poetic

Feelings and emotionran through my veinslike a hurricane.And that's when everythingbegan to look like poetry.__ou look like poetry

I love with love, so that we all may love." ~ Amunhotep El Bey

When it has finished saying it, it no longer is. The longer it is in saying it, the more it can say it at length, the more slowly it melts, the better quality it is.

Some people were destined to have a significant other.Some people were destined for greatness.But few others were destined to be soldiers, to be warriors, to be alone.That is me.It is not a path that i have chosen, but it is a path that i must walk.Some may think this is sad, but i have come to peace with it.Because i am and always will be a soldier, a warrior...Alone.

When I look at my life and at the secret color which it has, I feel as if tears were trembling in my heart. I am just as much the lips that I have kissed as the nights spent in the 'House before the World,' just as much the child brought up in poverty as this frenzied ambition and thirst for life which sometimes carry me away.

I know who I was, I can tell you who I may have been, but I am, now, only in this line of words I write.

The grave casts long shadows, Iron Lord," Mirri said. "Long and dark, and in the end no light can hold them back.

In the molten fire where he lay he could watch the slow machinations of eternity, the cosmic miracle of each second being born, eggshaped, silverplated, phallic, time thrusting itself gleaming through the worn and worthless husk of the microsecond previous, halting, beginning to show the slow and infinitesimal accreations of decay in the clocking away of life in a mechanism encoded at the moment of conception, withering, shunted aside by time's next orgasmic thrust, and all to the beating of some galactic heart, to voices, a madman's mutterings from a snare in the web of the world.

_ in these new days and in these new pages a philosophical tradition of the spontaneity of speculation kind has been rekindled on the sacred isle of _ire, regardless of its creative custodian never having been taught how to freely speculate, how to profoundly question, and how to playfully define. Spontaneity of speculation being synonymous with the philosophical-poetic, the philosophical-poetic with the rural philosopher-poet, and by roundelay the rural philosopher-poet thee with the spontaneity of speculation be. And by the way of the rural what may we say? A philosopher-poet of illimitable space we say. Iohannes Scottus _riugena the metaphor of old salutes you; salutes your lyrical ear and your skilful strumming of the rippling harp. (Source: Hearing in the Write, Canto 19, Ivy-muffled)

You need a poetic touch from the outer space? Then you need the moonlight!

The unwelcome November rain had perversely stolen the day's last hour and pawned it with that ancient fence, the night.

__leasure is wild and sweet. She likes purple flowers. She loves the sun and the wind and the night sky. She carries a silver bowl full of liquid moonlight. She has a cat named Midnight with stars on his paws. Many people mistrust Pleasure, and even more misunderstand her. For a long time I could barely stand to be in ...the same room with her...

When people who remember her better than me talk of her, she is always described as headstrong and irresponsible, which, if you think about it, are just different words for untameable. The wind is untameable, and so are rivers, and there is something poetic in that.

And now, my poor old woman, why are you crying so bitterly? It is autumn. The leaves are falling from the trees like burning tears- the wind howls. Why must you mimic them?

There are no lines in nature, only areas of colour, one against another.

hough we travel the whole over to find the perfect match,we must carry it with us a light or it's playing hard to catch.

I wonder who else in the world was having such an exquisite dawn.

I get a little poetic sometimes. The moonlight does that to me.