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Literature
Zenith
Zephyr blows
From west to east
To the land of the sun
Rising, so blinding
With a touch you come undone
Smoke and mirrors crying
Unraveling
Shattering
Plethora of false hopes
Blotted away the beast
Chains and shackles broken
Hands no longer bound
Fallen, now forgotten
Yesterday, never found
Fading
Vanishing
Poison ebbs below
Past lives now deceased
Trail of grime and soot
Water to naked sight
Washed away, palms renewed
Elysium in the morning light
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Literature
Eden
Teeth sunken into fresh renewed
Lapping up the most bittersweet
Purest desires well imbued
Despite glaring stains of deceit
Word and warning all rendered moot
Every thought of safety, vanished
How tempting is forbidden fruit
When one is ever so famished?
Heads covered, requiem of shame
Plucked from the darkest of shadows
Fingers pointed, words made to blame
Serpent's promises so hollow
Mind opened to the world beyond
The walls of Eden, eternal
Bear the scars of the devil's spawn
Fruit born, decisions now final
Hear the lyre sing of the garden
And that blemish of ash and soot
Imperfect, maimed with banishment
Paradise to be man's pursuit
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Mature content
Making Hate :iconmydearestponds:mydearestponds 0 0
Literature
Spirit Dearest
Eyes of silver
Soul of gold
Do you tread lightly
Upon the lonely earth
Leaving small footsteps
Too tiny to be seen
Yet too large to overlook?
Do you dig your feet
Into the soft soil
Leaving nothing but gaps
Tunnels that we circle to say
At least we're going somewhere?
Eyes of silver
Soul of gold
Do you whisper your secrets
In the dead of the night
Words that we will never hear?
Do you take flight
In the bleakest hour of dawn
Stretching your ruffled wings
A myriad of hues and mysteries
Colors that we will never see?
Dearest guardian,
Do you let the stars out
To bathe in the moonlight?
To bask in our gazes?
Do you hide the terrors away
Safe inside your pocket?
Safe where no one will ever look?
Guardian,
If this is your life,
How can you keep going?
Guardian,
If this is our life,
How can we keep living?
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Literature
Kaleidoscope
Something is not the same
As moonlight grazes the pavement
I search through
The whole of space and time
But I can't bring myself to say it
I think I'm scared
Of what's to come my way
As I embark on this new journey
I search through
The shifting sands of tomorrow
But I can't see the years to pass
I think I'm scared
Of what I will learn then
As I wish for just one day more
I search through
The kaleidoscope of my memory
But I can't find a single word
I think I'm scared
Of what words can't describe
Something is not the same
As sunlight warms my pockets
I know deep inside
Goodbyes have no words
Just a tiny feeling
That some words are better left unsaid
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Literature
Not Flesh
Not Flesh
He wants to paint the virgin with skin blue
as a stillborn child, as blue as his wife's eyes.
Around their cot in the earth, their seven babes
wait in line for the opening of the sky.
Christ will come back, the priest intones. But this time,
he will not enter through a woman's flesh.
How would he paint a Christ not flesh
the painter wonders? Will he be stone, the bitten skin
of a plum, a fly's wings, threadbare flaxen cloth,
or a white canvas, so white there’s no air to breathe?
"Blue skin," the painter thinks,
Mary's face pooling beneath his brush.
An angel caresses his back until feathers fret
and knot beneath his skin, wanting out.
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Literature
things i want you to know.
0.
there is a picture in my living room
of my parents in their twenties, in sunhats,
laughing.
there is a picture of my father holding me
when i was two years old.
there is a picture of my parents
on their wedding day.
there is a picture of me when i was
ten, eleven, twelve.
i’m seventeen now and
i won’t let my mother
take any of the pictures
down.
i need to believe that, at one point,
this house was more than just
slammed doors
and silence.
1.
i was born on the second-to-last day
of april.
i weighed seven pounds, two ounces,
and it was ninety-nine degrees out.
four years before that, in 1992,
the officers who beat rodney king
within an inch of his life
were acquitted.
five years before that, in 1991,
a cyclone in Bangladesh killed
138,000 people and made 10 million
homeless.
ten years before that, in 1986,
a fire in a Los Angeles library
damaged more than 400,000
books.
and on that day, april 29, 1996, i was born
and i’d like to pretend
that it was a go
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Literature
bodies like star systems.
“the neighbor’s house smelled
like the ocean when i walked past,” you say.
“it’s a sign that i’m drowning.”
“i stepped in two patches of fresh dirt.
it’s a sign that they’ll be digging my grave.”
“i saw the boy i’d lost my virginity to today.
it’s a sign that i’m going to cheat on you.”
“you wake me up with this shit,” he says in annoyance.
“is that a sign i should break up with you?”
“no,” you say, not looking at him, fighting
to keep smiling. “it means -”
he goes back to bed.
he thinks you don’t get it,
but you do.
you do.
--
he teaches you about chemistry,
about physics and the stars.
he teaches you that the universe is finite,
but constantly expanding;
he takes you hand to his chest, and says
“like my feelings for you.”
used to be, you thought he was your gravity
because you were so drawn to him
but gravity’s
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:iconcolbalt-rain:colbalt-rain 264 84

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mydearestponds
Frances
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
Philippines
i'm a sucky artist but i try to be a good person
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