Lingua

These walls that close us in,
Disparate cells devoid of sound,
A prison to twist the soul,
A jail to shatter the thought.
Where nothing seeks,
And nothing is sought.

Reeking of the lightless stars,
Scorched by the lava of Libras and Leos,
Melted into a dormant crater,
Into a lifeless sky of ash.
A deafening storm,
But a silent crash.

Where music drops into static,
And color slips into smoke,
Flaring rifts to part the flames,
Stabbing secants through the ring,
And even as starlight ebbs, 
Arcs apart so somberly sing.

What once rang true,
So through and through,
Resigns to death,
With dying breath,
And leaves behind,
A world confined,
A nescient drought,
When words run out...





For what remains when thought is naught? What remains when all is consumed, when the world becomes everything yet nothing? Thus, appreciate language for what it is––and what it isn't. And wield words well for the betterment of all. #wieldwordswell maybe? (also this was originally completely white but it isn't for the sake of mobile users who lack the weapon of command-a)

Inner Melodies

The tempest raging over tropic sands,
While unrelenting storms blanket the lands,
Horizons past and heaven's eyes withdrawn,
Unparted curtains sing their cloudy song,
The notes from summits ring with untold tunes,
Each chord a crashing tide on war-torn dunes,
And undefeated echoes ride on air,
Un-equine steeds yet currents just as fair,
Poseidon's manes too gallop at the call,
Dark liquid schisms fast to rise and fall,
Electric dancers fleeting in their flow,
No gift of moment's lapse for them to slow,
Thus hides the utter chaos within peace,
Unseeming spells of tumult without cease.





Yes, I suppose it is something of a skill that humans put to use: the concealment of these "spells of tumult," no matter how intense they might be. How many of these have you had? And how many of them could you suppress into a shadow of a blink? And how many tormented your soul for days at a time?

Well I guess the other side of this is appreciating the halcyon rainbows after such a storm. In any case, take what you will from the poem. It's yours, after all. It's all of ours.

Note: this was a timed poem (a sonnet made of couplets) written in a tumultuous 30 minutes