Where does love go when it is forgotten


fb3dQuotes23There is nothing left, a broken piece of shape and colour
the time took some time or several hours
in which I do not feel geographical inequality
eternally lost from pleasure and flutes fell

And now I’m a queen in my own lodge, listening to music myself
innocent and beautiful and framed as a god
breathing in the dream of life
which lasts only in music
melted by myth, but part of the myth
About the rebellious purity of one who wonders as he crawls
in front of the memory of stone dug in nettles
like a bald snail on the skin of a young leaf
like a kid on the doorstep of a dark room
Where does love go when it is forgotten
when mounds of ivory and cedar were forgotten with the crowd
our bodies are like flowers
our bodies are like knives
our eyes are from a man in love
who can redeem old pain
That man, that angel, that demon
and the eyes of him who watches them are blinding
as God’s forehead as he imagines the world
like a sea of blood and gold
like a thirsty sandy shore
It absorbed the legends of the people who flooded the ocean
across the sea, the whole world I used to decorate my gloomy royal hands

Get up, look, though you have no hope, dream of the dawn
dawn dawn

 

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

Life is a dream


Life is a dream
for awakened men
to walk in it
and aspire at their desires
to wear flesh;
a dream in which they sleepwalk
up and down the hills
to the valley of fruits.

For some it is a dream full and clear
like the looking glass
they can reflect their lives on heavenly.
For many it is a dream shattered
like shards of broken porcelain
they who walk in it
face misery from hell
that stays to taunt them.

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

To a man who has hurt my dream.


To a man who has hurt my dream!
You’re a harasser just like
Gurdjieff,

Buddha or Jesus, you’re fretting
my rest, you hide my inner poise
Whoe’er

upsets our sleepiness, we will
break them up (I want to hurt you…)
The dream

was of the flowers. The Dream can
be of the sun, and I don’t have
to be

of the flowers, but one certain thing:

It’s a dream, outspoken and
useless!

Praise of the Progenitrix


Mystics listen to her
Cynics vomit her
Midwives truth-birth her
And since always
Welcome her on hands
That insidious trash
To fill their pitchers
With her feces.
Born from the spirit of pride
From the spleen of law
From the blood of forefathers
From the womb of lies
From seventy-seven
Forgiveness
The fools loved her
Saints like a knick-knack
Showed her on the fair
Liars about her
Sexually fantasized
Ecce Veritas
Spends her life next to Dionysius,
Bloodless turkey cocks and donkeys
Smell her sacred beak.
Crowned with laurels
Permeated with boredom
In the tasteful asylum
And she sings in blood
To dampened strings
While watching her reflection
In the lavatory of Hades
Remembers
Progenitrix
Now already an ageing whore
Arose from the dream
To maintain the dream.

sync with mine wishes for the better days for all


a hinted thought within my head’s grasp

processing attempts as each memorising
sublime flash of evil genius
penetrates my mind

blinding ringing echo of fire
awaiting for the return of some being
I personally have never witnessed before

and yet continue bearing like
a treasured secret code of the heart

to share yet long as if to cherish
as the 1st discoverer
place pregnant backup aids by not
chasing dreams

ending

cherish its prized moments
along well-penned lines of living it.

Fates will always be differentiating
between origins of true life.
However, origins of free will
truthfully never differ

in any fate brought
between those trying to be heard.
A whisper triggers thirst for knowledge in
turning

While a panicked scream can send us running
in the wrong path, secluded from all else
I can finally close the lid of my eyes

in being inspired, eyes wait not for
the dawn’s whistling birds’ dream
in sync with mine of better days break for all

to see us walk past through another evil eye
on its way,
of poetically rhythmic challenge
to pledge in well-penned form.

Everything is without my past weakening crutch
in our daily healing needs
if ever we hope to carry our torches healthily
throughout our chosen marathons of life.
to share something as oneness itself.

Editor: Obinna Eruchie