All Returns were made in season...

I have never needed Heroine,
You will not believe the hell I am in,
Nor will you cross this line again,
Scorching fire until it is all chalky white,
Burning late into the night.

Falling deep into the darkest pools,
where void like acid burns right through,
while I am staring back at you.
Running deep, these vocal dreams,
bringing up the oldest myths,
aluring sories from abyss.

In war our parts may rage on,
our word entangled,
in place of our bodies,
lost in the grip of what has passed
and what is new.
What will remain, and what will go?
Let it al go, let it all go.

Amalgamated, in some hearth,
waiting for catalyst to bind me at last,
What remains is worthy, what has gone,
ultimately has passed.
A breath of relief, is to be found within,
where union holds me together again.
Waiting carefully for the greatness within
to start all over, its manefestation again.

Contained in the dark, where the memories
begin, dying with time, and digesting
of flesh, holding to us this golden ball.
This mirror tells us its golden truth,
hidden in these words are my silent tributes,
forgone for yet again its brilliant vission.

Compelling impulses in the air surrounding,
with reality afast be boiling,
volatility rising from its deeper seeding.
Tossed about in this tiding,
another order of nature abiding.
Quickly pulsing from youth to ancient,
amd back repeating,
and reciting every word within me.
Some part are leaving; no longer missing
no longer missing

Now, standing stark before you,
another stranger.
The passage walked through cursed dangers,
tossed about by winds in angers,
taken down, by whims, through tangents.
Stare deep into my eyes,
and I will stare back at you.
A gentle smile, to reassure the fates.

The man that was no longer stays,
the void at last did count his days,
where we have walked long have I forgiven.
The good and bad was all forgotten,
a ride across the way with saturn.
and all returns were made in season.

I really love reading poetry. For a moment I can stare deeply into the writer's soul. This is partly why I have never dated a poet either, well I have not done so intentionally anyway. One or two of them happened to sneak through the gate, while there were others who had not yet discovered themselves and do not count towards the tally. There is nothing worse than running into an ex's poetry, and we are a bunch of hopeless romantics as well.

Even if I were to encounter that kind of poetry, I still love to read it. It rumbles up conflict, and things I thought I have resolved. I tremble in the moment, and seeth through the pain, or anger. This all depends on the day. It is real and it is naked, the whole entire moment. It tosses you into awe, or it rips down what you have dared to build... There is nothing like that, there is nothing like truth.

I read some poetry tonight, a face that has faded from my view, a voice I have not heard in a while, too scared to start the awkward conversation that comes with it too. It sparked some inspiration and that is how it comes, and if you do not capture that inspiration it will feel rejected and go.

This poem is quite the craft piece. As writing it moved things inside of me, this highlights what I have always known, words are magickal. Things change when you speak them. I cannot overstate the role writing poetry has played in my life. In some cases it has kept me alive, and through many of them I have cried my tears, like many of the songs I used to listen to, I have bound up things into my words. When I do this right people are moved to tears, or they can feel the sunshine on their skin. When I do this right I become a better person and I am rooted in what is real.

In this way words are sacred, and the lines we utter, mumble, squander , or save. Can be something none of us can forgive ourselves, do not waste your breath, think twice before you say a word. is it true, necessary, and kind?

Keep strong and at it if you are writing, and give generously to your poet friends. Seriously, these poor souls have mastered a craft that has not paid very well since the beginning. that is why some of them took to playing instruments and the theatre in order to pay the bills

peace,
Damion