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Literature Text
He tells his tales from days of old, depicted in his threads of gold,
tales of war and tales of strife and all the wondrous joy in life.
The highs and lows are woven in, saintly deeds and deeds of sin,
the warp and weft, the fingers deft, from left to right and right to left.
Inside out and outside in, a flash of gold and silver pin.
Stars are born outside the loom, filling up his tiny room,
with permeating, blinding light, he shields his eyes as well he might.
Darkness falls across the stories, often hiding many glories,
he wonders why all sadness lingers, through his tired and aching fingers.
Inside out and outside in, a flash of gold and silver pin.
Eyes are wise, the face is lined, the world his loom, is not so kind,
the filaments are breaking oft, too worn, too used and very soft,
notwithstanding tugging, pulling, stranded ends of re-used woollen.
Bobbins dangling, threads adrift, he weaves yet on but feels a rift.
Inside out and outside in, a flash of gold and silver pin.
Time is held in constant flurry, yet there is no need to hurry,
hands now old and stiff and veined, yet not once has he complained,
pictures, sagas all are forming even as each day is dawning,
even as each night comes forth, the loom is busy holding truth.
Inside out and outside in, a flash of gold and silver pin.
tales of war and tales of strife and all the wondrous joy in life.
The highs and lows are woven in, saintly deeds and deeds of sin,
the warp and weft, the fingers deft, from left to right and right to left.
Inside out and outside in, a flash of gold and silver pin.
Stars are born outside the loom, filling up his tiny room,
with permeating, blinding light, he shields his eyes as well he might.
Darkness falls across the stories, often hiding many glories,
he wonders why all sadness lingers, through his tired and aching fingers.
Inside out and outside in, a flash of gold and silver pin.
Eyes are wise, the face is lined, the world his loom, is not so kind,
the filaments are breaking oft, too worn, too used and very soft,
notwithstanding tugging, pulling, stranded ends of re-used woollen.
Bobbins dangling, threads adrift, he weaves yet on but feels a rift.
Inside out and outside in, a flash of gold and silver pin.
Time is held in constant flurry, yet there is no need to hurry,
hands now old and stiff and veined, yet not once has he complained,
pictures, sagas all are forming even as each day is dawning,
even as each night comes forth, the loom is busy holding truth.
Inside out and outside in, a flash of gold and silver pin.
Literature
how to raise a broken kid
i.
i was born in the eye of a raging hurricane
in the night where all the rivers
turned the water into tears---
there was pain and there was rain
and muffled whispers to my ears
from that day i recognize
the face and color
of my fears
ii.
let them claim me
let them drain me
till my last droplet of hope
let them crucify me hollow
through a kid's kaleidoscope
let them dress me with their sins
and their outdated type of skins
let them paint me with their colors
and pretend i didn't see
iii.
in the corner of the room
broken bones on broken bed
paint is dripping down the walls—
fading colors under red
i can't breathe and i can't
Literature
Nothing and Everything
I ain't got much for nobody,
I ain't got much of anything.
But I've got you, and that means a lot
Cos you're my everything.
Literature
Blood Mother
I love you in your inexistence
rabbit’s ear
baby’s breath
you are dust
but you are
mine.
Misadventures and
dew drop mornings
small curls
large eyes
my bones cannot knit your future.
Sunsets and moonbeams
sleep burdens our eyes
your soft lips sigh
there is a better world for you
than this.
-D.E.M
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Comments16
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This gets better every time I read it.