Swish, swish, swish.
Not a riptide, but her mum.
Behind her birds chirping,
The leaves dancing the breeze,
Her slow currents conform.
Take me to her, my left asked.
He speaks volumes, reaching Libya.
But does she exist, my right followed.
I take my net, prayed to the vale, and go.
A gentle stroll—green and mean,
Powders from the jimson
Breach, breach, stay crimson.
A few blocks away, a new world.
No one who owns, who owns none.
At last, I have reached her.
Adjacent dikes, tumbling rocks,
Across to a new door.
But, here I talk of the loud creek.
So blue, I feel lost, I suffer.
I took the helmet of salvation,
and the sword of the Spirit,
which was the word of His.
-
end.
Category: Free Verse Poetry.
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𝗮𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗮𝘅𝗶𝗮 (αταραξία)
Random𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲. 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲. A poetic sanctuary where contradictions find harmony-a delicate interplay of sorrow and joy, chaos and...
