Long Sclera Poems
Long Sclera Poems. Below are the most popular long Sclera by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sclera poems by poem length and keyword.
THROUGH THE POET'S EYES
The soul that can speak through the eyes
is the thought that execute it infinite mastery
with a passion like a refiners fire,
unquenchable by roaring waters.
Just like the window to the body
where the soul is housed,
In the in-depth eyes of a poet,
unique light strikes & turns it into a color
that doesn't exist except in the moment.
The world see the lens,
the poet sees the tense,
the world see the sclera,
poets see words & paper,
the world see the cornea & Iris,
creativity oozes from the poet's chambers;
word darts makes his soul restless,
shooting punchlines that becomes endless.
The poet eyes sees beyond this realm,
and so...this eyes:
Seen the highs & lows,
witnessed the maglinant friends & foes,
peer through impediments with allergies
of fear, of self & frienemies,
seen darkness you could ever imagine
and the illumination that finally transform
this embodiment of grace.
The mastery of my pen has always been
and is in the mystery of my being.
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}.
Copyright © June 24th, 2020.
When I gaze into this realm, I see more than the dazzling array
of golden starbursts floating in a cosmic sea of blue-green-gray,
photoreceptors painting post-Impressionistic explosions of colors,
fibers and dilator muscles servicing your ocular aperture.
I see distinctive melanin patterns of a truly original individual -
a retinal scan of exceptional singularity,
each nebula unique, every supernova peculiar,
no quasar like any other.
I passionately absorb with one brief glance
an infinity of nuance,
an eternity of historical archives,
a heaven and earth of emotional journeys.
I am reading your autobiography, the encyclopedia of you.
I remain a student of your sclera,
a pupil of your pupils,
a Vincent of your irises,
going half-mad with the dizzying vastness
of the starry night within your eyes.
You left. I’m not full of anything but nothingness.
It’s an interesting feeling, nothingness. It hurts so badly you’d think something was there. But when I check, it’s empty. There’s nothing there.
I wept. My eyes burn like a thousand blazing suns, full of dust and grit that scrapes away my sclera until tears of blood drip red tracks down my cheeks.
There was something there.
No words. They erased my poetry the day you left. The words are forgotten and tasteless on my tongue. I lit a candle and seared my flesh to burn away any trace of myself, like a thousand blades tracing red lines into my skin. Was something here?
No songs. You took my voice with you beyond the veil of human sight. The phantom whispers will forever echo into the speechless abyss of my mind. Feeble scratches into my frail human papyrus, a promise never to be fulfilled. Were you ever here?
I’m empty. An emptiness so full of hate and pain and grief that I will never again be filled. It soaked into the lining of my chest cavity until every breath I take is drowning, seeped in sorrowing despair. The vivid imagery of a charnel house in human flesh. Death is here.