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LOST IN ILLUSION

LOST IN ILLUSION

my words flow mellifluous
in the light of nighttime dreams.
and I fly with ease on a poet’s wings
into subliminal reality…
but all dreams end in disillusion.
there is no magic in this world,
miracles are for martyrs and saints
and hope is fantasy—a wish gone astray                        

Last few words: 
Stili alive. must write again/ Showing early SIGNS OF DEMENTIA For now re postng
Editing stage: 

Comments

I was just thinking I'd drop you a line to see how you are.
Always a total pleasure to read your work.
Jxx

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Can't fault the write but don't agree with hope being just a fantasy. Is not hopes what inspire people to try and change things? You hang in there........stan

to hear from you, even if it is re-posting. I would love to see something new, I'm sure that it will be worth the wait. ~ Gee.
.

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how are you long time no see
glad on neopoet
still u b

swerving restless youth in our thighs
we rebel struggle and triumph in the
hells of battles
and age till at last mortality
drowns us in its swells
and in the depths beneath
its peaceful hold
at night and day we dream
dreams bold
for we are all to end
as we are to begin
the sequestering
of a dusk and dawn
be we timid or brawn

...thank U Joe for
being my friend
and a great and vivid writer
of your experience
and existance
i almost got killed the other
day hit by a car
two more feet and i would
have been thrown into
traffic
on busy number sixty three
highway here
im still destroying myself
with substances like my
father...
demons and ghosts
i am not brave enough
to say i had cause
for any worth
...but there is hope
Humans have taken
their swipe at me not God
and I survived
..
I have always admired your
writings and sufferings
for I know the pain of the
families....I am not ignorant
nor defiant....just human
as we all are....
be we saints or psycopaths.

music and my dog and woman
give me comfort
but its love and trust torture
me.....i inherited it honestly
but I feel the wind...
examine the flowers
new...see the smiles
and the love of those
that care to come close
to me despite my thorn
and fang
..
and I dream
lately beautiful and horrible
complicated dreams
of futility and choice

but you know
it makes me enlivened
even as I know
my own ego will destroy
me

like sexton flamed out
and kerouk.....
bukowski and morrison
and winehouse
..
but that you understand
my friend
..
thank U for this gracious
poem
and I love its title

...
Mr Wolf..

I can't touch this.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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it is nice to see your name on the boards. there are times when I would agree with the dark ideas you have expressed here. wishing you well, Cat

When you fling poo, some of the stink sticks to you!

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