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V.S. Atbay’s Followers (4)
V.S. Atbay
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Epiphany: A Collection of Poems
—
published
2013
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“A thousand lips, a thousand eyes,
a thousand hearts will read these words,
as you read them, graze them, this moment. Thousands will utter them into the abyss, someday, perhaps for years to come; loudly, softly,
repeatedly, again and again and again.
Some will mock, some will laugh. Some
will shed a tear. But it is written
only for your lips, your eyes, your heart,
beloved.
Do as you please.
It is written by an ideal heart,
intense, yet free, when in thought of you.
Written from a dehydrated pen, that
shed the last drops of her blood,
onto you. And still, you do not know me.
No, you will never know of this desire.
It is a shame, when love cannot love,
who she loves, amidst these mortal games.
And No. It is for me to know,
and for you to close the last pages
of my confessions, making nothing of it.
As always, like always,
I write for you and for the madness
that stirs in every soul that has once burned, and for the tender parts of your soul, too.
Nothing is hidden, nothing is revealed.
The separation between the soul and mate,
between lover and the beloved,
is through spirit, is it not, my love? Or is it flesh? There, there is the clue.
And this, this is the nature of our love. Forbidden,closed, then left ajar in oblivion.
My eyes touch your lips, your eyes touch my lips, yet, no one makes a sound.
No one moves on.
What madness is this?
And here you go, turning the pages now,
there you go.”
―
a thousand hearts will read these words,
as you read them, graze them, this moment. Thousands will utter them into the abyss, someday, perhaps for years to come; loudly, softly,
repeatedly, again and again and again.
Some will mock, some will laugh. Some
will shed a tear. But it is written
only for your lips, your eyes, your heart,
beloved.
Do as you please.
It is written by an ideal heart,
intense, yet free, when in thought of you.
Written from a dehydrated pen, that
shed the last drops of her blood,
onto you. And still, you do not know me.
No, you will never know of this desire.
It is a shame, when love cannot love,
who she loves, amidst these mortal games.
And No. It is for me to know,
and for you to close the last pages
of my confessions, making nothing of it.
As always, like always,
I write for you and for the madness
that stirs in every soul that has once burned, and for the tender parts of your soul, too.
Nothing is hidden, nothing is revealed.
The separation between the soul and mate,
between lover and the beloved,
is through spirit, is it not, my love? Or is it flesh? There, there is the clue.
And this, this is the nature of our love. Forbidden,closed, then left ajar in oblivion.
My eyes touch your lips, your eyes touch my lips, yet, no one makes a sound.
No one moves on.
What madness is this?
And here you go, turning the pages now,
there you go.”
―
“The spirit, my love,
is stronger than laughter,
stronger than the hungry panting
of reckless lions
that paw and shuffle
underneath the canopy of bowed trees,
stronger than the pace of a dying heart,
that awaits to be pumped to life by episodes mothered by time,
by hands of mankind,
by slivers of hope
hidden in the common mind.”
―
is stronger than laughter,
stronger than the hungry panting
of reckless lions
that paw and shuffle
underneath the canopy of bowed trees,
stronger than the pace of a dying heart,
that awaits to be pumped to life by episodes mothered by time,
by hands of mankind,
by slivers of hope
hidden in the common mind.”
―
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