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Literature Text
my little mouse,
tell me- do you
like the sand underneath your feet,
the ocean waters with it's
calming push and pull attitude
guiding you this way and that
with a loving hand.
do you curl beneath covers
during snow storms, listening to
the wind howl, knocking against windows-
against your hands, small and much
like glass themselves.
you are peace, harmony in small storms,
a soothing melody in quiet voice to
anyone willing to listen to
a quiet voice hidden in a tiny statue,
eyes always seeking, always hidden.
tell me- do you
like the sand underneath your feet,
the ocean waters with it's
calming push and pull attitude
guiding you this way and that
with a loving hand.
do you curl beneath covers
during snow storms, listening to
the wind howl, knocking against windows-
against your hands, small and much
like glass themselves.
you are peace, harmony in small storms,
a soothing melody in quiet voice to
anyone willing to listen to
a quiet voice hidden in a tiny statue,
eyes always seeking, always hidden.
Literature
//gliitch^*%$4
a tessellation of words all pretty and edged
like swords unsheathed and violence sedated
and numbness, syllables roll over each other
and words and verses form tides, you write
using big words, my english teacher encouraged us
to use the smaller ones and i always wondered
what the big words were for then, sitting idle;
unused, unwanted, a solemn misplaced defect
dictionaries all hinged and high on obscure artefact words
no-one ever uses anymore gone out of fashion
because people like us forgot them and let them fade
into oblivion. but you, you know what they are
maybe they are hard to hold but you hold them well
maybe you are hard to hold
Literature
blackbird refrain.
Mine is a nation of songbirds.
Even now amongst the cliffs of
noise, the walls of peeling engines
and a thousand tongues speaking
in tandem in an edifice of sound,
I hear them still. Blackbirds
dotting the stripped branches of
warped beeches, the flitting of thrushes
amongst the shrubbery of landscaped
office spaces, I hear them trill.
A constant lyric of avian emotion,
their sentiments mixing with mine as
dusk nestles itself in the unlit
corners of London’s neon streets.
I hear them still, as I wander
quiet backstreets in the footsteps of my
Victorian ancestors, wondering if they
heard the same lineage of musicians
weavi
Literature
i
i as a thing with a body
must feel endlessly.
opening, blooming,
closing, wilting:
i flower
and the sky falls upon me.
i am the root, the stem, the rain.
when this bedrock allows
for no more following --
then i must lead,
if i wish to breathe.
i as a thing with a body
have no lungs to speak of
and must compensate
with twigs,
and pixels,
and distance without schematic
with falling, for a lilac while
and ending things before they begin.
when i am hurt
i must not be hurt.
i as a thing with a body
must never be hurt:
to be hurt is surely to die,
and to die is to be unknown.
to be unknown is to have roots
but no stem
no petal.
i
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for d-e-l-e-t-e-d, as part of PoeticLetters
i hope i got it right.
features:
20 Features by d-e-l-e-t-e-d
i hope i got it right.
features:
20 Features by d-e-l-e-t-e-d
© 2014 - 2024 toxic--sunrise
Comments9
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This stilled all the chaos in my mind and heart and wrapped me in a sense of peace from the inside out. Absolutely beautiful work.