrier. Creamy sublingual fireworks. A single tablespoon is sufficient to send a conga line of 5 billion probiotic bacteria boogying through your innards. But like most things I enjoy, I cannot successfully covet in small, measured portions. Which is why I went for the litre in the first place.

I imagine your face as I rinse my strawberry saturated belongings and imagine the microscopic bacterium hoopla happening between my fingers (you would laugh at my conga line comparison, because you are one of the world's only people who knows how much I truly despise conga lines).

Oh God, the water is just diluting the yogurt. It has become the great Sea of Kefir.

You would have the solution to this. When it comes to logic, you manage to beat me every time without ever making me feel intellectually inferior.

But I need to figure these things out for myself.

Luckily my other groceries were sealed in plastic:
-chia seeds
-goji berries
-cacao nibs
-wheatgrass

These were spared.

As you can see, since we have decided to embark on our own paths for a while, I have tried to be "HEALTHY!". The bathroom is a small library of moth-bitten self-help books (Thanks, Mom) and my bedtime is close enough to twilight to high-five the sun on its way down.
I've started to work out again with a little more addiction than conviction or even common sense.
And because you aren't here to regulate me, I've busted my knees (aaaa-gaaaain.)

And all notwithstanding, as I wandered down 13th avenue with my organic Hippie super-loot, feeling very smug and self-possessed in my birkenstocks, I passed by my favourite breakfast joint, and my kale-fertilized stomach was very persuasive: No, I insist.

Proceeded to savour three enormous pancakes that I could have stitched together to form a roomy buckwheat overcoat. Drowned them with a 3pm coffee. I thought nothing of it, but after all we've been through when it comes to food, you would have been so proud of me, babe. When I admit that I've got a broken heart (-darling, I know I broke my own) people are far too kind to me. 110 minutes and three sacks of flour later I float in a sweet gluten haze from my free (and freeing) lunch back to my apartment.

Which is when I discover the Sea of Kefir.

I think I'm trying too hard.

I think, really, the Art of Becoming One Whole Person isn't so much about us becoming the Perfect People we've always wanted to be. That's not why we strapped a hundred helium balloons to our otherwise incredible relationship and tearfully waved as it disappeared over the horizon. I think it's really about just learning how to regulate ourselves.

Here's one Truth: We will never, ever be perfect. And we will never find our perfection in each other. We have to let that go. We have to stop fighting against the invisible standards we create in each other.

But we can get over ourselves enough to be Pretty Great.
Just make peace with the Pretty Great folks we are. Have the 3 pancake- sore knee- kefir backpack afternoons, and still feel Pretty Great.

And when we do, I think our relationship will feel Pretty Great, too.

Because I'd rather be able to remind myself that I'm Pretty Great,
than rely on you to convince me I'm Perfect.

Yikes, there it is.

So that's my homework. It's full of errors, and there are countless agitated holes worn through by pink erasers, self-doubt, and heartache.

But I know, darling- that by the end of this, you'll give me a sticker-

(and by then I wont need it)

I'll put it right next to the one I've given myself.
Woah! A rant? A letter? A story? Who knows.
Leiak, omnipresent vague pneuma-dancing spirit, ductile pious water of epiphany and extraordinary example, lives on the water with his parasitic chin in the Vernarthian epigram; he is seen with his jocular back, breaking the lines of the swamps between muscles and silhouettes. Before the First station..., primitive of the three remaining nights before reaching the volcano of Patmos, its deluge begins. "

It bathes in the Davidian, Alexandrian, and Vernarthian rains. A little touched he is seen and insubordinate in the astragali that he has gained in his allegories, squeezing his chest, exactly for the good of a wonderful Hellenistic city statue of the Dyticá, where he imbibed Vernarth's putti, adhering to the hydric spheres that fell over the ceilings of the heavens that Eros himself and his crush, which struck the heart axis of Medea, totally extracted from Zefian's quiver, constricted in Borker's nanotechnological sub-mythology. From the comedy of Attica and in the superb speeches of endo-adverbial satire, he stigmatized verbal changes of creation, superimposing them on tops of excesses carried by heavy drops inside some amphorae brought from the eastern sunset, tracking happiness that arrived on the western shores, waiting letters of sigh and loneliness stretched out on the thalamus full of stretch marks. So Leiak expanded, where everyone made fun of him being a satyr by essence, but being unaware of it. Perhaps as a unitary gesture of shadows when going to dawn, before having the best light that they put in figures or pirouettes, without disgracing him as a satirical minority in the Epicurean doctrine, he is inquiring a happy life through the intelligent search of innate pleasures, the ataraxia and in apocalyptic friendships with Zefian, Borker, and Kaitelka.

Borker did not intend to heal himself of trifles at all; it will be a habit to venerate the revelations against polytheism, to then cling to an interiority that points to corroded execration from the root to the top of the fallen tree, with force blinded by the blindness of the Automaton, as far as it is concerned. By itself, of identical significance in the background; but with so-called change that he tends to totally eliminate the last trait of personification of the divine. From this dilemma, the values will be spikes in his hands, sheaves in both, and what he envisions of Hellenism will be the property of nano-technology, submitting under the lens of time dividers that have never been pieces of rest under the Duoverse-Universe., the lens will be your Iridium and the microbes that govern us will be the atomic force, to discover them. What atomistic world will there be between Borker and Leiak, if in this nanoworld; The nanometer is one-billionth of a meter ?, What will be enough to start being tiny in this great epic, which is called Vernarth intra-spaces and inter-Verthians of the universal macrocosm, which will now approach the microcosm of human consciousness, and the laboratory of Epicurean affabilities in Ataraxias decreasing the passionate intensity of the Hypothalamus, and the supra desires that can alter the mental-corporal balance, strengthening in misery that they reach said balance, and finally happiness, which is a meta-plane of Epicurean convergence that runs after the lost. Ataraxia is, therefore, tranquility, serenity, and imperturbability analogous to Vernarth's soul, reason and feelings in his dislocated world, and the hemispheres of himself that will be rationalized in their slightest longitudinal measure, in what fits and in the precarious!

Passionate laboratories were magnetized every time Leiak walked on its extension, and his hands went beyond his fingers, touching the Constellation of Aorion, to indicate that the longitudinal metric of man is measured beyond the fingers of the Duoverse, where it appears the Extra-Cosmos in the proximal of a nano-scale is a submultiple of the conferred means of the Saint John the Apostle pattern. The scientific notation will be the safeguard of the magisterial scientist exponentiated brain; 10.1 mm = 10-3., the kilometer or km, is the opposite equivalent in what submultiples of the meter are called a micrometer: 1 μm = 10-6 m. In this scale we find bacteria, which constitute the main group of microbes, hence the name of the submultiple between observation scales of the macro and micro world of this being of Holographic Lux called Leiak, having the composition between this nanoscale, and the opposite of 1 μm = 10-6 m. projected onto a bacterium, which in turn is ten times larger than a viral body. Sizing enough to balance the biosphere that will surround the Automaton Mandragoron.
Leiak's world is an outpatient virtual laboratory, as it is valid in colloquial language, adhering to measures that differ by the conception of transliteration or decimal mathematical positioning. The letters and lines have been interpreted by Leiak, they are Vernarthian Parapsychologies that oscillate gaps of mismatch of billionths of wasted knowledge, in displays of ghostly reigns and in no-man's-land. This nanoscale makes us nano-poetize themes of ultra interference of the Epicurian decree, of tranquility, serenity, and imperturbability, with the meagerness that we know of the enlightened after a thousand moons writing under the stars:
"Woman when you touched my life with the grace of your fingers, I could see how the kind nights closed my eyes, caressing the entire Universe." This is undoubtedly Epicurean Nano Poetry, but the Author is Tagore "

The exponential oscillates in the parameter of the outstanding Astronomer of the divine verb and poetic thinking, in the most intimate and dynamic Hindu techno-language. Quantum mechanics here is the debit of the iconic remnant reached, by parameters not achieved below the average intelligence, providing lost data far from collecting and storing. Tagore's logic is nano-poetry, which balances billionths that are not achieved by occupying the Corporal Dytiká (poetic sunset) and the synchronic soul, rather the material simultaneity of the fifth element of will, emotional and objective desire, condensing into matter already conferred consciousness, in gaps in fit at all times, but linking it to her divinity as intelligence never before out of date; V.G. The Mashiach is always linked to the vertebral and communicational axon of the plasma nano-particles by grasping its infinite numinosity, making this scale it's one billionth, and being within the Eras that will be the largest average of the macrocosm, in the quantum itself of the Christian Era and in other Quantum worlds.

Strictly speaking, the molecules are angels without a will, but the dispensers are the consciousness of Leiak, which transfers hybrid consciousness, for purposes of regulating and shaping the ravings of intelligence and atheistic consciousness, and for purposes of the great remnant always present and active in the emergency. Spirituality of the Mashiach-revolutionized. The by-product will be Zefian's Tetra Sagita with its ergonomic tip, opening up doubts and tracing the future of a rewritten bible in the same character and fidelity, but with the omnipresent Mashiach of a Scientific Eucharist.

Leiak walked through minefields, and in some, he saw universes come out that exploded in livid colors, among them Vernarth, who had been recovering from malaria, and who helped him create a culture composed of a great artifice of immutability, for those who are close to his Greek spirit. Overwhelming those who lack the will, clarifying where the great art galleries of the world will be, not because of their current works but because of those they will have to exhibit? From the rushing philosophical delta, germs of dominance were trickling, distinguishing properties that did not germinate under his feet. Bread and water of the hundredfold fruit of all the lesser forces that resist on the thirty and nine with fever, more than the narrow borders to be discovered, in democracies that will prosper in the hands of kind tyrants, and not in the unitary Ecumene. Vernarth did not denationalize from his grass crops, he was Hetairoi more than all the commanders of Alexander the Great because his native country never sank next to him, he only prospered in centuries where he had to rise again silenced and prostrate oblivion.

The chaos of an absence accuses a majority of sadness that greets the Celtic Gauls for the axon of the anointed cosmos of the divine autarkic world. But not in seditious wars devoid of bread and water that does not support them, nor by papyrus did nets that do not contain them either, in the spiral retransform the land of all, as a plural work done here, by the Mandragoron Áullos Kósmos, intends. The male rectors will trust their works in the widespread Greek language, called koine (common). A language that writes has its own feet to write new divisions, and ordinal paragraphs to fulfill in proskínesis or obeisances in those who have golden knees or not! They will continue to make separate book stores or libraries for Filososfia or science sub-themes that will tackle the top of Profitis Ilias. For all large cities and nations, it will only be Leiak's legacy, of having large spaces for dialogues where no one can resist his man-made preaching, holographic rain forest, and times that not even in billionths will make him melt spaces of ignorance, diverge from the juxtaposed principle of unpopulated urban schools do not deserve.

Says Leiak: “Every time it is more intense to turn the dislocated nature of man, my literary idylls are at the end of everything with his genre works. Life and it's agitated think idyllic of removing the talus, which is not swayed in my chest by the Metelmi..., but by my breath of death! "
Dyticá Leiak's twilight
mEb Sep 2010
Feeling like aged bottles of wine. Tarty, tangy, ale and rye. Backwashed at the bottom, bared half inch of DNA collecting bacterium by the decade. Each floating strand archetypal on it’s own. Like separatist fans of gold, separatist fans of chrome. Extricate model minerals alter and contrast on their own. Earth maintenance, sustenance, nourishment and remotely beyond consternation.

A lacking ruinith; she know not currency.

A value made thus child; when met bereavement, ruthless and reaved.

Long gone; alas final crestfallen gives.

Impetus formith she grooves; in smirched tarnish banks we shall live.
Robert Zanfad Jul 2012
how often good Christians offer to hold us in prayer
friends of the ill, they intend well
I don't refuse, of course

Father catechized He was everywhere -
in flowers and butterflies, even all living things

so when He seemed never to notice the obvious

I'd squeeze my brow tight
as if the effort might shine invisible light
bright enough to be seen at universal distance...
my prayer

awaking mornings still cradled
safe in the branch of a tree
or folded in the back seat of our van,
alone

in the dark, no more a devil,
even I've heard the whispered words
of "Our Father..."

but we both know Jesus gave up his practice
of psychoanalysis long ago
so I wasn't surprised - just disappointed
when each resurrection of hope died

now I'd rather mop,
having collected an assortment
of surfactants and disinfectants suitable
for a wide variety of household surfaces

killing the unsuspecting bacterium,
allergen or virus

I set blossoms in a sterile vase at bedside
by her arrangement of amber pill bottles
they'll wilt; I'll empty
a prayer she doesn't notice
Butch Decatoria Apr 2017
I've given in
Giving you this in

Black and white

Kinda floundering
Finding
Not a rainbow
Near me
The magic is lost
Fearingly

Like ghosts
These illustrations
Of the heart

The gifts missed
From distances
In **** tube dreams
Boxed in
When we give a ****
Only now in this century
Twenty first class
Calamities

Our oceans dying
Malformed embryonic cells
Of sea shells
She sells to the sea shores
Supply and demanding
Foodies going for sushi
Tuna rolls not in season's
Greatest catch
Babies of King *****
Vegas Buffets
(Hashtags hazmat)

Overpopulation
Cities bowdlerizing nature
Iron teeth
Skyscrapers
and weeee!
All Are wanting,

Hunting, stunting, grunting
Undaunted
We sport full
Stadiums like
flagella

Single cell organisms
Goliath

mammoths now we mount,
Life best preserved in ice
Gene spliced
Playing dice
A stadium obese
With single minded
Bacterium

Gone viral

Vanities and victory
Of youth wasting time
Herding sheep
Mastering a perfect sling / swing
Knowing where to aim

Without fame
Without fail
Twix the eyes
The larger will fall

When it begins to hail
Gray
desert granite
Rocks
Throwing, rolling
Stones
on high
Or from below
Mantle, plates
Tectonics
Floods
Don't wait for names
The Hurricanes
Categorically mad
A High five

Climate changes cataclysms
Undoubtedly
No need
For
Catholicism catacisms
Or celebrations for
Dunking drowning
Under Christian steeples
Luke warms
Water

Ceremonious
Ways to cleanse

Drink and capitalize,
Divide their minds
As conquered

The fountains
We deny our youths
By learning only
Monkey see monkey doo
Masses
Congregation
A peaceful gathering

Recitations
Incited legions
Again again
religions own
What we believe

Schooled by whom no one knows
The vicarious
Malleable history

proof defining

The shapable feast of mean
and meaning...

Since it has been
All about
**** / Black or white
Just a reminder
Reminiscing
from a loss
Rather than reason
as one family,
Much more loss will
Fill your glass
But let me remind you
That thirst cannot be quenched
With empty

Actions speak
peacefully louder
When words
lift
Up like into laughter
No news of war to speak of pastor

When a summer day
In black AND white
Is still beautiful
In the shades and rays
Of a Polaroid
Picture of the day
Star : Sun,
In black and white
Still
Is bright

When the sky looks
Drab in
Gray...

The cage bird sings
The rainbows
Bright
Soul that flows a river

The living day
                   song of words

Utmost
Hearts
The Beloved

poetry
Of
The truth
When we chose

To give love
The life

Our world
Balances...

Even in black & white, I see  
The rainbow wave

               In the sky dances.









**(Continue into poetry about that universal
Ideal or melancholy, represented by the color
Gray feelings or the visits into gloamings and
Mists of dreamy worlds that host the ghosts of
Our downward spirals and dismay... The I between
Stranger things and sorrows heavy feeling, familiar
Or alien, gray as multiplcitous a color, it's shades
Of Heaven or bones, paint by writing
your feelings down, show me all or none,
Your neglected shades... The darkest to light.
Tell me how your gray turned white)
To be Cont...
IAB Nov 2013
I'm not pretend, I swear to god.
Whom I've only recently strarted to believe in, and only because I desire something.
And I am pretend in my Imagination, that much is true.
But my perception is scarred and blurred anyway, and what is real and who am I and who will I be? Do I really care?
I guess you know. Or you think you know, which is knowing to me.
But all this time I've know what I think is the secret: you are what others think because the you in your head is so violently different to the you displayed and for sale that only others can know you.
You are like a subjective and ambiguous bit of poetry, only you know the hidden meanings and deliberate devices, so you are biased. You expect people to see these tiny nooks like they are filled with neon, shouting, hollering: 'I Am Here!'
But they don't. Thy find other, obvious things, that you overlooked as being too obvious.  
Then someone comes along and analyses you so candidly, picking up all the tiny bacterium you never noticed- so that you are more than willing to explain the complex juxtaposition of your existence, because they tried to understand. And admitted that they missed the grass in the field of daisies, they never assumed they knew you, they never announced it to the world with badly suppressed glee; that they had solved you like a childish puzzle in three seconds flat.
And people want to be loved, but I think they want to be understood. And we are all a little mixed up.
Franswa Hackett Jul 2010
I looked deep into nothingness, and I felt fear
The emptiness within me became vivid and clear
The cycles of deception brought shame and a tear
I thought her love would save me, but she isn't here.

And now I am left to reconcile my shame
I sacrificed virtue, seeking respect and fame
But respect is something I could never attain
Because the courage in me I'm unable to maintain.

I became so lost within my selfish revelries
I could not strike back and awaken bravery
There were no weapons left in the armorey
For cowardice had broken and devoured me.

I saw a ghost, in my prolonged absence
I realized I could not undo all the damage
And now I'm left, to search and to salvage
In pursuit of truth this whole earth I will scavenge.

I take heart in darkness and delirium
Though I am merely a slave to the imperium
A black hearted piece of bacterium
Though from my shame I will compose a requiem .

I looked into myself and saw a coward at heart
I held her love in my hands, and I ripped it apart
I realized that I was empty from the start
I thought that I'd find some measure of solace in Sartre.

I had forgotten the love for my comrades
Those I'd nearly lost in egotistical contests
One must escape from such cyclical mindsets
And awaken with honor when the red sun rises.

But from the brink of nothingness, I must return
Even it means I must light a torch and be burned
Strength is never given, it is something to be earned
For it is virtue itself that I must fight to discern.
Kaitlyne K Aug 11
And i think I'm a disease
the Kaitlyne-virus
I'm disgusting and I bring pain
I latch on and live off
I'm self-centered
and feed off

Get away from her everyone
friends and family first
she is highly contagious
especially if you're allergic to dust

Only the pain I cause isn't on others
its myself
or so it seems.
I **** poison,
I'm trying to help

Why does no one see that?

I'm a lone floating bacterium
I don't belong here
I should be used to this
or at least see it coming,
but I'm shocked

I'm shocked when they
call me a monster,
taken aback when they can't
even look me in the eye
When they act like they can't love me,
everything I do is a sin
in their eyes,
I hate it when I can't hate them,
cos I love them still. Resent
that they can't love me
shocked that, the first chance they get,
Gulp goes the vaccine

I could end it there, but I
have much more to say. Generally I
ask, why does it have to be this way,
Why are you so quick to get rid of me,
like how you would, if you
got your hands *****,
with ****, no t.p

It's made me question whether
its all my fault. or if I'm delusional.
I mean its happened countless times
it can't be coincidental.
And somehow I never see it coming
like a bird flying into a window
thump, thump, thump
goes my head. I did it again
what a fcking dump
liz Oct 2012
I cannot trust an idle mind.
my psyche
   makes
      me
         sick.
and along with a heightened
   uvula
and bruised stomach
   potential convulsions
an elevated heartbeat
suggests the illness of my mind
rather than a bacterium induced
expulsion
I have avoided the great depths of seas:
   this is the second night in a row
mushroom faerie Nov 2014
kissing you tastes like hospital food
so good in the moment,
i was famished.
i needed you to fill me up
make me happy and whole
I could see everything as it should.
I remind myself that I'm eating hospital food.
cold and packaged for days, reheated by numerous microwaves
and infected with heartbreak bacterium
and the notion that when you touch my lips,
someone I love, is dying.
Commuter Poet Nov 2016
Substances pass through me
Pulses of energy
Liquid
Air
Food

And I go on
Wondering

What am I doing?
Where am I going?
Why do I live?
Why?

I eat, drink, sleep, wake
Breathe

Breathe

Oxygen in
Carbon dioxide out
In, out
In, out

Even great thinkers
Struggle to answer
Why are we here?

Why am I here?

Food makes me strong
Air keeps me conscious
Water keeps me clean
Sunlight warms me
All very well
But why am I here?
Why am I here?
Why am I here?

I try to remember
That I can give love
Care for others
Change things round

And still
And yet

Air passes through me
Water and food
Sunlight
Starlight
Cosmic rays

And then I recall

What I am

A dancing star
Manifest
For one short lifetime
Only

Child of this earth
Made of all things
That go up to make
The universe

As child of the earth
Should I drain my mother of all life?
Should I not repay her kindness
With work?
With love?

How could I repay
Each fruit tree
Each ocean
Each ray of sun
Each cloud
Each winter chill
Each burning flame
Each tiny seed
Each birth?

With words?

With care?

With work?

With love?

Each bacterium
That keeps me safe

Each system
That keeps me safe

Each being
That keeps me safe

Opens my eyes
And protects my life

The planet
The air
The oceans
The sunlight
The rivers and earth
And all living beings

They are my mother
They are my father

And to them all
I owe everything
20th November 2016
PJ Poesy Apr 2016
There was a day I spilled milk
Atop my head and did not cry
Cheating myself; a bet to bilk
Sun soured and wondered why?
For I had every reason, but not a single sigh

Laughing in my stinking curds
I splashed atop a dimpled rock
Feeling not even slightly absurd
Frolicking in warm milky frock
Just an act; some profound cheesy schlock

Representational of bacterium
Justification for odd immunity
There fermented in midday sun
Not feeling part any community
After all, this land of opportunity

In symbolic essence I did lay
Coagulating a rotten smell
“No poetic license,” one might say
Passer-by exclaiming, “What the hell?”
I allegorical enzyme, thus began to jell
Sam Temple Aug 2015
Wriggling infantile amoeba…
barely a bacterium,
adheres biomechanically
to passing hemoglobin,
introducing alien elements
and corrupting the hosts purity…
experiment completes
within 6 generational spans
and man stands –
foreign bodies infiltrate
meteor dust inhaled
joins broken genes
and imposes slight variations
on the double helix…
possibility explosion
exploiting the environment
granting the upright ape
voice and reason –
volcanic ash and the passing of Venus
universal suffering and pain
misshapen faces contort
gobbling petroleum based mana
from the nearby fauna
bottle-neck and inbreeding
nothing to feed on but the flesh of those past
5000 ****-sapiens
give rise to 7 billion lunatics
roaming lost and *******
on a little blue marble—
SG Holter Oct 2014
In the end, there's only one.
And the other.

I have never seen anything that
Deserved to starve.

No child, no animal.
No tyrant was born evil.

Let's dance, I say, though
None of us really can.

So we try, we try laughing,
And the walls, the ceilling, and by God

The floor laughs with us,
As we fool around like

Tiny Godzillas kicking down
Tinier skyscrapers, holding hands;

Dipping and twirling like the  
Innocent idiots we are.  

Playing. Like a god would create
Another to play with, and they   

Dance worlds into -and out of-
Existence. Not a single bacterium in

This room understands. So let it keep
Not understanding, and as we tire from

Moving and settle down together,
The rain has stopped doing its

Thing, and I point without pointing;
Say without a word:

*Look at that drop, hanging from the
Twig at the end of the branch of that

Willow. And the other. That's me. And
Me. Look until you can look no

Longer. I saved them both for your
Eyes.
Jack D Serna Jan 2016
When all the dust has blown
By all the rust be grown
Change the scene for once more;
Leaf in the wind, and spore.

An infinitesimal seed
So hapless and inconceivable,
That emptiness of heart
Germinates of a green new start.

A negligible bacterium
To the unforeseen eye
Effervesce, bloom and spume!
Company will soon greet you!

O embrace the sobering ground,
'Tis here just like you found.
All the resources will draw nigh,
'Twas in you all this time!

All need words of encouragement,
Some protein and enzyme.
Rest, reactants, in thy calm tent,
Get some shut eye to see rhyme.

But ever haunted of the past
Should the even'n empire return(1)
See a world in a grain of sand(2),
But never Heaven on this land.

Lo the booms and the busts!
Lo expansions and recessions!
Lo the mad and the sad!
Lo multitudes and solitudes!

O humanity I love you!(3)
How generations trapp'd
That live in cells within, imbued
To so idly stay rapt.

But to their good fortune, adapt!
You shall be absolved
Walking with peace as every stepp'd(4),
The diplomat endow'd

Alas! A new variety!
With such resilience
In ev'ry zone, ev'ry climate
Here to live, here to please!
1: "the evening empire" from Bob Dylan's Tambourine Man
2: "a world in a grain of sand" from William Blake's To See A World...
3: "humanity I love you" from E.E. Cummings Humanity I Love You
4: "walking with peace as every stepped" from Thich Nhat Hanh's Touching Peace, or any other works.

This was written under the influence of Walt Whitman, and is a collage of many ideas, original and rephrased.
aa Jun 2024
One must have a mind of the sea to regard the waves and sandy shores of the salted winds encrusted with shells and past souls.

And have been one with the ocean to behold the sea glass's aquamarine lustre. The encompassing hues of blue highlight the luminescent bacterium.

Swimming in the deep torrents lie miserable souls who jumped overboard, mesmerised by the blues.

Of the July sun, and not to think of any misery sung by the sirens, I was told through the wistful wind in the sound of the shells and conches.

Which is the sound of the waves full of the same wind. That blows through the murky water.

For the listener, dweller, and lover who resides by the shore

And nothing of themselves beholds that of the sea, nothing that is not there, and nothing that is.
Used a prompt and  based off of Wallace Steven prompt
Zirzilia Jul 28
Bring from the beyond

a stone
as proof

of existence,

that our bodies

remain in this

dimension.

Bring proof

that your soul,

having departed,

will return

on the morrow,

reborn
in a world

of a new body;

new homes

made of matter.

But

what if we

the struck
evolved from a bacterium;

the Big Bang theory,

Charles’s ape?

No soul remains after death,

we don’t even have one;

prayers fall silent,

hymns fade away,

monasteries

SILENCE.

Is it not frightening?

Does your heart not ache deep inside,
even if you say

you don’t believe in greatness,

somewhere within
you beg for forgiveness.

Prayer saves

from the darkness

of vanity.

Are heaven and soul
made of atoms?

— The End —