"Like the moon, come out from behind the clouds! Shine... Meditate. Live purely. Be quiet. Do your work with mastery." ~Buddha
Who Could Know? by Jagged-Fang, literature
Literature
Who Could Know?
Tuned in the news today
And I could hardly even trust my ears
I can’t see where we’re drifting to
Without an anchor in the flow of years
Are we really moving forward?
Out to sea or are we shoreward?
Where is up?
The new thing is to be PC
Right down to the eighth degree
Alongside rising selfishness
And new waves of entitlement
Are our causes getting greater
Or are we just getting smaller?
Is it both?
It seems like no one knows no answers
Are we health or are we cancer?
Who could know.
So how am I to live my life?
For status, fun, subscribes and likes
With children free of sacrifice?
Or should success be my pursuit?
To plot, b
She stayed with him, and from his side
She dredged from out his blackened mind
The bones of those who lost their lives
In crimson mists of war
The contour of a sunny face
That glowed behind a lit cigar
His heart had never left his home
His dog, his friends, his native land
His girlfriend and her waiting hand
His life spilled out on desert sand...
A midnight raid through dirty rooms
Stretching shadows cast by flashlights
Turns of corner made so quickly
Startled face and lunging arms
A crack, a stumble then a fall
A boy sinks down against the wall
His teenage eyes so full of terror
As he vainly tries to crawl
What lies or sorrow brought him
Barefoot in a pool of sun
poured on a pool of mud
on bare ground.
An adventurer seeks
his human significance
in the vast.
Orphan to a home
lain in concrete
and consecrated
by its construction.
seeking his society
on an ocean of leaves
in a boat of moon.
Sleeping on the flower beds
Of each and every phylum,
softened xylem.
Lands ashore with
Unsavory satisfaction
On sea smoothed grains
He stands.
Wet from sea storms
Tossed aboard
in moonlight.
Night.
And day.
Barefoot,
Staring towards
the sea of sand.
Land.
Oh, Ed: I am not Your Annabel Lee Anymore by AzizrianDaoXrak, literature
Literature
Oh, Ed: I am not Your Annabel Lee Anymore
You have learned to move
with the silence of ghosts,
the tense noiselessness
of bricked-up walls
shut out the night, and
shut out the night.
I, too, have changed.
I am a mausoleum,
my darling Poe
you curl up inside me like a child.
But there is hardly anything left to hold;
all that is left of me
is a house of moth-eaten lace,
green as arsenic,
collapsing amidst purple lightning flowers,
falling wingless over cliffs
that crash like waves against a dark sea.