Midnight colors

Beauty echoes through the mountains and beneath the trees,
I will wait, for the sun to shine for me.
My heart is beating fast, I am losing sight.
Maybe it was the drink and it was the fight.
But wait, it was something else.
It was the twinkling eyes,
Her angel voice.
Maybe I was being pushed down,
But holding on to her,
I was alive,
Dreaming of death and dreaming of love.

I saw a canvas in front of my eyes.
I painted it the midnight blue.
It was the color I saw in her eyes,
It was her aurora's hue.
Maybe I was scared,
And maybe I was drowned.
But all I saw then,
Was the masterpiece of God.
He had it speak.
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Short Poem-Fiction

I’m a ruin.

Every stage is an age, oh no, must be the seasons of the witch, and the wizards of Waverly palace. Driving on the 405, Bartender, holding the sunrise, summertime living easily on a Trailer painted by Norman Rockwell.

The world is a teenage dream, handling loaded guns, and drop-dead dreams, choosing the ones that it deem psychedelic fiends. Oh no, must be the seasons of the witch. The earth is made of rebel-diamond cut out of the sun, but can you read my mind?

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Confessions of the mirror

I see black and blue; shadows reflecting upon me and my ancient soul have got little to speak but the words of hate and detest, and people’s ramblings of nonacceptance to the perfect answer to their sky-stained navel-gazing. If I look far enough through walls and through doorways and alleys, I can see a traffic policeman trying to control the traffic on a tired Sunday evening, where a gauge of young drunk men are somewhat causing curtains beneath his eyes. But what words has he got? Other than the usual cussing and blabbering that only the twilight is there to hear for you. Almost it is the same with people, who atomize their each and every desire and sin in a gold covered box, which only when they see in the bright light reflecting a ray is filled with an abundance of coal, with a few flowers in between, all of which are completely distorted and damaged.

If he could have spoken through ages, or killed his own inventor, whom I believe could be a troubled old man inspired by the still waters of a lake at sunset-time on a desert plain, maybe he would not have suffered the envy, abandonment, hate, name it, of people who are maybe trying to open their eyes and wet them, for a reason that could be little other than self-impression and the creation of an incarnation, that they speak before going to sleep, and before their children’s examinations, and when their company is flopping or their writing is going from bad to worse. He would have shattered himself into pieces, and acted as a symbol of the nearing of the black could, and laughed as it so that body being carried away to hell.

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Cherry Cola

Lights ache through the mountains, unusually far and lucid and hiding the shadows beneath them as if to cover the mystic words of an oculist blasted upon them a million years ago. Little scarred are the downy hearts that look upon the solitude; they know they shall find their grace and their pardon, shall they be here long. Those who look down upon here are the snubbed, almost teen-like spirits who have little to see and little to wonder other than their old schoolboy textbooks and their ragged computer screens. Up, up floating onward, they are flopping like vampire souls, drinking Cherry Cola in front of the mirror.

Shall life be a prayer that we utter like a impulsive catechism every night before we go to sleep, we could look it up in an empty mail inbox and find it cornered in the spam folder. Sunsets falling down tearing apart speak loudly to us then, telling us that the mystic law of the universe is an incarnation prepared by the Gothic figures of ghost in fairy tales and blood-suckers in romance. Maybe life would be better if we would drink Cherry Cola every night before we go to sleep instead?

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Silence

A gloomy day an an unworthy end,
You ask me for my wallet and my hand.
I give you the lights that hide beneath my eyes,
Where I see the world beyond.
I can tell you are up with a smile,
It's own your face, it's in your words.

You jump of a parachute,
And you land in the swamps.
I can beside you,
Every moment passes on.
Silence.
Eternity.
Drowned.
You are fine.
Move on.

I ask for a penny and you hand it to me,
You call it the starriest night in history.
But I'm dumbfounded,
And I wait.
And I ask you what it means.
You say it's a verse that you wrote,
Seventy years ago,
In another birth.
But you're gone,
And you're numb.
You can no longer feel.
Time has begun.

Because you are a part of the world,
And you can't run away.
There are angels watching out,
And there are people coming you way.
Smile.
Heavens awaiting,
Life.
No one is waiting.
You are silent.
You are drowned.
You are still alive.

You are lying in an operation theater,
Your painkiller is running out, you back aches.
You are hungry and you are depressed.
The future awaits.
Can you live?
Be my friend,
And I shall tell you the truth,
Breathe.
You shall be okay.

Silence.
Eternity.
Love and grief,
Mistakes and revenge.
Are you alive?
Silence.
It isn't over yet.
I told you to be my friend,
And I dreamed through the night.
But you're no longer fine.

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Here I go through the frowning ‘middle-game’

Long time, It is not over yet. Until then,free from the hinges which bond together us all in in inorderly disgrace. Thine master is a 'wanting man' Thine mistress is awaiting to-morrow, Let the mistress be my soul, The days of ecstasy are gone. Winter is coming. See me through it, My friend. I'm the night watchman of my grenadine.
The happiness and the bloom,
It is all over now.
I am wishing for so much,
There is nothing left to let be.

I wish I could dance to 'Lana Del Rey' every night and dance until my feat would ache so bad,
That I would lie down on my bed body flat thoughts twirled,
And write a poem that can change the world.

I wish I could stand here,
And watch,
And write whatever I want,
Like a bird's call in the wild,
So lovely but so perforated.

I wish I could just spend,
And live forever,
Between those lines of prose so powerful that they stopped wars and changed winds,
Until I find myself with words of my own,
That I could treasure like the single gold in a poor man's treasury.

I wish I could collide the festivals and kneeling birders to create poetry, Which is warm inside of my colon like a gun.
I'll fire it forever, so you can suffer in shameful scent.
I wish I could eat the rotten world aloof, Like the sausages in my food. I'd pay a penny for a thought to come, That would give me a midnight sunset, An hour wrong after the cold winter noon.
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