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From Persephone to Demeter1.
'Ripe red fruit so bright'
Think, Persephone, in your
sunless cave: Was it?
"The Challenge of the Mountains"
Do not look afraid
at the way the mountains stand-
be as tall as them
May's charming sway:
lilt of chirping lilies plea
to my forlorn heart
Sprightly did my soul
pursue passion in ripples:
rings of sanguine song
"The Birthing of Days"
A spark, a sparkle,
a flame, a fire, a blaze-
the birthing of days
Demeter lies in
daffodils on the crisp cusp:
clifftops sing her name
TaurusI was born on May's first day
that effervescent month of flowers
that part of spring working up fervor
for the heat of summer.
Taurus' heart is formed amidst
beauty of life regenerating with
soil-stained feet absorbing
nature's every biorhythm.
My season dictates seasons.
I am not the portrait of composure,
of refinery or flair but
what I do represent is the charge of
molecules swarming towards oceans with
waves in perpetual flow reaching
upward for the moon,
never quite getting there but
flowing, flowing to
the cave you hide inside, projecting
sardonic visions to say that all is stagnant
that what will be will always be
how can I believe when everything within me and outside me
is unrelenting, unabashed, unapologetic change?
Could it be you are just a little afraid?
Could it be I am not in need of taming but
you are in need of embracing the wildfire
of the bush on the edge of that clipse where
earth meets sun?
You who shrivels in the deadening October foliage
Unisontendrils touching tenderly the
shared heart that glues us
the same fear that fastens our hands
to scorching hot flesh
we are bubbling, brewing
we are stewing underneath
we are not waiting to explore territory;
we are waiting to forge new one.
and you will not know this brand of
cataclysmic love with any other
for I have perfected the algorithm
while others merely collect pebbles among its shores,
caught up in the glimmer of sand-polished mica
myopic to the majesty of your eruptions.
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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