Eden, I Am But A Visitor

August 1, 2019

Eden, I Am But A Visitor

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“And in the beginning, life, like shattered shells splintering the solitude of a slumbering tounge, it slit, spilt and fertilized nebulous dreams.

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And just like that and oh so suddenly, with the wind against my teeth I was born.

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Slapped, belligerent and bear chested
Heart raged & reclined against varnished rubber ribs, clinging to the water in which it lived.

giphy (12)Vertiginous light, truely naked and all devouring sound, you’ve resurrected me from vapor, liquid to one solid mound;

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And here now, I am now here a life.

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And you, oh so solid feeling pain?

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“Finally free, unencumbered light. It was a seed in a planted tree that created me.”

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Oh sweet, apple of my eye,
geometric stills, I cannot see where they truely lie.

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Pathological movement nailed to growth,
Tormenting and ticking this sculpted sands bleeding beats, doomed to a moral code, an oath of good deeds.

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And at the entrance to mortality, a chair of choice soaked in the blood of everything I will come to love, your voice.

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And yet still, I am but a visitor, a pilgrim crossing  carnivorous rivers, moving to keep solitary cells in their proper jails, wanting to meet my home in the space where whispers reside, hoping for the fruit of our labor, that we both bit, to bear our bonded bones before we are a drift.

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And so here I am, Frankensteins monster, cultivating understanding, adapting to longevity, bedazzled by the questions that come from first bites, disheartened by mechanized beings and forever searching for Adam in my dreams.”

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-Magnolia

(© 2018 Magnolia HL)

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This poem is getting published in the Oxford Poetry Society Magazine, Ash in London.

 

Between the Gap

By:Magnolia

It’s that small whisper in-between the fog.

Wounds hushed by plush snow,

and woeful hearts melted through tepid strokes.

Light, right before the fade of dark.

Or fire seduced by adjacent streams.

It’s that closing of the gap as I near you.

Can you feel it?

The swaying hairs reaching from my arm.

Can you see it?

My swollen iris, lids double fluttering.

Or can you hear the wings of butterflies

pounding against captured air.

Long, rolling, syllables,

thinly spread upon a bed of silence;

begging to fill the space where you begin and I end.

And why is that as far as I’m allowed to get,

beside the respite of breath billowing between our lips?

I want to subsist inside the gap.

The difference of the two?

  A slight of hand,

a slit between being alive and merely breathing.

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God you should have seen her, hemorrhaging with ambition while smiling in the harshest of heat.

She stood in the belly of that crowd, raised her arm in the air & matched her heart to the beat.

And suddenly every patron in the city, believers &  doubters, rose quickly to their feet.

Their fists pounding against the rhythm of  the wind; boom, boom, boom, boom!

Kinetic electricity surged from every cavity & splashed through every layer in the room.

Head high and shoulders back, she gave the deuces to anyone who didn’t think she had the knack.

Once the souls that questioned her are now asking for her signature.

Although in the dark & blind to the masses, she doubted nothing while lighting her own torches.

Bearing the brunt of naysayers & pile driving while supplying her own transfusions,

Every night she closed her eyes and challenged the dark with esoteric allusions.

She was a woman, but didn’t need to prove it.

Her ears had swallowed  broken glass and her knees felt the itch of mud and laughing grass.

And while it was in style to sport the scent of gin and sex,

She didn’t bother, she was a self-accepted reject.

All the while undeserving, with gut and grit, she pushed Sisyphus rock up and made it stick.

Her razor tongue savored the water of Tantalus and of others opinions, she could care less.

Unapologetic & foolhardy with determination, she fashions her lips with bona fied narration.

But when the crowd has dissipated she sits alone, contemplative.

And although she is silent in her tears, she paints only what she wants herself to mirror.

Saying nothing, she curls her fingers around the heart of the moon

She squeezes it in hopes of growing more immune.

A goddess, a rebel, a lady of ten thousand names, she breaths to the beat of her own drum, she is a consummate dame.