"Be it more clearer implied here
Of soul, what is bonded
No closer are we
In reality".
Never a romancer's complaint
With such forlornness shed.
Cannot bring dream wife
Into waking life.
Around him is a multitude
of people who appear to be
with partners, friends or family.
Excited smiles display their mood.
He drifts along, solitary.
Among that throng, a ghost is he
whose dead wife’s face he can’t unsee.
Forlornness he cannot bury.
Empty room, cold light,
Shadows lengthen, silent walls,
Heart's soft, fading beat.
©bfa032325
I am but one person.
On a mission I had gone.
I'm now locked out of safety
of the spaceship I was on.
Black ink is spilled around me,
vast and never-ending
as into nothingness
I find my body wending.
The oxygen inside my tank
will last perhaps six hours.
I can see stars - stabs of light;
they are cosmic flowers!
Forlornness embraces me -
a suffocating feeling
so unlike my loved ones’ hugs.
With gloom my brain is reeling.
I travel in my mind
to things I cherish most -
my family and friends.
To them I’ll be a ghost.
A ghost forever floating
in this upside-down endless sea
which will be a graveyard
of black surrounding me.
God, I am imploring you
as I drift and drift and drift,
may I soon be in your light -
my death both peaceful and swift.
Based on Iron Maiden's "The Final Frontier"
A night slipped away,
one wept to sleep, one had bunches to dream.
A couple of lines the poet wrote,
nothing that the muse saw.
Three simple words kept the lovelorn up,
four texts sent for a clueless hope.
If love has numbed five senses,
then the sixth one will be gifted.
The seven deadly sins, hunger for love could be all.
The ninth day of forlornness ate the soul up,
isn’t it already a punishment?
Perhaps the love in October was forever a torment.
Written: October 09, 2023
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There are no blooms to snuggle in the twilight
No promise that it will ever reach the zenith.
Either the sky is clear or a cyclone is brewing
Unpredictable, akin to the whims of fate.
Life sheds its brimful aura and amorphous shells
No longer a folk-waltzing performance,
But an aphonic and agrestal appendices
Shifts sustain, the skin splits and slides,
Revealing the vulnerability beneath,
A skin split that resonates in the heart
Where forlornness resides, tearing at the seams
In this ever-changing world, seasons shift.
Some souls only shine once a year.
Or twice, if they're lucky, reaching even higher.
When you least expect it, or in the spring,
They decry what bestows them delight,
Appreciating the winding road of life,
Finding beauty in the midst of anguish
There are no blooms to snuggle in the twilight.
paradoxically my forlornness
profound
aggravation runs high gear
can't drown
thrash around
then toss back
the cover
dropping knees
shout out usher
soul yearns for God
yearns for closeness
yearns for boldness
spirit craves God
tears welling up
in sight
freed grips of plight
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived// * Inspired from Poet Brian Strand.
Written: February 10, 2022
1st place contest winner
A STRAND (1071) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
In the desolate domain of eerie milieu
under the ebony opaque sky,
on the murky hideous landscape
the nocturnal creatures prowl and try
to stalk those who can’t see
the nightriders slither in the sly
from the sinister forlornness of the wild,
the unwary they craftily descry.
With the arcane acumen concealed
as ominous feral creatures they lurk,
like sordid silhouettes of evil menace
they stealthily sneak in the dark
into the quintessence of your life,
crumbling it down going berserk,
they sip from the chalice of night
your soul’s ambrosia in darkness stark.
__________________
January 21, 2022
Contest : The Chalice Of Night
Sponsor : Chantelle Anne Cooke
Eagle's trip of forlornness
Starts off lofty
As it spreads
Its forceful wings
And ascends
On the breezes
That bring the tempest
We are children of the central sun,
secular seclusiveness becoming none…
Fallen angels in a spiritual spun,
pious partitions of a secretive stun.
Sceptical segregational spores,
seductresses serving as hellion whores…
Innocence infuses pathosis pores,
derelict distemper the syndrome soars.
Evil evoking while delusions dispensing,
forlornness fields fixing finite fencing…
We awaken within solitudes sensing,
freedoms cascading and condensing.
Religions regulate the lesser creeds,
the lamb lies within withered weeds…
Inscrutable imperfections satanic seeds,
diabolical deceptions of demon deeds.
Beware the seditious semisynthetic slayers,
children of the sun banish their betrayers…
Only love levitates the lamenting layers,
upon our hearts amidst pensive prayers.
800,000 children go missing every year in the United States...
50,000 in Canada and many more thousands around the World...
Where is the "Fake News" for that?
April.11.2020
Children of a Lesser God
Sponsored by: Craig Cornish
N/A for Contest
As the night falls from interstices of burning clouds, lumbering through the broad sky like grazing herds of sheep
There comes a great forlornness through the deep forests of Zambia.
Land marked by Withered Tallowwood branches, that once covered the fiery red sun.
The bayou, with dry river beds sleeping all the more calmly than hibernating Owls~
Looking somewhat haggard in their night coats~
waiting for the setting sun.
Summoning nature's obligation that remains oblivious to the break of dawn.
His oars (mind, arms, and legs)
were insufficient as propellers to earn a living.
In the underground´s nasty passageway;
or was in his life´s nasty passageway?
Anyway! There, he, like an imbecile, sat,
another torn mendicant, holding up his hand to indifferent passers-by,
asking for a gaze or just a word of hope.
Hope! What hope?
- The hope that remains as a candle into his heart.
the little flame that every day fights the Almighty forlornness -.
At night, unanswered the pray
the candle would shrivel;
and he became the symbol of a supplicant without faith,
hopelessly holding up among his hands,
and offering the burned out candle and misery of his life
to others indifferent passers-by.
There, at the underground´s nasty passageway.
Or was it his own life´s nasty passageway?
he huddled and covered with the black cloak of failure, remains sat
in the midst of despair.
Just till tomorrow.
Afghanistan’s People
The Eyes Tell It
By: Tom Wright
1/7/02
Eyes that search for help
But relief they seldom see,
Eyes that cannot again weep,
For tears, long dried are not to be.
Eyes that are quickly betraying
The forlornness of a hopeless life,
Eyes transmitting the anguish
From a life long on war and strife.
Eyes that penetrate, but place no merit,
On life oft passed in utter darkness,
Eyes denouncing that none exists,
Beholding life, as an interlude in starkness.
Eyes observing others free born lives
Both the ridiculous and sublime,
Eyes, that to me appears translucent,
As having been inhaled by time.
Dear diary!
One who bears the brunt of my adversity,
And my misery, you condone with affability.
There and back to make an affix,
Of an apparently gifted anomalies.
Night so long and yet so short
Threatening with its dreadful silence thought.
Providence, my heart sought,
From my "seems-unending strait",
Which hath made me desolate.
The day, I wish, ceases to break
Its torment, I could make a clean break.
For obscured I am in obviousness,
And lost I am in no one's guess,
'Cos my lovelessness hath made me less.
My seamy life, I shall lay to rest
For I need own a love nest.
Whence from forlornness, I will be harboured
And to its grace, I'll pledge my flesh and blood
But with my diary, I'll move abode.
Waltzing around carelessly, trampling through the golden daisies, oblivious to the coiled up snakes, violently hissing.Blindly shadowing a group of prepossessing wolves, with their lustrous coats gleaming a snowy white. Sashaying along a busy highway, head down, eyes closed.
You don't know where your traveling, you don't know what your achieving, you are stricken with grief, prostrated on the ground. Now, you mindlessly stumble around, no longer transfixed by trepidation. Mindlessly staggering away, forever scarred, forever branded. You are perpetually senseless, stuck in a cycle of forlornness, where you cannot abscond, trapped in a feeling of depression.
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