THINE EYES!

October 14, 2020

Compressed black and swallowed, it lays buried inside a canvas of melted, foolish lines.

Busted color leaked into solidarity on an open pupil.

Trapped inside a fluxing current smudged with bereavement and the blissful madness in-bedded from

the gluttony of au courant moments, moments true and peeled,

moments rotted and soiled in the profoundness bathing inside the ticking unanimity of ones own mind; visible existence.

And oh the things it bares witness to;

Transportive passions spun into the playful minds of eager architects.

Mid-summer sky’s, boiling, smiling, scolding the skin.

How it exchanges the dreams planked inside the weary tear ducts of tepid cooling clouds.

And blackness, born from a speechless space, an alchemistic abyss;  one third of our lives.

What paradise finds home inside these jello eyes?

For it is they that wrote this, not I.

Eyes of white,

Eyes of gold,

Courted and neatly trimmed by the thoughts of Michael Angelo.

These glinting, darting, dancing eyes,

Why they have no option but to nebulously sink, in occasion, behind the squint of suspicious lids.

Safeguarded at all times.

But while they remain veiled beneath weakened lids,

They remain open,

fixated inside the belly of a crepuscular night;

 They do not sleep.

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Stuck Outside the Dream

September 2, 2013

How does one determined the line between dream and reality?

 This tells the story of an old woman who has spent her time in sleep building a relationship with a man who is deemed, in our concept of reality, a dream. She contemplates whether his ability to prevail so tangibly in her existence is due to them having a love that stands the test of time, society’s notion of reality and reincarnation itself. These are the thoughts of a woman ” Stuck Outside the Dream.”

Faint as a memory, vivid as a dream,
That’s how I remember him.

His hands firm, ironed to fit the concaves of my weathered skin.
His love vivid, shaped to illuminate the shadows of my being.

He was a soft vision, only unlike any phantom I had ever seen,
For I had felt his touch.

His hair always smelt of plucked roses, a soap given to him on our 20th Anniversary.
His lips, provoked by the beat of my heart, were always filled with the vowels of kings.

But at times, when I’m awake, I can’t help but wonder, hath my senses played a trick on me?
Am I interwoven inside the womb of  my own insanity?

 In love inside two worlds, I, we, both were trapped.
A communion derailed by the coming of the sun and the yawning of the moon.

In my sleep and in his awake I am found.
My life with him permeates of promethean heat, of longings quenched, of  rapturous immortality.

The pleasure of his skin stacked upon my soul only deadens my being when I arise in the day.
For empty is my bed and I just a mere lump of clay.

Alone, it is intolerable, for one cannot function & absorb the torture of blocked possibility.
So I have chosen to live in sanity.
For what’s  a dreamer to do when trapped inside their awake, but to bridge the gap, rescue the dream from being lost, at stake.

The origins of this life that exists inside black lids, I know not of.
Perhaps a love, so benevolent, a man, a spirit  so prodigious, that no conceivable birth from nature, reincarnation itself, can interrupt.

Conquered, our breath hath focused its way through time.
Pillaging the process of winter, summer, spring and fall;
We decided upon inseparability through any means at all.

And now, his reality is my dream.
Expired are the days of wanting,
As he remains surrendered to me, I shall remain my feet off ground my heart in heavens, un-yielding to my awake.

Varnished we remain, I  clinging to him, like warm bark upon a shivered tree.
For is it not in our insanity that we are truly free?

....beautifuly accepted. -Mrs. Art

Bright Lights (1925)

Alone. S)

Love this <3

dance

Black and W.H.I.T.E. by shelley

Simple and elegantly SEXY! Black and W.H.I.T.E.

Melancholy …by Iliko Kandaveli. S)

Busby BerkeleyElephants. S)

Cotillion! #blackhistory #society

Your time is now !SilhouetteRenowned Chinese dancer, Yang Li Ping, taken during an actual performance in a theatre in Kunming, China.

tulle tulle tulle

Frozen in high winds? That's some ice palace Photo by Thomas Zakowski

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You Start Dying Slowly

November 30, 2010

By: Pablo Neruda

You start dying slowly

 if you do not travel,

if you do not read,

If you do not listen to the sounds of life,

 If you do not appreciate yourself.

You start dying slowly

When you kill your self-esteem;

When you do not let others help you.

 You start dying slowly

 If you become a slave of your habits,

Walking everyday on the same paths…

 If you do not change your routine,

If you do not wear different colours

Or you do not speak to those you don’t know.

 You start dying slowly

If you avoid to feel passion

And their turbulent emotions;

Those which make your eyes glisten

 And your heart beat fast.

You start dying slowly

If you do not change your life

 when you are not satisfied with your job,

 or with your love,

If you do not risk what is safe for the uncertain,

 If you do not go after a dream,

If you do not allow yourself, At least once in your lifetime,

To run away from sensible advice.