Bereft of Words…

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Bereft of words,
Save for this small exhortation I found
Lying in the middle of the street.
It wanted desperately for me to help him
Find his face, or something fairly close to it,
So that he could finally be seen again,
And perhaps even interacted with;
As x approaches the (a) limit of civility.

Afterwards we would locate his jar of coagulated thoughts
And loosen them with his mother’s tears,
The vagrant shadows of possibilities
Forever unrealized lurking restlessly
Within the hollowed-out space of each anguished drop.

Never mind the blood that cascades from his chest;
Its song will end soon enough,
And you will be forced to interpolate its lyrics
Between each panged session, each rupture
Of salvation from clot after blessed clot.

Churning and churning,
A fire persists with
Each successive wave growing more robust than the last
In a furor of abandon withstood only by an escaping sun.
There is no life in this place,
Because he remained invisible
Up to the moment the eyes of the other
Encapsulated him whole
Before the first words could take form.

Solace the hearts as you may,
But you will not find him
In your good will.
Your fear is where they have made his home;

Where you defend against him, daily,
Pushing him into the throes of immobility
And de-personalization as you
Seek refuge from all that
Dare mention his name.

In the end, though,
He is but waiting to be born.
You will see him.
And he will know a pure sun.

Art: “Constellation: The Morning Star”
Joan Miró

Expand Undefined…

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Expand undefined
Until these brittle forms

Leave no
Trace of
Original grasp.

Contract when
Light gives you
Every reason to
Suffer and
Not to see.

Invert your sorrows
Upend every regret
So that you die only once,
Knowing.

Art: “Abstract Painting, Suprematism”
Kazimir Malevich

Where words fail…

Where words fail...

Where words fail, the dictates of the union between the subconscious and superconscious prevails. It is eloquence in its finest, purest and most transcendent form. Impressions of this eloquence radiate in the form of thought and being from a central point where all the colors seem to converge; this point is perhaps an approximation of the most central point of our own being, the beginning of eloquence. Pure thought is subconscious. Pure being is superconscious (or maybe even non-conscious). Here we are witness to a breathtaking marriage of the two.

Art: “Eloquence”
Jaison Cianelli

There are Many Mirrors Here…

There are Many Mirrors Here...

There are many mirrors here,
But none so translucent
As the one I turned away from
Moons and stars and galaxies ago,
When your possibility entered my awareness

And the dark corners that dutifully inhabit your space
Culminated into many precipices,
Each one beckoning me to leap
Into this sea that churns with unknowing-
Head unbowed, arms outstretched, hands trembling

As I clutch this mirror tightly; yes, the one I made for you,
Moons and stars and galaxies ago,
Now cracked in many places and blurred by the constant gale of
Moments perpetually come and gone
In this happy continuum of

Nothingness and light.
Before I take flight, it must be shattered
And cast into the sea,
And each piece will bear the faintest of illuminations
Until fully dissolved.

I will latch on to one,
And let it guide me home
Until it too becomes another moment,
Another memory weaved into
This vast wreath of possibilities both already realized and yet to be.

If I arrive not,
Remember not my failed journey,
But cherish the light that became its beginning,
And connect it with others
Until the circle is complete.

Art: “Gilded Wings”
Steven DaLuz

Burgundy Nights

Burgundy Nights

Her breath eludes me – it is alien.
Trembling hands glide restlessly
Through billowing burgundy satin dreams
So soft, so ethereal they slip from the hand
Like molten ruby.

I’m here, I’m not here.
I follow her, anxiously
Into a relentless density of wooded paths, united passions,
Curiosity ramified into infinite branches of intent.
Each one rising, falling

According to a smile – laughs, anticipations materialized.
She beckons me there. Deeper—
She’s familiar with these worlds.
Already traveled, already there, waiting for the hand,
Or at least its shadow

Aimless caresses ignite discrete flames,
Illuminating labyrinthine grottos decked with playful crevices
That glide, gently, hands, interlocked
Her eyes in repose, satin cries unraveled,
Gracing my countenance with delicate unrestraint

I indulge her fury.
A small Death, all the sweeter,
Awakens latent streams flanked by the élan of
Reckless oblivion
Within her bosom I am immersed in my cause
Without qualification,
Suffocated by the rapture of fleeting remembrances of
Those foreign nights.

Art: “Spherical Romance Art Set”
Holly Anderson

They Have Drunk…

They Have Drunk...

They have drunk from your decanter of sorrows.
Bathed in your iniquity.
What remains then of a tattered phantasm,
A consciousness vulnerable to the mind,
Yet vulgar to the eye?
Loneliness is a velvet cocoon,
Slowly ripped to fine shreds by the restless
Light of your virtue.

Art: “The Loneliness”
Anna Pronskaya