Sing out the pain of your heart woven in a soul-stirring Elegy. An elegy is a mournful, melancholic or plaintive poem, usually associated with a funeral song or a lament for the dead. Popular Elegies have often expressed three stages of loss. First is a lament, portraying grief and sorrow, then praise and admiration of the idealized dead, and finally consolation and solace. Soak your heart in memories as you float from one Elegy to the other.
Emotional sequestration perseverates across thine time warped weft wise wold, sans interpersonal stagnation flourishes as oft twice told tale amidst derelict hollowed moldering sacrificed stranglehold did potential now bankrupt acquaintanceships/ friendships get out sold agonizingly excruciatingly jujitsu physically writhing front
Absent deliberate intervention vis a vis suicide, supposed “natural” longevity of generic human primate ride ding bareback across avast broke back mountain minus pride defies accurate prediction, though hypothetical projections can override unknown factors, whereby excluding misfortune nationwide (and/or globally
On my way to work, Whenever I pass through The Holy Trinity church, After a brief prayer, The tombstone of a martyr My eyes never fail to search As his eulogies sensitive cords Are sure to touch! I admire The
And with a gust of defeat; the future seems familiar. Has the oneness forgotten about me? The interconnectedness of futile Embellishments followed by straights of garbage, lack-luster trash, soul-less sirens of shit-laced spines, irrelevance, trains without brakes. Exposure, death, the
As the gust flips Chaffs over; our mortal page turns over in a flip when the bell tolls for whom so ever it would While mortals mourn and grieve; in a mansion fairer than ever imagined, a throng in celestial
Wynken Blynken and Nod??? (ah…oh methinks this pissant pooch woof lee barked up the wrong tree – reed don my mongrel friend) This poetic endeavor doth not boast nor brag to take digs on front page headline grabbing news, nonetheless
Page 1. the celebrated sailing frog from Montgomery County went a court’n, or so the tale iz toad to a grand ole mansion built around 1910, and e’en ‘pon being razed ~2012 ah no dummy sea worthiness still plainly showed,
Strangers on the street stare at you in awe thinking to themselves that girl’s got everything; even the people closest to you are blind, blind to the storm brewing in your mind. Your best friend says your pretty without makeup.
loving male, natural of pleasure, quintessentially rendered suitable to us via way ova our darling daughter. tis the blessing of this average, contemplative damn ejected flotsam globular human impish jokester kooky lamb misunderstood nonestablishmentarian outlier praises quality ram rod sterling
A seven gun salute for CHINUA A star among stars The big tree has fallen But nature I blame For such a blunder. I know you look down Up there Your footprint still draws breath Yesterday your legacy I saw
All those years I underwent orthodontic care for naught cuz profound gum recession and bone dissolution found me fraught with an angst riddled necessity whence dentures bought or will soon bring relief, where financial cost to me = aught. though
Strangers from incident, lies for distance, pitfalls of living infrequent, Rushes of sympathy pass over like fever sweat. In concurrent motion the wolves swarm on the lifeless carcass. Impending emotions fill the hole in my stomach, my chest continues to
walking through dark lanes , the night was soundless and reserve . wind roared with a whistle and rattled the barren leaves, thinking and analyzing the problem , glanced the stars which shine. they shine and shine , flicker but
“At least eighty dead,” is all you’ve said…. As that charred colossus, Grenfell, towers overhead. The hopes and fears of those you loved, Dead. Those missing, without mention, who died, without dying, who cried, without crying. The faceless, euphemised headlines
I hope it’s not him, The one who keeps drinking gin. As the bell rang, I said, “who’s there?” He barked, “Open the door! I’m here.” My hands started shaking, And my head started aching. But still I managed to
She was screaming. I don’t know who that she is. But that she was screaming ’cause, the bleeding won’t stop. The blood was pouring out in the form of clots, and the alcohol and pills were doing a great job.
You heard what you wanted to hear You felt what you wanted to feel You ignored all the evidence to the contrary And resigned yourself to the fates But what you did not see Was the turmoil that started it
Ash Wednesday 2018 “I always buy The Big Issue in London because round our way, it’s a load of Romanians. I say, you should look after Your own first”. The ash-smudge as fresh on her forehead as a virgin, painted
The red-gold heaven of stormy autumn leafy-misty lights this late October dawn recalling to me, curiously, the design hidden in words, swirls of the wood-smoke of ages time-ridden, missing things: a fleeting meeting with the past: something else that does
Sign of what once may be left Breath taken deeply denial of death Presence of grace to have a place to hide As family leaves fall temperatures will rise Accepting the passing of a goodbye For moments of inscription Left
thieved by dust of years, still living dead between those tacit yellow words engraved in marble– yet, yen for you tastes opiate honeyed in flowery strings of elegy myrrh scent hanging from a lifeless tree. Come back for me love,