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Daily Archives: July 7, 2014

SHE LOVES ME … NOT – Promote Yourself

 
She loved me once. Then … she loved me not. The form
er, I often heard; the latter … not ever.

But actions … and omissions to act … speak volumes … deafeningly.
And so my sick heart now hurts less; for romantic declarations aside, aside from our Creator,
nothing is forever … but Him … or Her; and that’s comforting … most definitely.
 
That (S)he is forever is most comforting; but there have been other comforts … since … she
loved me not. That a heart is mended is, largely, an inconsequential one;
but knowing that beyond actions speaking loudly, that inaction speaks volumes … deafeningly
is altogether, another. That latter slice of wisdom ought matter … to everyone.
 
Art’s life’s been more dissolute than resolute. He’s lost much held dear, especially a child whom
would have turned twenty-one years young, this Autumn’s October. 
But Arthur’s losses; of parents, child, wife and life oft pale next to that of others, whom
struggle in … Allah/God/Jehovah/Yahweh’s … time river.
 

A PRAYER … AND A PLEA – PROMOTE YOURSELF

TWITT

In #twitterfiction-al nonfiction, the religious and nationalistic paradigm we voluntarily
allow to rule us is taking us down. Yet … it need not be …
 
… in #twitterfiction-al nonfiction, the religious and nationalistic paradigm we
are ruled by may be replaced by our over-arching humanity.
 
A seemingly impossible #twitterfiction-al vision, that an obviously failed paradigm be
replaced by a promising one, must be … our destiny.
 
In #twitterfiction-al nonfiction, the drumbeat message is “Don’t tread on me!”
Yet, it ought indubitably be … “Tread … with … me.”
 
And so, via nonfictional #twitterfiction, AN ATLAS POETIC; a prayer, and a heartfelt plea,
for Mandela-Tutu-like global truth and reconciliation … finally.
 
In #twitterfiction, previews to AN ATLAS … POETIC: Poetry about history, spirituality
and eschatology, from epigrams, and a blog, unitary.
 
By Miguel Vera from Puerto Rico

https://www.chachomanopapa.wordpress.com

https://www.facebook.com/chacho.manopapa

The Waiting End -Promote Yourself

cell

The time passed slow,

Slower than the slowest of snails

In my cell where I sat

For years, counting my days.

The bars of rusting iron

Seemed invisible to my aging eyes

Which was always fixed on the wall

Farther from the cell where I was.

The uniform stones placed together

Seemed an irony in my lasting days

As the only uniform I had seen here

Was the striped cloth that we inmates had to wear.

The sky was starless tonight

Unlike yesterday where diamonds shone

Clouded like my fate

Which was adored by mistakes

That I found rejoicing at a time.

I never flinched when I devoured the lives

Of helpless souls, crying against my shining steel.

Begging me with faces pale.

Printed notes with the bald man’s face

Meant dearer to me than stranger cries

And I sliced their lives with my shining steel

Wiping away the crimson red

On their cloth before the shade of red stained.

The time passed slow,

Slower than the slowest of snail.

In my cell where I sat

For years that made me forget the days.

Until tonight where it ends

On a string of rope.

Death wasn’t scary

But the fear of death sprouts unknown

When you sit untamed, waiting

For its reeking claws around you

Pulling you into itself with glory.

The sinner I was, had no rights to ask

The almighty to bless me fine

Because it scared me of the thought

When my neck snapped and my life swayed away.

My stomach churned and my heart pounded

As my inner knew of the ending of time

My life was going to fail me

But failure had been my closest pal

Since my childhood where my cradle forgot to rock.

My ears focused into the silent night

Filled with thumps from chest within

And the time passed slow

Slower than the slowest of snails

In the cell where I sat

For years, numbing my days.

The screeching noise of the rusted cage

Had become a music with melodies hidden

Along with the hum of breeze

Like the song of my mother.

I could hear footsteps

In the distant hall

Approaching in a silent pace

To take me away from this acquainted cage

To free my life away in space.

As the men came, and the door screeched

Filling the air with its final music,

I got up from the mat, torn.

Slower than the slowest of snails

Ready to forget my days in life.

— 

Harsh Gopal
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