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    dots Submission Name: Everything Fades(Death of Atlantis)dots

    Author: Shadowstar13
    Elite Ratio:    4.73 - 191/191/129
    Words: 417
    Class/Type: Poetry/Longing
    Total Views: 844
    Average Vote:    5.0000
    Bytes: 2912

       There's no "childhood" category. So I put "for children." Deal with it.

    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsEverything Fades(Death of Atlantis)dots

    Nothing lasts, all things fade.
    Gods rise and fall with the tides of belief.
    What is science now is next year's superstition,
    today's scandal is tomorrow's old news.
    Even stains fade,
    bright red blood on a gashed knee clotting and drying to dull rust,
    to be washed away with the next rain.
    This moment's scars are the next's ornaments,
    and "life" is a metamorphosing beast.

    I long often now for the days of innocence
    so fresh,
    it stung the eyes of lies and tingled on bare skin
    like new snow,
    like aloe on a sunburn.
    These new pleasures cannot always compete
    with jump-roping alone on
    ancient macadam.
    I didn't like it then,
    but I do now.

    I am young when flying down the hill with faun feet,
    but there always comes the moment at the foot of the hill
    where the wing-ankled walkway wannabe warrior
    turns back into the sly-eyed viole(n)t butterfly'd stormy-skied brigid-cried wild-ride never-died poetess who never tried to find out if the anger lied, because she trusts the feral inside.
    Faun gives way to Fury, and sane gives way to sibyl.
    Androgynia gives way to nymphomania.
    Fights over tinker-toys succumb to wars over whores,
    and I'm tired of the battles with monsters outside my head.

    I wish
    they would've kept us young.
    I do.
    I wish they wrapped us in cotton,
    or spiked our food with some font of eternal childhood. "Youth"
    seems like the golden age in 20 years,
    but now it's the iron age,
    the machine rattling its gears of deceit and malice wearing a mild mask,
    sugar-mouthed children using other children,
    drugs named after angels,
    and simple dishonesty,
    discongruence with the world outside you

    This bittersweet concoction of nostalgia and razorbladed regret,
    the realization that the world's spinning too fast around us all,
    and that things we swore we'd never do
    are becoming sacred, holy, habit:
    erotica for her,
    necrotica for them,
    occultis for me,
    and cannabis for you.

    The four cardinal sins of the years beyond six-

    (not including neurotica, which, I believe, begins at birth:)

    -Damned if I do it,
    damned if I don't.-
    [Damned if I try this,
    but I'm damned if I won't.]
    /Damned? If I'm right... but
    damned if I'm wrong./
    <Damned if I do this,
    but give me the bong.>

    So this is what it's like
    to feel the past crumble in your hands.
    So this is what Atlantis felt like
    when it crashed upon the sands.

    Submitted on 2010-02-20 17:09:01     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      This is a to put it mildly – sacred truth flowing, not form the ink of your pen, but from the bleeding heart of a childhood come and gone but the reflections of life from this sacred innocence slowly fading in obscurity of a unreal shadow world with each passing moment.
    Strangely I do not long for a childhood lived to the full until I turned nineteen and was actually regrettably “forced” to abandon just to be “with-it” in an world that expected it of me. At heart I am still that child. Mighty powerful piece your wrote on a s patch of a sacred tree as Khalil Gibran wrote it long ago: “We cut down the trees and turn it into paper to record our empty thoughts” which is of surely not so in your poem. I like your poem. Luv jm
    | Posted on 2010-03-08 00:00:00 | by Joachim | [ Reply to This ]

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