edited by: Obinna Eruchie
Do obsess over the minute details.
each contains a drunken interweave.
to spite the enormity of a worthless attempt.
I write painfully,
swim through the similes,
I shorten the story, then expand on it,
Up until that point as strong as a megalith,
almost to the point of an afterthought.
If I was, with my imagination,
discerning through the voice the kind
or the monstrous spirit in every living being
(with whom I would converse),
That same imagination discerned me the existence,
of the unused prints of such melodious,
and yet so unloving,
Voices not yet revived,
which are yet to rush, buzz, roar and call
the dark, unexplored worlds
Threatens to suck in and pull
the fear unclear, mixed with loathing,
walking integrals made of blood, meat and malice
All of humanity towards the corpses of eons,
the polyphony of murmurs,
From the purple mouth of the Dark,
creaming, maddened medusas
with horse necks and with bodies of the bull. . .
Who scratched the disc of Dark,
who flipped the pages of the atlas of Death
who, hungry for red meat,
Search and grab,
swallow, storm, crush with their feet
bodies dismembered and the transcript of antique nostalgia
Dedicated to the wiccans and the undead,
on the slopes the pierced the grounds,
like forks into soft meat
Stretching far above the tips of malicious temples.
as well as Belobog proposes to the Boogey,
With her scary face and open jaws with no teeth.
Hercules searching for Persephone,
but, the drama one, not the lyrical one!
When the sky is bloated with gray clouds,
and the rain does not drip drops,
but bubbles like cursed membranes….
Did they have faces?
even if they did, those would be dark curves of circles
in Nothingness itself.
Tzap, poof, abracadabra, doo!
Act like your descriptive resiliency’s mirrored colours
careful paints its true meanings
share your intents by stepping back now
in looking forward to the future
with awaiting wonderment’s
of which though patience is its virtue
an inspirationally creative aspect
of creatively limitless boundaries
of poetic freedom
drew me into my own struggles
of limitless distance and times
sought after poetry’s portrayals turn abouts,
opportunity’s beliefs best-suited points
shared beliefs are offering
in this our written life’s transfigurations
contracts placed in times
the accordance of rebuilding these once
broken doors of opportunities
that we now stand for by reminiscing
of be fronted justices cause
to unite peacefully
before the those forgotten within
reveal themselves rejuvenated
by our rights left uncharted
perhaps by their own fears blinded efforts
to remember love’s potential as well.
a shared reminder of the gift’s surpassed rarity
of achieving one’s goal’s of inclusion’s
of perceiving life’s ongoing
reflective self-empowerment’s ability’s
unto others seeking solaces redemptive
compassionate mysticisms carefully laid before them
in hopes of seeing someone’s mirrored imagery
right behind them
backing their own stories
no matter what stands in front of these attempts
to be in the moment’s
where just knowing someones guiding the hand
you’ve held is all that truly matters —
act like spirituality is left in awe
and then the sorrows like this one…
past will be my own recuperative times’ narratives
focusing solely on my own similarly
poetic journals of rediscovery
Myself being a one-digit (index finger) slow texter
beyond tired and dreams of tomorrow
await me in slumbers welcoming.
all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019
Clapping their metacarpals and phalanges
this crepitation lent rhythm to the eerie waltz,
fellow artists, write!
compose an ode, dancing to the rhythm with such skill!
get your bones clapping and your pens scraping,
smear the ink across your cranial bones!
here we are, performing for you the Dance of Death –
perform for us the story of a life!
bring out your musty quills,
ladies and gentlemen and with those marvellous
brains of yours – laden with letters, quills, brushes and paints
as they all undoubtedly are – highlight the wax figures’ tragedies.
grant them minuscule lampion houses to cram their meek lives into, dress them in patchwork quilts or golden harem pants;
make them heroes or cowards, thieves, traitors,
moralists and decent folk.
Bridging the gap between mere existence and true life.
╰(⊡-⊡)و✎ sharing is caring ｡✿*ﾟ
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