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Literature Text
They mocked him because
He laughed between each stanza
Between each stroke of a butterfly's wing
And they didn't get the joke.
They mocked him because
He couldn't read Latin
But the wisdom of eons past still danced in his eyes, shining deep blue while sunset bathed the world in dark fire.
Because sadness never bent his back or creased his face
Because they didn't know how to smile for their own sake
While for him, it came as naturally as an albatross spins on the ocean breeze.
And at night
Those gales would lift him away
Whipping light past his eyes, catching threads of matter and antimatter and weaving him a ladder to climb
Effortlessly; a maestro of the soul's music
An aviator, writing freedom in the sky on his soul's exultant flight.
He laughed between each stanza
Between each stroke of a butterfly's wing
And they didn't get the joke.
They mocked him because
He couldn't read Latin
But the wisdom of eons past still danced in his eyes, shining deep blue while sunset bathed the world in dark fire.
Because sadness never bent his back or creased his face
Because they didn't know how to smile for their own sake
While for him, it came as naturally as an albatross spins on the ocean breeze.
And at night
Those gales would lift him away
Whipping light past his eyes, catching threads of matter and antimatter and weaving him a ladder to climb
Effortlessly; a maestro of the soul's music
An aviator, writing freedom in the sky on his soul's exultant flight.
Literature
remuneration
there were dreams of abasement, tearing up at the thought of
the noxious corners of your eyes. i saw them at a glance and fell
headfirst in the Styx, catching billowing waves of uncertainty and
heartache. they crashed with a decade-begrudged mind that was far
from healing -- far from me.
and though the fall was abrasive and the
waves, their own harangue, their heartache
and toxins faded & found graphite talismans
engraved in a red wrist warmer.
the ground that my blood decorated, with a history of broken bone
marrows now showed how unnecessary a transplant w
Literature
Cloudy
There is something worse
than writer's block;
it's when the words come in
through the heat,
through the loneliness,
or the sheets with
writhing contentment.
It's when the words are right
in your head
for paper or someone else,
and all I can mutter is that
my head hurts-
and I need to go to sleep.
Literature
Zen
Remember
your first smell of perfume.
The blood and vernix wreathed
on the newborn,
and all of those who stare.
The quiet
nighttime war.
The arrow leaves
the bow,
thrown into harm.
Medicine was discovered
by accident;
and maybe faith.
Young love is a jealous god.
It is meant
to make you gentle.
She sounds like meditation
and this is all I'll give her.
We are not
passing through.
The moth knows you are here
and enlightenment
is a silly question.
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