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SoulFrailness permeates soul,
And contaminates body.
VoidMy world,
New.
My mind,
Clean.
My heart,
Pure.
My face,
Unseen.
-
My name,
Void.
My color,
None.
My soul,
Cold.
My story,
Unwritten.
-
My powers,
Gone.
My gifts,
Vanished.
My vision,
Done.
-
Our Elder Brother wrote the story,
Of which we live.
-
Our Brother left the ending,
To the Younger Siblings.
-
My Name,
Void.
My story,
Unwritten.
Beyondyou open the door -
the wind of the world howls by -
clouds swirl at your feet
Impressions temporelles II - TankaNos jardins fleuris

De nos corps la Plénitude

Le temps les éteint

Les souvenirs de l'époque

Sont figés dans ton sourire
Hikikomoriseeing others is -
being naked - in a downpour -
of unhappiness
kintsugishattered and re-glued,
my Blessed Mother statue
saved from a garage sale
song of a poetwhat I hear him say,
if a wing breaks traveling-
poets' word collage....
Letters From My Soldiertiny little note
waiting in the mailbox dark
speak words of his love.

tell me of his joy
forget times of his sorrow
one word would cure all.

words from far away
whisperings and longing sighs
when will he be home?

tiny little note
you had my hope so high once
now they lay so cold.

bitter biting cruel
how he shall not return here
my soldier is gone.
flighty dreammy forgotten dream
where could it have flown off to
after i woke up?
Magic of the Mind
Magic of the Mind

In my head through my eyes, on this paper from my mind, from the light of my dreams I created things only I see.

The power of imagination combined w/ the power of life, could it be magic/ science/ a ghost that you spy?

Do u believe in such beautiful things u can see, to bad u can't touch no matter how hard u think it through to be true?

I once tried that from drawing a pic, i concentrated & breathed then touched the paper & seen my creature, creation, my imaginary friend, then hoping & praying it will get out of my head.

No matter if u don't believe in magic, its all around u, its the power of the mind that makes u crea
25. Mai 2013Dortmund und München
warten gebannt auf die Nacht
Noch dreht sich die Welt
planting lupine seedsthe instructions say
"scatter seeds and step on them"
a cruel way to plant
Browse More Like This
more ▶

More from ~DoctorNarpasLoveless

Dream TravelFrom here
to there
for eternity.
This constant distance constricts me and transcends me
as I travel through my dreams.
I see myself in shattered mirrors; a million shards of unfading hope crying for resolve.
And then I turn to see myself now, staring into the abyss, as if waiting for some kind of madness.
As present moves to past, the abyss becomes a door,
through which I move into the future.
My dreams suddenly, gradually crossfade into ever-vivid reality.
I travel further.
The events following resemble deja-vu, and perchance such is so of some lost prophetic vision;
change, like a thief in the night, from mere shards to to being they once were,
like a forgotten best friend.
OuroborosOuroboros am I
who eats his tail and watches it bleed
day after day, as if in a temporal prison of his own device.
I stand at the threshold of eternity,
and if I were so inclined I would seize it and wield it unfalteringly,
and become at peace.
But my eyes are clouded by the illusion of time's ashes blown away,
leaving me but to eat my tail further
and watch it bleed again.
I am a martyr of chaos,
a sleepless dreamer,
a hero unborn.
I am Ouroboros.
Songbird CageFree men entrapped in a cage gilded by faith alone
sing their despairing song,
which sings of a hope close to their heart and
yet so far away,
and echoes the inevitable,
for which they wait and hope for so strongly.
The gaoler, too, is a prisoner to melancholy,
wilting his heart
and burning his mind with a whisper of freedom;
which falls on deaf ears for one so queer
as to be blind to happiness.
And so the caged song sings
"Let the gaoler be free!"
and goes unsung by the gaoler's lies,
like all others an inner death of its speaker
or a cure for his blindness perchance,
but inevitably consequential.
Metropolis, Citadel of DreamAwakening is a blindness through which wisdom can see;

dreaming is the solvent that brings it into being.
This dreaming is becoming of the meek,
whom are beckoned by it.
Life, love, death, and time: these visions of the meek
Are the construction of Metropolis, the citadel of dream.
Its stance is erect as it reaches for the light with cloudless breath;
the light of the ever-giving night which it harbors.
The flora of the heart is growing in its gardens,
which whispers poetry to the sprite hiding behind your eyes.
There is a silence in the streets cracking at the seems
waiting for the song of a songbird freed.
Perchance it would be freed by that sprite never seen,
and sing thus a song of harmony in spring:
"The temptress of murder is a martyr of nightmare
whom might dwell in shadow but is scarcely found,
if you see her be aware and unafraid
for she will pass like a ripple in a pond,
perhaps without a word."
And if this song t'were heard,
all betwixt heaven an
Another WorldThere lies an oasis in the desert of time,
which manifests as a rainforest of strangers and creatures.
This is a theater of untold depths which screens the cosmos itself,
wherein a vigil lies at which people pray every day for revolution.
Gay horses may be crowned as kings of fantasy lands here;
lands vastly perverted yet beautiful as the heavens.
This is another world altogether, beyond the sleepless wall of dreams,
where a faceless dark white man hides in the trees.
In here:
the natural order is maintained by chaos and sacrilege,
there are squids who swim with schizoid maidens in the deepest regions of the moonlight,
and every face is a hallucinogenic masquerade.
I have seen firsthand the creatures that dwell in here:
the smiling killer with the eyes of abyssal fire,
the man who scoffs laughingly on his soapbox at the strangers who envelop him,
the great collective of Clover, flawlessly lawless in their garden whose flora is nightmares of mass repulsion,
the stand-up prophe
The Poet of LogicOther poets write from their heart,
she rights from her logical mind.
She communicates her poetry with her actions, awkward and occasionally cryptic.
Those who can read it are rare and seldom found,
leaving her well-organized verses to be a perpetual charade;
a charade that teaches her what logic has yet known,
so that perchance she might see what her poetry could sow
if only it were read.

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Word can be stronger than will

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November 5, 2012
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Trixie Haiku

:icondoctornarpasloveless:

No talent has she


Great and Powerful Trixe


But quite an ego

:iconsaphroneth:
~Saphroneth Nov 9, 2012
On the other hoof
Lightning's quite impressive - should
she have joined the Guard?
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