PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

befallen heavily on a dreary window

doused, but not

teary eyed, for someone

as haughtily remembered

her commanding spirit

stoking the carbon's fire

to let her own sulfur

in the nightsky—fall

just when the twinkly

sky holes under

the blackness of

his inimical blacklight

how many renaissance

should there

be in the starlight—

the beauty therein

laid down starless

in her dark gown

—darkly galore!

should their passionate

voice(s) be emptied

like a shell

a gunslinging

bad actor in a

criminal film or gore

in all its horror—

it's never a fight to

the finish,
still remaining in

their leashes

love undefined

for contrasting viewpoints

like untoppled realism

how the angels speak

in religious experiences

studied in mysticism

say hello to the Great Flood

and the world of the

metaphysical,
we can't all be fishes—

stoners name-calling stoners

the peaceable reed

the peaceable reed
(of their ilk),
like the bountiful
rice variety

so nice to look at

—those slender

stalks

like the idylls
of European creativity

in this case,
any person that talks

all conversations
that have that potential
for explosive eruption

the friction is everywhere,
a gruelling task

normal life's allusion

now, may i ask
how she
managed to endure
such horridity?

(answering the plea—)

boy, it's not love..
but
just affinity!

calling it love (yet involving cultural variances)

it's as if they know—

 
how to lift their wings
to fly

only to be able to reach
that glorious blue sky

it's when city dreamers
really, really
could dream high

yet trying to go on their
own particular ways—
not even finding relief, sigh!
 
 
would you still hold me
until the golden dawn?

tell me what year are we now, again?
we're here, olden.. but then
 
somehow  
 
 
we still have  
fallen apart, as you joked
again..and..again

 
—that you bleed—
(unrequited love?)

 
that's how we
pass the blame to reality
 
 
but really, it could just be
an untranslatable word

for perfect love

unconsciously—

 
misunderstanding

mere affinity—

untitled (former working title: true music)

as if one have
all the value judgements

in this—

tribulation period,

if only wind
instruments were
invented to share
a message, —

would souls
truly speak
in the present moment?

time & its insignificance

like metanoia
—a paradigm shift—
suddenly, anxiety
changing one's drift

from kabbalah
to phonetics
linguistics, semantics
hermeneutics of the Torah

from ancient

to the renaissance

what more can
one presage?

neither—

if a believer

prays to a false God

[of an othered religion]

permitted but

wronged sainthood

senile syllogisms & oblivion

candy tears

in the dead of the night
she whispers
again while
singing

i knew she was
the music
that she listens
to

dreaming—

it is the unfoldment
that scares
us mortals

because of
our undistinguished
petals

longing—

we long for
the perfect honeyed

world

to
unfold—

to come to know another

(a breakaway discovered

among groups of birds)

to come to know me is
to deep dive to me

to not resent
the unanticipated
cavernous dark
sides or hues

what an awful
surprise that would
be if you had
that false image
before you love

an idea far-flung
gets into your
morality,
then let birds
fly away

forgetting everything
in their flight—

in that one-way mirror again

high up in his flying train,
he gathers up his
thoughts once again

a seeming intersection
while the Tokyo music
was revivified in his
digital song collections

sure, they never admitted
their needful urges just to
warrant their utmost desires

to live in heaven peacefully
but the firmament,
where was that exactly?

we may forever escape
our scathing and snide
remarks thrown unto each other

the overarching cultural
relativism, capitalism,
individual differences,

language barriers,

denialism & its power

your misdeeds are forgiven
by him, like a muscle twitch
unlike when he needed to scratch
whatever it is when compared

to an itch

he came along
she was the song
but just without words
and tender caresses
of samurai swords

—like a moonless twilight

the dead of winter
make things
not right

not all countries
dusted by snow
to their heads alight

it does speak
through our fallacies
and biases alike

our dreariness,
longstanding,
dreaminess,

like a moonless twilight

An Active Volcano
& Homesteads

He wants to visit
a Mitsukoshi somewhere
but, instead, they
visited Harajuku in Japan

It's like a Resident Evil
film sequel during
that silver afternoon
just because every big
city needs one

But the tremendous
beauty of a volcano
and a mountain simply
cannot be denied

Its mysteries even
symbolized the island
country, her homeland

Without that sad part of
the past (Alas, now it's over)
each could not
have walk passed each other

It seems everything
happens for a reason

I say everytime this
was the case,
it happens each season

And so we question time,
biology and our biography,

and blame the universe for our

subjective and objective reality