WHEN you have killed the living thing inside
your Skull spend nights within my Mouth
Speak tales of ancient knowledge
upon a spinning fallen leaf drifting
down youth’s river
And press my tongue against your broken
heart, lift my legs across your shoulders
as a wet nurse, tell me this is but a dream
while our spit dries upon skin.
:: 08.16.2024 ::
How you walk alone in rain clouds
smothering skies
Dressed blue fringes brown mud bare feet
and brilliant eye tears not from nature
but from Love broken i was taught as child
love is a small thing with big eyes
So lost in your big eyes bleeding cancer in mind
oh say:
In the quiet storm of your solitude, the rain clouds hang heavy
like unspoken dreams, draping the world in a veil of melancholic haze.
You tread the earth, bare feet sinking into the wet embrace of mud,
as if the world itself mourns with you, absorbing your every step,
every tear that falls from eyes too brilliant for this dim reality.
The fringes of your being, once adorned in the delicate blue of innocence,
now flutter like forgotten memories in the wind, frayed by the passage of time
and the weight of unfulfilled promises. The tears you shed, they do not belong to
nature—they are the essence of a heart broken by the purest force known to man:
Love.
A force that, as a child, was taught to you as something small, yet with eyes so vast they could swallow the universe.
And now, in the cavernous depths of your mind, those eyes have become a cancer,
an all-consuming void that devours every thought, every emotion, until nothing remains
but the echo of your own despair. You walk alone, not just in the world, but in the very fabric of existence,
lost in the labyrinth of your own making, where love is both the light that guides and the shadow that blinds.
As you drift through the mist of your memories, the world around you warps and bends, reshaping itself into a landscape that mirrors the turmoil within. Trees twist into grotesque forms, their branches reaching out like the skeletal fingers of forgotten hopes, while the ground beneath you pulses with the heartbeat of the earth, alive with the sorrow that has seeped into its core. Each step you take is a dance with the past, a delicate waltz with the ghosts of what once was, their whispers curling around you like smoke, filling your lungs with the bitter taste of regret.
The sky, once a canvas of endless possibilities, now hangs heavy with the weight of lost dreams, its colors bleeding into one another like tears on a page. The rain that falls is no longer water, but a torrent of shattered illusions, each drop a fragment of a future that will never come to pass. You raise your eyes to the heavens, searching for solace, but find only the reflection of your own despair staring back at you, mocking the hope you once held so dear.
In this surreal world of your creation, you are both the artist and the masterpiece, the creator of your own torment, painting with the hues of heartbreak and the brushstrokes of loneliness, lost in a world where love has become a distant memory, a faint echo in the chambers of a forgotten heart.
Orchids of smiles dying in your highness sigh.
:: 08.14.2024 ::
In the garden of flickering neon trees,
where shadows dance with marionette leaves,
I met a man with a clockwork heart
and eyes like prisms, tearing time apart.
He whispered secrets in a language of static,
his voice a symphony of glitches and clicks,
telling tales of constellations uncharted,
and love letters written in binary scripts.
We wandered through a labyrinth of velvet mist,
where fish flew by on currents of twilight,
and the moon sang lullabies to sleeping stars,
cradled in the arms of endless night.
I found a river of liquid glass,
where thoughts flowed like mercury streams,
reflecting the dreams of forgotten gods,
and the echoes of interstellar dreams.
A carousel spun in an abandoned carnival,
each horse a phantom of forgotten lore,
and as I rode, the world unraveled,
a tapestry of surrealist decor.
In the distance, a cathedral of crystal,
its spires piercing the fabric of reality,
and inside, a choir of silent voices,
harmonizing in spectral duality.
When dawn broke, the mirage faded,
leaving only a trace of whispered winds,
and I awoke, clutching fragments of visions,
in the realm where the surreal begins.
:: 05.17.2024 ::
In the world of Floris, a planet where every being was a fusion of human and flower, roses reigned supreme. The inhabitants, known as Rosalians, were characterized by their delicate rose-petal skin, leafy hair, and a subtle fragrance that filled the air wherever they went. In this unique world, the only flower that existed was the rose, and it was the foundation of their culture, economy, and identity.
Dr. Alaric Thorn, a prominent scientist and a respected teacher, stood before his class in the grand botanical amphitheater. His students, all young Rosalians eager to learn, sat in rows of petal-shaped seats, their eyes gleaming with curiosity.
“Today,” Dr. Thorn began, his voice carrying the gentle authority of a seasoned educator, “we will discuss a revolutionary idea: the existence of other flowers beyond our beloved rose.”
A murmur of excitement and disbelief rippled through the room. The concept was as alien to them as the stars beyond their sky.
Dr. Thorn activated a holographic display, projecting an image of their planet, Floris, from space. “For centuries, we have believed that the rose is the only flower, the pinnacle of botanical evolution. But what if I told you there might be other worlds, other planets where different flowers flourish?”
One student, a bright young Rosalian named Lysara, raised her hand. “Dr. Thorn, how can we be sure? We’ve never seen these other flowers. What makes you think they exist?”
Dr. Thorn smiled, pleased by her inquisitiveness. “Excellent question, Lysara. Our recent advancements in interstellar observation have revealed traces of botanical structures on distant planets. These structures differ from our roses, suggesting diverse floral life forms.”
He switched the hologram to display various shapes and forms, each representing a possible alien flower. “Imagine a world where flowers bloom in countless shapes and colors, each with unique properties and characteristics. A world where the flora is as varied as the stars themselves.”
The students leaned forward, captivated by the images. Another student, a quiet boy named Thorne, spoke up. “If these other flowers exist, what does that mean for us? How would it change our understanding of life and our place in the universe?”
Dr. Thorn’s expression grew thoughtful. “It would challenge our perception of uniqueness and inspire us to explore beyond our known boundaries. It would mean that life, in its infinite diversity, has found countless ways to flourish. It would teach us humility and expand our horizons.”
He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in. “We must prepare ourselves for the possibility of encountering these new forms of life. As scientists and scholars, our duty is to seek knowledge and embrace the unknown. Perhaps one day, we will embark on a journey to these distant worlds and witness the beauty of other flowers with our own eyes.”
The amphitheater buzzed with a renewed sense of wonder and anticipation. Dr. Thorn knew that this was only the beginning of their exploration. The Rosalians were on the cusp of a great adventure, one that would take them beyond the petals of their familiar roses and into the vast, blossoming garden of the cosmos.
:: 07.07.2024 ::
Notes:
This poem conveys a message about the endless possibilities of life and the importance of remaining open to new ideas. It suggests that understanding and accepting diversity, even in forms of life, can lead to greater knowledge and a more profound sense of humility.
Conclusion
“The World of Roses” is a crafted poem that I sought to use as a fictional setting and characters to explore deep themes related to knowledge, diversity, and the human (or Rosalian) spirit of exploration. It invites readers to consider the beauty and complexity of life beyond their immediate understanding, encouraging a sense of wonder and a desire to explore the unknown.
Have you seen a ‘v’—(sounds so beautiful)
Hop across a ‘t’ or even ‘y’ inside
A ‘d’, it’s all inside of me, so full.
Alphabet needs, in language’s pull,
Something in the way, I cannot hide,
Have you seen a ‘v’—(sounds so beautiful)?
In a deep dark well of mostly nights dull,
I kissed ‘m’ and ‘e’, where secrets reside,
A ‘d’, it’s all inside of me, so full.
Words touch all I hide, their whispers mull,
Cries feeling how I am, though much denied,
Have you seen a ‘v’—(sounds so beautiful)?
All of me cried feeling how I might lull,
Am SO “m” “T”, emotions collide,
A ‘d’, it’s all inside of me, so full.
Something in the way, how words just cull,
All I hide away from me, thoughts untried,
Have you seen a ‘v’—(sounds so beautiful)?
A ‘d’, it’s all inside of me, so full.
(rev) 06.20.2024
AFTER I finish this poem and all
the alphabets are in bed
you can walk with me down the hill
where the stream is, lady
where fish dream they are stars
(now this blows my mind — but
there they are)
Looking within their eyes with a
suddenly unsaid voice they spoke
while smoking mexican grass
And the toads croak lightly
singing, “Run upon the stones
across our river”
I ran and stepped across all
the stones and crevasses
and I found myself upon the Mountain
And there came a poetess who sang,
“Come, hold my hand, along brittle
treacherous bright streets
of memory — ooh, come my heart,
you idiot, yealing like a drunken man!
We can be asleep, elsewhere our dreams begin
run upon my stones:
Ici? Ah non. Mon chéri, il fait trop froid.
I say again, “Here? Oh no. My drear, it is
too cold!”
The farm is in ice so Chevaux do bois!
:: 06.05.2024 ::
[these dreams. terrors. m.c.escher floor plans i cannot escape. a world mall with creatures.]
Tremors become my failed hands. No blue skies nor blue oceans. Just a mad man lost in institutions ~~
and i’m sorry to write these words that seem to crawl within my shut eyes. So pray, so say, the whore of life is a drink of horror not for good guys not for bad guys. I’m ruined. If you could cry — i know, tear ducts were torn out in the last horror dream ~~ i[‘m sick. These experiments are based inside my dreams were meant to be a savior like Jesus but when I found my portal (through it all) I now cry. Life. death. People. Earth. Is a dream like a drink of potent monsters that humanity should never know. So, please. Continue to shut your eyes.
What if the the sickest mind was the most healthy reflection of this existence?
So, say…
the hardest part of letting go is the monsters of those who control everything.
And sing. Sing. Just say, ‘The hardest Part is I’m Sane.”
:: 05.22.2024 ::
My notes:
I approach the analysis of this poem with a deep appreciation for its raw emotional depth and existential questioning.
The poem “I’M SANE” delves into the tumultuous landscape of the human psyche, grappling with themes of sanity, madness, and the blurred boundaries between reality and dreams. The fragmented structure of the poem mirrors the fragmented state of the speaker’s mind, as they navigate through a surreal dreamscape filled with terrors and nightmarish imagery reminiscent of M.C. Escher’s intricate designs.
The recurring motif of madness pervades the poem, symbolized by the speaker’s trembling hands and their confinement within institutions. This portrayal of madness as an inescapable prison reflects a sense of helplessness and despair.
The speaker’s apologies for the unsettling nature of their words suggest a struggle with self-awareness and a fear of being judged or misunderstood. The mention of tear ducts torn out in a horror dream adds a visceral element to the poem, emphasizing the physical and emotional toll of the speaker’s inner turmoil.
The juxtaposition of life and death, salvation and damnation, further underscores the poem’s existential angst. The speaker grapples with the idea that perhaps the sickest mind is the most lucid reflection of reality—a disturbing thought that challenges conventional notions of sanity and madness.
The refrain “The hardest Part is I’m Sane” serves as a haunting conclusion to the poem, encapsulating the paradoxical nature of sanity in a world overrun by chaos and existential dread. It suggests a poignant resignation to the harsh truths of existence, where sanity itself becomes a burden to bear amidst the madness of life.
In essence, “I’M SANE” is a profound exploration of the human condition, offering a glimpse into the dark recesses of the mind and inviting readers to confront the unsettling truths that lie therein.
The moon has whispered silver in the curve of your smile,
The dusk has painted twilight upon your tender thighs,
The dawn has kissed gold into the shadows of your eyes,
And dreams weave sapphire upon the path where you tread.
The winds have sung secrets through the strands of your hair,
The earth has cradled your feet with a lover’s gentle care,
The night has draped velvet around your graceful form,
And stars have danced in rhythm to your heart’s quiet storm.
The rain has traced poetry upon your silken skin,
The sun has warmed the depths of the soul that lies within,
The universe has bowed in awe of your serene grace,
And love has found its echo in the light of your embrace.
The flowers have bloomed crimson at the touch of your hand,
The mountains have stood tall to watch where you stand,
The rivers have sung lullabies to ease your gentle sleep,
And time has paused in wonder at the beauty you keep.
The shadows have whispered of mysteries in your gaze,
The flames have danced wildly in your passionate blaze,
The skies have stretched wide to mirror your expanse,
And fate has intertwined with the steps of your dance.
The echoes have carried your laughter through the air,
The seasons have spun tales of your love and care,
The galaxies have spun threads of dreams in your name,
And eternity has sighed, forever unchanged by the same.
And still, stars, silent.
:: 05.22.2024 ::
At last, there is no help! Therefore, allow a kiss then we part.
Exhausted I am through; love, you shall not hear more a sound.
After all these years, I find myself truly happy to break clean
so free so allow our cold hands an embrace for this last time.
And with great might we should forget our vows.
Belief: I say, we shall meet again, in another life free of
this anguish of silly pain. There will not be a trace to show
that we held onto love of old.
Now, then, and again. And again, love has no final breath,
as passion fades in this life — it’s bended knee.
Innocence closes the eyes of the dead.
Now, as we wish. So many others giving up.
But we shall still breathe life back into Eternal Love.
:: 05.07.2024 ::
PURPLE home
so soft
window candy
eye see you
Razor light
On a finger
ruby ring
And all
to prove
you have life
It takes a fast
car lady __ if
you take backseat
rumble or front
seat to see
a double life
How i fell —
but then grew
once upon night
i once, too many
times fell for you
dreaming you
were there i once
painted romance
upon the walls
it takes a twice
thought to lead
a double life
never do it twice
Hold the brush
pick the paint
all you feel
when you’re near
It’s so easy to
play breakdown
it’s so easy to
say no poetry
So tough
So soft
when i’m living
within my shoes
:: 04.30.2024 :
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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