I am sorry, I am sorry
But sometimes my mind answers to my heart
If love makes a man foolish
What does that make me then
My heart aches from being in the same room with you,
I bite my tongue just to hold these feelings inside
But they say the chorus a poet bleeds
Lasts a lifetime
Why me? Why me?
This gut-wrenching, godforsaken feeling pierces my soul
My very being aches from this
You are so close, yet my feelings can't reach you
My infatuation for you is the song my soul never meant to sing
Hear these hibiscus hymns as I take them to my grave
Like a violin verse between venom and Venus
I picked mine and it was you.
Everyday most awaken to a quest acquiring more
Never considering just closing the door
Oddly no matter how many gulps of the juice taken
Uttering that a thirst is quenched would be godforsaken
Genuine gratitude for things that are not purchased fluff
Have a selfless comfort always knowing it's enough
Things didn’t happen unexpectedly with no
Hint; where once you hung on my
Every word, now for months you haven’t heard.
Useless to say I love you,
Never mind the ill wind blowing,
Soon heartache will ensue~
Perhaps you don’t mind my knowing,
Or perhaps you just don’t care!
Odd to see life unspooling,
Lying in a tangle over there
In a maze of dismay fueling
Near emptiness in feeling
Godforsaken with no hope of healing.
The night is young and so are we, well back
then we were, young love
hell bent to make our marks upon the world,
sadly we grew up
and grew into godforsaken rigid
rules of impressing
bosses and each other, now I just ask
can we please go back?
The seething waters took them.
I rage,
rage against the deluge,
an unmoored,
unrestrained rage.
I rage for the innocents,
a rage that drowns all else
except more broiling,
more roiling waves of rage,
an anger that unstrings
the harps of angels.
Rage I now, at the blind horror
of godforsaken moments
that snatch all away
as suddenly as a surging,
untethered,
Texas tsunami.
I rage against
the ever-deceitful aspirations
of peace and calm,
rage utterly
against all heaven-sent calamities,
rage most,
upon
this violent earthbound dream
we have plunged into,
it is a raging river
that will sweep us all away,
even little girls,
all those struggling to still swim
above such raging torrents
only to slip through flailing hands
as hope sinks below
yet more tumultuous waters,
waters which
it has been written,
that Jesus himself
once walked upon.
The gossamer on a child’s frame, looked new and ancient,
all at once. A ghostly smile, a trick and treat, directed at me.
No wrinkles on the hand of time, his godforsaken finger
pointed at the stabbed pigeon. I followed the tracks of blood
down to the river. I seemed to have no choice, in this misty
sequence. A grief-stricken mother lay next to her child.
A solo, red shoe alongside the body. Gossamer-boy wore
the other shoe, pristine-white. A wicked groaning bellowed
from inside the frame of this devil’s child. The mother moves
beside a grave and deposits dead roses on her son’s tomb.
She lost both her children that night. One she claims
a t the gate… the other is left to his fate.
A gossamer hung on the graveyard's gate.
A spider clung to steel, consuming its meal.
It had no need to know dinner was served late,
Nor sensed ghostly keels the summer winds conceal.
The owls flew on, unperturbed by midnight's scare,
That made dead men howl silently in each grave,
Fresh ghosts were blown toward the gate in despair,
The gate creaked loud at each brush of ghostly wave.
Grief-stricken men earlier brought a fresh stiff,
Whose spirit roams about as if still alive.
His shroud still sweetly scented for winds to sniff.
Where otherwise smells of decayed corpses thrive.
Rotten bones left near the godforsaken gate,
Lay scattered by the snouts of some groaning pigs,
As scavenging and ruin became their fate.
While restless souls lay buried beneath their digs.
In ghostly white of midnight as
sky- shadows trace gossamer streaks ,
I become a recluse,
losing tracks of stars' grave hues
and the flavor of meadows
in snow grows bitter...the bronze gate
reeking of metal cold, again --frozen
like my rusty, numb thoughts.
Must I remember
how they were slain? The wails come
to haunt those Godforsaken eves
when the lane flooded groaning voices,
ramming our old grills from darn
collision of cars--- in a flash.
And now, dim clouds reflect frozen
bodies of kin like grief stricken portraits ,
pale as folded , bloodied sheets...
and I turn away from this mashed
scene on a vintage gate, grating
flesh in drills of shock
...my recluse core, seething
' Leave me alone...'
Frightening silence pervaded
Swelling of ground here and there
A tree adjacent the gate with a GHOSTLY stature
Unfurling a dark blanket by its broad canopy
Even birds don’t like to perch in the GODFORSAKEN place.
Except the bulging- eyed owl
A silent witness for GRIEF-STRICKEN hearts
The fibre art of GOSSAMER aglow in the sunlight
Floating gently like sailcloth
On the gates, they’re like murals of pinwheel flowers.
No gusts or downpours can annihilate it.
The gates are half-shut.
When they are fully opened,
Macabre music of GROANING erupts from the coarsened hinges.
Scent of geosmin from a freshly dug GRAVE
The tired soul along with the retired corpse
Comes again through the terminal gate.
"Open the gates of Heaven's beginning
Where we end thoughts of awful sinning
Where hope and love will be forever
And think of troubles no more, never!"
~ Anonymous
Death creeps in, leaving everyone grief-stricken,
Waiting for the day when dear souls will quicken,
Life connection is like a gossamer thread,
The macabre grave summons those who are dead;
Grieving and groaning, we give them a send-off
To the gates of heaven where they'll always laugh,
This ghostly anguish that rends the broken soul
When a loved one dies is beyond our control,
We feel godforsaken, but forget to grasp ~
They are in a better place in God's own clasp.
Heaven's golden gate is always open wide
To guide the godly souls as they glide inside.
Built in the middle of Nowhere,
A gate of turquoise, very rare,
A sculptor carved a figurehead,
The gate was built to guard the dead.
It's best to come on full-moon night,
for the dead don't care for sunlight.
GHOSTLY music is often heard,
And one unidentified word.
It's said, on a September date,
GROANING is heard near the big gate.
GRIEF-STRICKEN singing to the crowd?
Even here, I think not allowed.
Perhaps, in that spot you call GRAVE,
Was, all along, a gateman's slave.
Although GOSSAMER clouds float by,
A GODFORSAKEN place to die!
Satan GHOSTLY haunt dirty men
He looks like a GOSSAMER adviser
He is not found in GRAVE so man may rest in peace
Satan for sure loves GODFORSAKEN places
Satan followers shall have GRIEF-STRICKEN end because of loss and deprivation
GROANING is main result of opening gate for Satan to comes in and obsess
“Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality.” – Emily Dickinson
He can’t help feeling like he lives behind
the gates of hell – a godforsaken place
where ghostly thoughts inhabit his sad mind.
Groaning, he envisions her smiling face.
The specter of her will not go away.
Grief-stricken since her passing, still he grieves.
So difficult it’s been for him to pray,
and each depressing thought inside him weaves
a web of gossamer; he cannot flee.
No fires rage in the gates of his own hell,
for gloom and gray are all that he can see.
But there is one good thing that he knows well:
Until the day he dies, he must be brave
until he joins his love beyond the grave.
“Fear of death is fear of surrender to Infinity.”
~ Adi Da Samraj
In my fevered state, I sought the godforsaken
sounds of the gossamer strings of the harp.
It was hours of grave thoughts before I would awaken
to the ghostly groaning of my mind’s steep scarp.
Grief-stricken, I lie staring through closed eyes
listening to the beat of my heart echoing from the
silent monitor, praying the future that it belies
pushes me toward the gate of undefined infinity.
God knows what grand or ghastly fate awaits
my soul, with grim gargoyles adorning the path
down gnarled gardens toward and through ornate gates.
Will this be my entryway to salvation or wrath?
The ‘net’ is closing in, revealing a ‘web of lies’ Those who use AI and those who plagerise poems fool no one but themselves! Quote by poet!
A gossamer shroud drapes the old lych-gate
I’d hopes it would vanish, alas it’s too late
A ghostly poet rises from her earthly grave
I’m grief-stricken, why can’t people behave?
Posting copied works seeking notoriety
A playground for Dead Poets Society
Stealing poems leaves me groaning
Write your own words, it'll stop me moaning!
I loathe seeing work that has been taken
Why do folk do it, it’s just Godforsaken!
I'm fed up of reading lots of work by AI
Yet poets post it, then vehemently deny
Please pick up your pen, use your brain to write
Pretending that it's your work just isn’t right!
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