They who scale mountains
content themselves with the feeling
of love, not confirmed
with action. They can fly the arrow- never mistake- truer
than any romantic. But
height is a lofty mistress, and the
keenness of the wind is
ever seductive, because it whistles
the story clearly that gets
mangled below.
Who -wants- to get mangled?
We are not beasts of burden, even if
we've worn this fur for thousands of years.
To dive from the clean, clean edge into
chaos is unthinkable.
To frolic among the tumbling bodies
and risk trampling and being trampled
is enough to curl back and reach
for the highminded pleasures
of love
Oh, bu
if the mirror one day'll come to me
then maybe I can see through my so-solid self
I can't just sit here and wait
for my emotions to turn acyanopsic
and feel the air, eating the light
sic something must follow my name
for surely I'm not just another being
put on the surface of earth for spiration
to take up the oxygen so someone else can perish
falling would be a sin
and sleeping would be the greatest of them all
silver can tarnish, gold can melt
and the eternal, beautiful,
living sun
will explode one day
the past is something we want to forget
although we have wasted within it
half of our existence...
we are taught not to lie
while writing fiction and fairy tales
are the most reveled in dishonesties
and just being is a mistake
but we would not berate God nor tear apart the holy churches
which we've built with rough and dirty hands
he tried. she tried.
we tried a billion times over.
and which side would you still prefer to see today
wondering why I never took that smile
out of my thoughts and made it real
I didn't know, really
of why time seemed a cross between memory and dream
who ever broke the lined boundaries
or taken a hand without knowing identities
in the stopped moments of summer
when childish hauntings skip another season
cream and warm breaths, that made a tomorrow
I've seen and saw the eyes pass then away
another missed fantasy, or another illusion
I could never tell
(it didn't seem like a fairytale ending)
we could just watch each other
spiraling away with the air
given by time and impatience and worldly time again
and whisper into each of our own nightly scenery
(which really are not bedrooms when you use your imagination)
and feel our thoughts collide
on their way to eternity, where they'll disappear
for another generation, a thousand years from now
to discover and disappear once more...
I thought that I could feel you
heart pulsing from even across the ocean
but a single tie from the left---
can't affect anything without the right
for then you feel like the other side
a slow motion, devotion, doti
this should not be a diary, between
her, Seity, a selfhood in her fingers
and the hourglass dreams
she's turned about
for this is no confession; only
her elixir, her hope, and the way they
came to be
well, once upon a day
in an insignificant year and fairytale
this girl looked back and saw
her fantasy's
asphyxiations
and she questioned..
-the stars if they would blink faster, had she died tonight
they listened, just long enough to close their eyes
to let golden lashes brush against
the tops of hard cheekbones
for selfish hearts slept even in the core of stars
she touched a window, wondered if it would let
her bre
her songs don't go as far as to the ancient night
they thrive and breathe upon the never-ending light
staying from her eyes calling, catching abraid
changing waves (in which some dreams are made...)
if she could ask one question that forever haunts her mind
the real and imaginative sides would be far away behind
for her sight permits her to see beyond solivagant rains
and herself to bear the burdens of life and take the blames
it's only one word that comes out as the world spins around
thousands of times before she speaks and finds (a sound)
nothing to lose and everything lost in a tangled web of lies
only this, and nothi
Writing.Irony -to liveth by- by mySeity, literature
Literature
Writing.Irony -to liveth by-
I.
only if writing doesn't quite reach
---your fingers
nor words twist their airy selves into a muse
then you dear being, may be far and wise
to see beyond what makes us fools
what crafts writers
and gives them a tool to wield, -not really lies-
but phrases that hold no truth
even as in comfort
neither ironical nor flamboyantly cruel
for until they're brought to light...
no one would ever know nor wonder
if a rose were indeed sweeter
under presumed names...
II.
ask them next time
how really love can hate or be stained
darker than--- anything?
how hearts really break (you know that first came fr
I.
next time you go for a walk in the rain
on cracking pessimistic sidewalks....
and unwittingly your companion abuses your ears
let not your soul start unleashing torrents of long,
(wild, stormily uncautious waters with souls of their own)
merely say, come hither my dear, sarcastic friend
and whisper...it looks like suicide to me...
maybe the clouds will forget and wonder and blow elsewhere
(and maybe your companion will melt into liquid mercury...)
but shouldn't somewhither be a newly made pavement
imbibing sunlight and hearing
the same abuse over and over again
lo, can't you just hear the angels crying
at the treatm
it's like, liquid silver
solus mercury
finding its
reflection
in the soles of its
shoes
and nothing calls back---
even when
you scream into
the depths of a
cavern thats s'posed
to echo...
gone, gone, gone is your
whisper
and the only
answering
irony
is rolling
like the invisible specks
of dust
flip around when they're trod on
in their dreams