counting down is a funny thing,
counting never helped,
counting came automatically,
I've heard that heaven is wherever,
yet that Heaven can decide,
we sell greed to all our children, sadly
when if we knew language plainly,
we could see reason from many more sides.
Thinking outside of the box, is to paraphrase the paradigm
that everything we gather is extensive from the mind,
thinking outside the circle, see the box has always one,
but the square would know the triangle fooled everything but 1
asked in in every angle, whilst the venom we dismiss
is that we choose to fuck like angels when we're cautious with our lips
but oh my taste buds warn me that the spelling of a which
spread a dogma to the masses that a song could be the switch
with their cupcake love-like humor,
and their endless masking show,
they snort the seeds of spreading laughter,
so that the garden bends back fro
but if Eden had No master,
and If God were ever true,
then the laughter is our Heaven,
and the many are it's glue,
so as Saratonin greets me,
by the many waves for dope,
i will simply smile politely
to say that amine nope
for that never was the shelling
that had ever got me high,
it was the smile of trustful doings
in the gleam of neighbors eyes
so as heaven is by orbs
woven from the light,
the light can not be measured
as we all have different eyes
therefore i dare to question
how we damn all those that see
a heaven meant for them
when there's a heaven meant for you and me
and ever in the virtue,
so do kingdoms choose to rise
that know the difference between martyrs
and the suicidal slime
and beyond the the many wicked
and far past these times of gray,
the greater son will rise again
as we will adapt to all the change
for as evolution pushes,
the unadapted claim
that it's the fault of all the demons
when the world just works that way
so if ever i was lesser
than the greater i could be
then i could better me forever
in the growth of logics tree'
and truly eat the fruit of wisdom
as humble Pi is what we need.
A thought for your thought, good sir. If I may be so bold.
I believe that there are derelicts in the eyes people that are seen as dreams in the eyes of others. That would've worked out so well for us if the epiphanies of others matter just as much to us as our own epiphanies. I guess that's the flaw in the machine which makes me sad.
But, if it makes you feel better, I think that the derelicts and bureaucrats still have irreplaceable worth in the eyes of those who see them as dreams and angels, respectively.
Long, Long time! I had to read as I knew you are skilled whether you are still kicking for life or not.
There are poets who will remain unknown until death like Sylvia Plath, but there are poets whose words impact the lives of others unknowingly. This, to me, is a great poet. When you move the crowd in an unseen way to live better lives, to achieve greater goals, to take challenges...you are considered powerful and alive...even in death.
Why? I am matriculating into a writing school. I would have to say you and many others on poetry sites have inspired this spark. One other individual who I actually spoke to of renowned character said, "Saby you have a gift that you are letting it ride away on the water side. Do something about it!"
You have a beautiful gift and it is written all over your work. Death cannot detain even the most prominent writers. Although we fall like stars, our words will resound in the hearts of many men...men who will take these writings to where they need to be...the top. Words are powerful whether you are dead or alive. I enjoyed greatly! Death is just the beginning of life, RWS. Hugggssss. I have missed you.
It is ironic to hear poetry buffs call me a plagiarist. They searched all over for the poem, "Two Nightingale's in a Tree". I do not have this poem and lost it, but a friend has it. It was written for him. His name is Antonio Siclari. They were wealthy clients of his and he told them that he is sure the person is not a poetic plagiarist. They searched poems from this poet whose work rang in the same tone. They could not find me as a plagiarist. Two weeks later they came into his office and apologized. They re-read the poem and asked for a copy and he refused. He said because she would not allow it and because it is something special between her and I. They told him that the talent was definitely there. I know you have this talent and would not be surprised if I heard your name running through the MEDIA. GO GET WHAT IS YOURS!
a very tight piece....ahh. that search for immortality, elusive as always. funny thing about epiphanies though...we keep searching for them, but once we're lucky enough to have them, then what? and when we find ourselves studying those who've reached immortality, do we do them justice? in their eyes, most likely not....
i love the analogies in the first stanza. really underscores the gap that is so tough to close....