Listening to the fiery hearth mellifluously crackle away into the night, they laid silently on the hand-woven plaid rug, next to the inglenook. The bucolic bungalow served as an umbrella against the world, as they enjoyed the solitary langour in their lives, often mistaken for melancholy.
▲1 | reblogIf I could only
yield
if only I were a vacuum
and you could travel constant —
cast and occupy my elbows.
you could
ring in my neck
fill my lungs with your density
walk in my legs and
wear my hands
like gloves.
- “Bill Gangrene”
vyxun asked: Your "White crowns of building on a hill" poetry submission is absolutely gorgeous. I hope whoever this amazing talent is continues to write such gut-wrenching and sobbingly gorgeous works.
Thank you! We’ll pass the lovely message on to the writer. Hope you continue enjoying and getting inspired by the works done and posted by many talented people. :)
Scope.
White crown of buildings
on a hill;
during day synonymous,
But at night arbitrarily numbered by gold
speckled windows.
“Hold onto the night,”
These windows say, for
The Night is immortal,
The Night is infinite
in its black breadth and glowing grip.
Oh, portal of the domestic!
Rows and columns of life
menacing transparency of its flawed occupants
All ugly and sentimental
Sparkling and sterile,
Desperate to clutch each other to their hearts
So to know what beats and what doesn’t -
Being hungry to starve,
And sincere only in part,
Seeking existence in each other’s dim, distraught
Eyes;
Each slab of light
withholds a different face
of perpetuity, perennial
tableaus of a ceaseless cycle
of limited lives—
Yes!
The Night is permanent.
But you are not.
Because while the night lingers
the Ground shifts,
and in the illusory sky
there lies a mortal surrender —
It dawns on you,
When light breaks on your constancy,
on your brutal looking glass:
Flesh,
Bone and
breath,
the scars on skin and in soul,
Meals in your body, Windows
that break into a million pieces, bloody evidence
of yourself in others;
It Dawns as well
That where lies fixed submission lies yourself,
where lies shame,
lies Humility
nudging your head towards a permanent bow
in pale capitulation to the true Immortality,
the true Infinity,
The eternally transitory Night…
Arms shake through barred glass -
Purge hours, burden, consequence.
Finally bask in pure,
Clean resignation
with nothing but the prodding, septic fingers in your chest,
conveniently occasional and sentient.
White crown of buildings
spotted with dark winking panes;
Now you all revert to look the same,
and when Day brings forth the night again and
apologetic,
The breadth, the grip, will stick
and bind your being to the span of the sky —
White crown of buildings,
Afflicted with infinity,
Within which we are one moment,
within which we are a lone impermanence,
within which we are Eternal.
“El Lucha Libre de D.F.” is a photo I took of a pro-Mexico Lucha Libre while living in Mexico City.
▲1 | reblog
We’d all like to forget
‘Cause some things are best forgotten
Our first fall
Our first love
Our first goodbye
But some things stick
Some memories never go away
These are the sculptors of who and what we are
No matter how much you drink or how much you swallow
These memories will stick
No matter how bad it is or how much it hurt
These memories will stick
No matter how low you swooped or how high you fell
These memories will stick
That is the beauty of amnesia
▲ | reblogDreams is a funny word
To some, it is a spark of wonder
Curiosity that can get you somewhere
-
They may be known as the geniuses
For others, it is merely a shrouded wish,
a thought…
a common muse of the mind
Stuck between the ropes and ties of conformity
—
They may be known as the people
To a select few,
It is a an enabler, an inspiration, a shine of light
A non-attainable perfection of the human mind
The life long goal that takes you past this world and into the next
—-
—-
They may be known as the crazy ones
