At the edge of the colorful pike of life,
I see I feel I tremble,
those carrying dark colors of life,
adjusting to a modern world of greed,
take note of its faces.
I fall in their darkness,
were the blues and reds of my soul,
despaired with so many losses,
and magical loves.
I grasped the outsiders
but their own self was most important
than the colors of your happiness,
I felt alive so long ago.
From the edge of this colorful pike of life..
as I fall..
I see you, I miss you,
as true colors of your love disappear,
cosmic latte I cannot see,
only broken little souls with stolen innocence,
shouting for salvation.
At the bottom of this colorful pike of life,
grinding back to the edge,
I settled with the deep purples colors of your love,
blues n' reds cinnamon pink I want to live,
fantasy life and expectations,
this is a fight never to give up.
Cosmic justice never fails,
we'll be winners, bravest hearts!
About the Creator
Maria Simões
From a young age, I was drawn to horror movies and dark literature. Poetry has also been part of my life
While I don’t have any published work, I’m always eager to share my writing with others and welcome any opportunity to receive feedback
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A Flower Song
Apparently the Aztecs, Toltecs, Chichimecs and other Mexica were crazy about poetry. Despite the book-burning, slaughter, and epidemics that characterized the early stages of the Spanish conquest of the empires of Mexico, some hundreds of poems from the height of their tradition come down to us in Classical Nahuatl, preserved by Nahua and Spanish scholars of the 16th century. One of the most famous poets, Nezahualcoyotl, was a sage-king who opposed the cult of human sacrifice associated with Tezcatlipoca, God of the Smoking Mirror, and favored Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent. Flowers and feathers were the favorite offering of the Plumed Serpent. Moreover, flowers and feathers are a metaphor for poetry. Individual words, scattered petals, the down of tropical birds. The temples of blood sacrifice could be transformed into temples of flower and song. A sublimated offering to the Heart of Earth and the Heart of Sky encapsulated in the Classical Nahuatl kenning for poetry: in xōchitl in cuīcatl, meaning, "the flower and the song." The following poem is part of a longer work, and is in a state of flux, so take the waters as they flow:
By Rob Angeli5 days ago in Poets
Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis4 days ago in Humans
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