What hurts, well can things handle,
When ground, gets fragrant, sandal,
Pain suffered, goes not in vain,
To see unseen, douse candle.
____________________________________
Epigram |11.08.2023| light, dark
I've known rejection, as well as its pain,
and every time I've sworn never again.
At times I feel I'm responsible too,
for doing things I knew I shouldn't do.
I have seen hope bring tears to people's eyes,
and those same tears, as hope dwindles and dies.
Sometimes living itself warps perceptions,
and life responds based on misconceptions.
I've seen fear hidden behind smiling masks,
being led somewhere, and yet no one asks.
I've indulged in the luxury of hugs,
though they can be as addictive as drugs.
I have seen truths overshadowed by lies,
fueled by conspiracies in disguise.
And I've seen people reject wrong for right,
when darkness descends to douse freedom's light.
When you a petty thief house,
Expect a dramatic disappearance of your blouse
And one other filmic vanishing and sure goodbye
With his waiting, believable alibi.
When you all . webs browse,
Not against this holding a grouse,
You’ll definitely see
What shall make you feel at sea…
When you can’t from your hair extract a louse
You might not out-smart a cornering mouse…
If you can powerful emotions arouse,
You can a spitting fire douse!
When you a petty thief house,
Expect a dramatic disappearance of your blouse
And one other filmic vanishing and sure goodbye
With his waiting, believable alibi.
When you all . webs browse,
Not against this holding a grouse,
You’ll definitely see
What shall make you feel at sea…
When you can’t from your hair extract a louse
You might not out-smart a cornering mouse…
If you can powerful emotions arouse,
You can a spitting fire douse!
When you a petty thief house,
Expect a dramatic disappearance of your blouse
And one other filmic vanishing and sure goodbye
With his waiting, believable alibi.
When you all . webs browse,
Not against this holding a grouse,
You’ll definitely see
What shall make you feel at sea…
When you can’t from your hair extract a louse
You might not out-smart a cornering mouse…
If you can powerful emotions arouse,
You can a spitting fire douse!
To be. To feel.
To feel, to love,
To love. To rage,
To rage, to die
Like a good Romantic, or to sleep like this,
Ghosting about
Like a loose plastic bag
That flaps on a windy night
Under a sodium street lamp’s
Eerie all-submerging light.
O Shakespeare, pity us,
O Wilkes, O Pope,
O Voltaire, O Heine,
O Byron. O Shelley,
Shed tears for us.
We have mislaid the liberties
You fought for.
And the truths you taught us.
The Board of Standardisation
In the interests of this nation
Will suppress the imagination.
Like ranters at Hyde Park
We’re still good for a Sunday lark.
Our patrons are benign
as long as we are innocuous.
They’ll allow a little room for satire
(as long as we keep our hats on)
Just to show what sports they are.
Toothless protest’s just a cliché,
But don’t let slip a waspish quip,
Or “Sirrah, Sirrah, the whip!”
Tow the line. That’s fine.
“Douse that prophetic fire by nightfall, sir,
Or the neighbours will complain.”
A D-Notice served on the brain
deadens every joy and pan.
Cross the heart with this red pencil
And with this stencil write:
THE END OF ART.”
to douse the emotional flames
became the aim over time
the flames at first were
not as high as they would become in the end
the flames became much more
violent as time went on
in the beginning the flames
were easy to extinguish
but over time they became
to massive to contain
till one day the flames
turned into a tremendous
blaze that engulfed the land
of possibilities till everything
had perished
What is the douse of men?
That drives clutched
Formidable and incredible
From skull bird
To the modern stone shack’s lament.
The knot of history unravels;
Breathed through eyes,
Sighted through skin
Unknown anaemic love.
Coated in the waft of death
And touched by the parched flaps
Of weeping butterflies.
A stranded thought - strangled,
Laid bare
In the memory of the morning
- Lest we forget.
with the tilt of the head,
and a heart so heavy...
he sits on the floor of his home,
thinking every moment about his capital levy...
for there are days,
with nothing to pass the time,
the god himself is staying so long,
and the dryness has dried the pond's slime...
the particles of the dust ready to enter the skin,
with the skin showcasing designer patches,
they never bothered playing in the dust,
roaming around with the deep itchy scratches...
there's no fire,
not a dime for the mere matchstick,
the dampness is breaking the strength,
And so is breaking the house's every brick…
still, they live, they live like mopes,
carrying a soul, with the least of their hopes,
for they believe, a chariot might come to take everyone in their house,
until then they will wait, and they will not let their flames douse…
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