A poem by Ryan Flett
At night
the moon
pulls at something
in your blood
like it does
the tides,
an embrace
by the heavens
that sense
the stardust
in your veins.

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At night
the moon
pulls at something
in your blood
like it does
the tides,
an embrace
by the heavens
that sense
the stardust
in your veins.
The absurdity of your petal
Was a curse on grey November.
As the toothed grin of summer
Who drove her spear into fall-red leaves,
I admire your courage
To stand just so,
Before the snow.
Always aware albeit agonizing angst.
Believing bitter banter behest blanks.
Cultivating consciousness cures communication.
Diligence discovers delightful demonstrations.
*
Everyone expecting evolves engagements,
Frequent forgiveness fuels fulfillment.
Give gentle gifts graciously,
Hang huge halos heavenly.
*
Intentionally invest in inquiring,
Judgement juxtapose justice joyfully.
Keep kissing know kindness,
Look lively love luxurious.
*
Memorize many more maturations,
Notwithstanding new novelizations.
Optimize only optimal orations,
Praising priceless poetry proliferations.
*
Quickly question quiet quintessentials,
Resisting raunchy romantic reportorials.
Savor sacred sensuous souls,
Treasure triumphs that take toll.
*
Understand unique undercurrents
Vehemently validate virements.
Willingly wonderfully witfully write,
X-ray xenogenous xanthippes.
Yield youthful yesteryear
Zealously zoom.
Fire-red hostility whizzing through a burning hot blaze
soldiers dodging in muddy trenches
Blood-soaked earth holding the weight of fallen heroes
The stench of death mingling with acrid smoke that fill his failing lungs
The sun is a murderer
beating a blazing dragon’s poison on rugged uniforms
The moon is a robber
hunting tired prey that pause to blink
Death is an escaped prisoner
googly eyeballs rolling for prey on a sinking earth
He holds
his weapon
in
one plastic arm
patched
with thread
dipped in blood
of fellow comrades
Fallen
Splintered
Scattered
across a
flooded ground
as the stars
shoot
and time runs by
a whizzing bullet
Now a crippled bundle of bones fastened to a wheelchair
The only remnant of a forgotten bravery is a missing limb
PTSD is a spider lurking in the corners with the cobwebs
in a dingy attic he calls home
Living off the ‘Thank you for your service’s scarcely thrown his way
as lonely eyes peek through a shuttered window in a dusty room
where faded copper medals lay in abandoned shame
His heart is a leaden hammer
breaking a fragile memory
into shredded leaves
But his strength is made of eternal concrete
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