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the Beautiful Nothing

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  • the Beautiful Nothing

    would it be better to have her
    on the grass / am I grass
    a bum sits by to watch what
    things we do differently
    like live the stories of mansions
    ornate bedded rooms decked
    in enchanting cool hues
    the lakes of bubbling passion
    the wait from only your eyes
    hell in which your drowning
    breath is thin thinner than string
    dwindling to lovers moving
    things in places beside the other
    ironic because partly crying
    my Roman statue still suggests
    nothing of the baser natures,
    habits and things; the dungeons
    in which experiment by
    experiment led up to today
    where spies know what you ate
    and why you'll never know
    the binary track of a star
    invisibly pulled into the molten dark.

    How the sheer soul could vomit
    the laws of its purported
    'civilization' and all we know
    are the echoes thrown
    into the lanes they treaded
    into concrete worlds
    now completely abandoned.
    and with all that space
    for souls to knock around,
    I wonder then what you are,
    hanging around
    my ruins ... to find what truth?

    . . .

    Here the light is not a burden
    in my honesty the dim lights are
    painless like essays in softness.
    I can shroud over my star
    confined by confining the space.

    As laughter falls - in euphony.
    Broken locations signal ...

    the Beautiful Nothing.

  • #2
    The way you weave your stories they read effortlessly; the pacing with a conversational tone and creating such imagery. I enjoyed reading this, amenOra!

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    • #3
      Strewth, amenOra. This merging of the intimate with the cosmic could have fallen with a thud, but in your magic hands it soars. I can feel this piece, cerebrally and emotionally. Beautiful like nothing else.

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      • #4
        Just wow... Your poetry often leaves me that way (in the best sense).

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