Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Cecil Miller Feb 2016
Look at me with wide open eyes.
Know that I am not as I appear.
I never did mind the darkness,
Even though it frightens me so.

Sometimes, I fool even myself
Into thinking that I search for answers.           
                                             ­      
The truth is something more
Than I ever will display.

SATOR
AREPO
TENET
OPERA
ROTAS

And I awaken.

I speak for him,
I speak though him.

It does not matter the reason.

Never, never will I leave.

There was a crystal chalice
From which I used to drink.
There was a set of pricipals
On which I used to think.

And once the door is opened
The words begin to flow.
I am his brother, partner, lover.

I am the summate of his fears.

I am the solvant of his tears.

Sometimes all you have is yourself.

Sometimes all he has is me.

I make the decisions,
And take the actions
That are too difficult for him.

There are times I haved saved his life,
But I should never be mistaken for what I am not.

My venom is toxic.
The following previously untitled bit is just a little homage to my dark half...hope you like it.
(writen feb 12fth, 2012)
Àŧùl May 2020
You shine on my horizon,
Like a nascent rainbow,
After the shower of invisible tears.

To your wrist, I want to hold on,
May I never see you go,
Now that my love towers.

Mares & studs run amok,
In my mind, they so do,
And they sprint around in circles.

Enthused by the falling droplets,
Even peacocks dance,
In my mind, I am all smiles.

The beautiful aura of yours,
I see it with inner eyes,
That of a Đévī it closely resembles.

In your eyes, I see a infantile glint,
Not many get it, darling,
You are my first baby girl.

All the beauty in my world,
Now shines 'cause of you, and
I try to summate it in written word.
My HP Poem #1851
©Atul Kaushal
Chandra S Feb 2020
The majestic days of Czars and Sultans
with their immaculate royalty

and those of Barons and Khans
brimming with stainless primacy

have long since gone.

All their embellished repositories
of capital, jewelry and gallant armies
stand looted, ravaged and plundered.

The struggling proletariat of those times
with their humdrum lives, rife with strife
have also bitten the dust

      expired, forgotten, crumbled

since days beyond recall.

Now we, the successors and heirlooms
live on with kindred joys and glooms

as communities, creeds and nationalities

recklessly defending close-held foxy illusions
of defunct oneness or mythical deities.

The more tolerant among us even feel dignity
in misplaced, romantic nationalism(s)
and mostly off-the-mark, drifting democracies.



But this time or that
summate a few more gimmicks or subtract,
all we have gifted ourselves
are some arbitrary lines on the map

slashing the earth to pieces
then claiming its wiggly, volcanic geographies
as slices of ever-dodging Elysium
enshrined in fragile master-bluffs
of precarious, cut-throat politics.

— The End —