Written: November 02, 2025, for contest by: Robert James Liguor
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The frozen core of human activeness
where the temperament recklessly smiles,
sludge cascades from the blade's edge
A joyous opsimath emerges,
reminiscent of rebellion and aged books,
sturdy and infused with a grin.
His unique calling sign is the "lard of law."
He wears robes adorned with nimbus designs
and stands before a wall of questions.
He gathers information from insightful individuals
Every conundrum is a breach in the law,
And every victim wants to be obvious,
He repeats sharp retorts to the sentient
To the obstreperous, the zymotic throbbing of history.
He says that justice is not banausic.
She is a lissome Nereid,
dancing with eurythmic elegance through garbage.
Though weariness grasps the morning,
and moribund minds look for troughs, not summits.
He persists on—
a sherpa of the spirit,
bestow the noisome into view
where enlightenment flowers akin to vernal fire.
Justice is not a flaw,
It's beginning
It is Nemesis
the tiny thread that links,
the strained heart to the flimsy earth.
On the sunset porch, I spatter my breath.
Return the favor so that can fulfill my task.
I'm merely observing people passing through.
Continue speaking with sleazeball lips.
Remnants of alive memories.
Sing to amply demonstrate the dedication.
Thusly, overcome with the eager desire to sob.
I cleave to the pieces of dead maps you are grasping.
On the grounds that I entered the hole to steep it.
As well, mutiny spread in all banausic ways.
I'm crouching beneath the wishing arbor, as you can view.
My most fervent hopes are being warped in odd angles.
To the wondrous strains of a mournful tune.
My heart expresses a desire for raw skin.
In the folds of the reach, light candles of wonder.
My mind is brimming with gloomy shades.
Arrange for the upheaval of gray memory strands.
I applaud my post-injury morality.
And I recall this to the best of my cognitive ability.
That is all in a proper sense.
On saddle cushions, I slept properly.
I buried you on your own holy patch of land.
Nobody grasps me in this squandering.
Nobody compares to my image in mirrors.
Written: February 16, 2022
I was quiescent and reposing on a wooden chair
to a faraway distance the vista seemed nothing.
I was engrossedly thoughtful in an empty stare;
In this somber fixation i did not sound maudlin.
In the surrounding, in a room, there was naught to care
even how vociferous the unaffecting din.
I was vacant without a frown or grin.
Then, an astonishment by an abrupt interruption
awakened me chop-chop from the pensive exertion.
An instinctively soft guffaw was my reaction
and an immediate beam marked down my emotion.
From a study to a stir was the alteration;
I uttered a word or two in continuation.
It was a spectacle of fruition.
Sometimes it is diverting to father relation
of familiar episodes in consecution;
Even how minute is their banausic condition.
It can be reported engagingly in a verse
with welcome alternate rhyming association
and with no contemplation to secure confusion
so as any sage mortal can immerse.
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