Life is a touch to say,
Use it to shine the way.
Only a blind man walks in darkness
What do you hope to see in the dim,
Oh, you fogged mortal eyes?
Shine the way.
Life is a touch to say,
Use it to shine the way.
Shine, and shine, I say
Illuminate the world today.
Listening to you
oh what a to-do
it looks like
you've come unglued
or going bananas
your psyche's addled the mind muddled
brain's fogged boggled or befuddled
is something missing
a marble or two
perhaps a loose screw
maybe more than a few
and making a run
or bolt for it
will never do
it's not too late
to join the inmates
for as well you know
you will still be there
wherever you go
Now and then, quietly without notice,
Time adjusts its spectacles—
Peers through a fogged pane of recall
Where particulars, once urgent, dissolve.
If now and then you find rain in your heart,
be assured it is scheduled—
a punctual drizzle of consequence,
not passion, but the persistence of memory
in its bureaucratic overcoat.
It’s all because of you,
the file states plainly:
signed in duplicate, sealed in dust.
No redress required—
only the courteous nod to causality.
The aged—those quaint accumulations—
become, in the end, detours.
Not disliked, precisely,
but excessive to the route:
a bench beneath ivy, seldom occupied.
So live out your days with decorum.
Attend the rituals of silence.
Polish your small routines.
Let time, that sly curator,
catalogue your exit in amber.
You were not real.
But I gave you every real part of me.
Stitched you from sighs I didn’t release
and silences that lingered too long.
I traced your face in fogged mirrors,
named you in the ache before sleep.
You kissed me in dreams
but left my lips colder when I woke.
You said all the right things,
because I wrote your dialogue.
Touched me the way I needed,
because I taught you where I hurt.
I know I shouldn’t lean on you the way I do,
But my heart is too fragile,
torn, and the seams don’t fit.
So let me hold you longer,
hug you tighter
because love is safest when it’s pretend.
They gather where the signs hang crooked,
under gaslight glare and broken clocks,
where the barkeep’s eyes are twin shot glasses—
fogged, but watching.
Gin Lane rolls in on tired boots,
her laughter sharp as shattered glass.
Beer Street hums a fatter tune,
slumped in booths of sticky leather.
They meet at the hinge of last call,
where poetry is slurred and prophets mumble.
A jukebox wails old revolutions
to a crowd too drunk to notice.
The walls are graffiti'd with regrets,
phone numbers of ghosts,
and chalked-up debts no one will ever pay.
Outside, the world is coughing up history,
but in here, time stirs with a muddler.
The bar is a church with no god,
only spirits, and the faithful who sip them.
Some come to forget,
others to remember louder.
A woman in red sings with her back to the room.
A man orders another round
and trades his name for a tab.
Everyone claps when the glass breaks.
Midnight hits like a bottle to the head—
the bouncer shrugs,
Beer Street staggers,
Gin Lane pirouettes into the dark.
To be longed for,
Oh, to be wanted.
To be craved, to be needed,
To be the answer before the question is breathed.
To be compulsory,
To be everything you've ever asked for.
To fill your heart, to be enough.
Loving but never loved,
Giving but never given.
To be the sun, yet chased by the moon,
To be the tide, yet never the shore.
To whisper love into empty echoes,
To pour and pour—till there's nothing more.
To trace your name on fogged-up glass,
Only to watch it disappear too fast.
To reach for hands that slip like shadows,
To speak of love no one can hear .
To be the warmth in a world that stays cold,
To write a love letter no one will hold.
To be a melody hummed but never sung,
To taste forever on someone else’s tongue.
To bloom in the dark, unseen, unsought,
A ghost of a dream, a love forgot.
Fears stay forever,
They don't deteriorate like weather.
And I watch the free birds through my foggy window,
And I watch their lives flow.
To grow old is to grow wise,
That's what they said.
Presidents and doctors and Gymnasts too,
This wisdom is not enough to mistake you,
They thrive for openings to their neverending fears.
They strive for a open door when they haven't seen one in years.
And though they have no idea.
It's better than to stay and fear.
Everyone feels fear as if it has overcome us.
Though I see the appeal.
I still see the crow children free as a bird.
From my fogged up windowsill.
Fears stay forever,
They don't deteriorate like weather.
And I watch them through my foggy window,
And I watch their lies flow.
To grow old is to grow wise,
That's what they said.
But all this talk has gotten to their head,
Presidents and doctors and Gymnasts too,
This wisdom is not enough to mistake you,
They thrive for openings to their neverending fears.
They strive for a open door when they haven't seen one in years.
And though they have no idea.
It's better than to stay and fear.
Everyone feels fear,
As if it has overcome us.
A population not comfortable,
Of confronting what's Infront of us,
Though I see the appeal.
And I watch the little children,
Ride their bikes and splash in the mud,
From my fogged up windowsill.
Sometimes the air feels like concrete
Weighing my lungs down and filling my veins with stone
The world can move so slowly when this happens
Every moment an eternity to reflect
Inner thoughts become fogged over
And the hearts feeling impossible to decipher
Once a year I can breathe freely
The fall brings a dull environment that comforts the nerves
I don’t know why the breath of dying trees and rainy days blankets me
But there is no other sensation like it
Feeling my lungs drain the density of life
There’s children growing up that believe the stars
sound like crickets chirping,
for their only exposure to these sources of wonder
are through over-exposure to blue light and radio waves
and soundtracks overlaying simulations.
The night they know
is bright as day,
lit by “satellite internet constellations”
or fogged out by the price of progress.
They don’t understand what it is to stare upwards
and be humbled in awe.
That’s what’s wrong with men today;
they never look up, never gaze around.
They only march forward on a path
marked with dollars instead of footprints
and fail to take heed of the wails around them.
But at least one day, when
we’ve siphoned the earth dry to fuel
“achievements”
(greed),
when the cities are burning from the debts of desire,
the children will look up at the stars that aren’t stars
and hear real crickets chirping
and they won’t be afraid of the end.
"Streets of Solitude, losing your way behind fogged glass of bliss, a journey to reality." Quote by poet
Away from mental incessant chatter,
A walk in solace away from the world,
Off time, a sense of elation scatter
A will to feel utter fatigue shatters.
A shaded path tucked away in slumber.
A struggle, dire against impossible,
In surrounding walls of dark and umber,
Cornered, hidden beast huddled in lumber.
Treading, determinedly, upward, the tree's
Sunshade is thinning, revealing a vast
Cadet blue sky space, glorious to see.
Leaving the world behind upon the breeze.
Aussies shake the cob-webs away your lives are at stake
In these present days.'
The M A D bill is pending, find strong will don't be bending.'
Phone the radio stations
Make great noise' stir the Nation.! Get emailing get writing
Whats intended is frightening.'
Forget about division.! And any 'con-vid' fogged decisions!
You are bigger, and better.'
Listen to a Nations spirit not the letter, make things better!
Ask your neighbour sister brother.?
Make your stand.!! You'll find there are many others.!
Now we know, the past was sheer murder.' Share the word
M A D..Shall not pass! Not one speech or motion further.!!
Misty mornings
as gray as matter of invisible time
A porch light is lit but there is no one home
Fogged up windows and street lamp tenors
a white wash sky achieves light
as a shutter opens the mind is restored,
it is no longer night.
"My soul ceases to stroll ~
in the ruffled leaves of lotus letters,
whose paper sun
has never surfed to your seabeds..."
~ quote by the poet.
Say, I'll be the saviour-spell
...for your champagne stars, sinking
in eyes eclipsed by cupid
where orphans of daylight, dwell
when I am nothing... but pain
a puppet princess, dethroned
I dream to be your heartbeat
...pearled in peace periwinkles
when poetry is Psyche
...freckled in my fogged marrow
and petals fall, pulse by pulse
ink me feathered, in grape-golds
if the hydra hymns forget
to breathe my name in silence
O' love, I'll bask ~ laced with lores
healed in you...like a poem
Pulling the thread - Dominique Smith
Go a head ,Do it. You can, no one has to know. You could keep it to yourself, so go on. Make yourself pull that thread, What would happen? Would the world implode? Would your garments become fragile? Would the game become more specific?
Have a good time, pull the thread. Make life easier. Good morning, pull the thread. Now, break the strings intertwined with the shackles on your emotional performance. There right there pull the thread. Peel back the scab, Fogged head. Calm the purple skies of clothed hatred. The thread is loosening, pull it. Your embarrassment will be hidden. But what will happen?
Moths have come and taken interest, Gnats would be spread. The old will rewash the silks and the cotton, The new will become filth and serve as a carrier for hate.
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