Reflection

Why, Dear Lord

Why, dear Lord, have you given us this heart,
so filled with longings that can never fully be,
the way a tree is root, bark, boughs, leaves,
the way a bird is song and joy and pure delight?

Why, dear Lord, is the night always sparkling
with veiled meanings, which never open
utterly to us, yet leave us with such
melancholy spaces within?

Why, dear Lord, though we have the gift
of love does love come so hard to find,
and once found so terribly hard to learn,
to keep in freedom grown?

Why, dear Lord, though we in thee do wish
to dwell, and all thy beauteous world to love,
do we expel ourselves from Paradise,
or lose the vision and the bliss as we
grow old?

Why, dear Lord, are we so achingly
aware of Time and Transience, yet dare
not take hold of every precious second
of our lives until the day of our departure?

Why, dear Lord, have you given us this heart,
so filled with longings that can never fully be,
the way a tree is root, bark, boughs, leaves,
the way a bird is song and joy and pure delight?

Sitting still

Upon my breath
the shallow ease.
here I sit;
quiet but pleased.
Left of day
but solum thought
as here i sit
in silent thought.

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Critically Analytic

We’ve been reading too many books

lately. Blatantly, not trying to create

recently. Evidently, we’ve been letting others

absurdly run the story of you and me

in trying to be, when we already are,

freely entrapped within our own systems,

circles, and propriety of competition amongst society.

You can blame society,
but it’s simply you and me
in relation.
You and me, and him and her and them and us.

We’re in this together, now.
Each infinitesimal drop of murky water,
forming, ostensibly, the flood. Not one splash feels
the responsibility,

consequently we blame, and

haughtily criticize, rationalizing it
in our minds.

Lazily, we evaluate others stories, finding frailties,
unaware of the intricately subtle reflection of our own
Imperfection.

-Ryan K. Fuller

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I'm one to promote the independent explanation of poems.

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"Return"

Folder: 
My Work

Pursued through the haunted
corridors of my perception;
longing to embrace Him,
desperate to expire.
Knowing all He wanted,
was pieces of reflection;
and so I kneel to place them
at the feet of Forbidden Fire.
And still I reach to grasp the hem
that reeks of ancient smoke;
Righteous Indignation,
has some time to kill.
Unseen fingers singe my skin,
scars of shame are torn,
in conscience degradation,
I hear,”Just be still.”
Tears surrender to this Light,
that dries them one more time.
I am cursed with rendered sight,
but, my love was born…blind.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

You may think you know....do you?

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Reflection

Shut off the TV around 3am.
I lay in my bed and look, resting my eyes.
Reality fades and I see myself lying on sand, its dark, dry and cold.
The wind starts to pick up and the sand begins to blow.
Realizing in this vivid self reflection my body is more a decaying corpse.
The smell of death and my sin’s linger in the air; the smell so strong I can taste it.
Can I redeem myself and become whole again. Can I free my soul from the abyss?
Or should I pay the price and meet my maker to put a end to this.
Is it crazy or outstanding, what a person’s mind can dream up?
Life to me is like a maze, there are many paths to take.
You pick one and you walk down it.
If you come to a end you walk back and begin again, the only goal is to make it to the end.

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Where can be she be?

Through the old looming mirror, he walked, stepping lightly
as he transferred to the realm of the forgotten melancholy;
hoping he'd find the thing that haunted his dreams;
the ghost he kept seeing in every reflection.
In his mind the delicate, soft voice of confused innocence echoed
with every cry for help;
the faint image of pale, fragile hands reaching out from behind
the glass played on in his mind like a dream set to repeat for eternity.

Existences

If it was or wasn't, i wouldn't say, shouldn't, couldn't...

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Down Monaco Way

The lattice-worked iron passes
As slow as I can walk
Over my head
And frames the sky black.

The delicate, petits balconies
You see so often in these parts.

Slatted shutters form two-sided escorts,
White and lime green;
They line in convoys down the walls.

Walls of different moods;
Salmon pink, white, orange beige.

The scene speaks (no need to shout)
Of Napoleon’s Mediterranean dream.
Life may be like blackjack here,
But you can never really stick:
A lesson known to all school groups
With precocious hormones riding high,
Quickly burning down the wick
With each combustible cigarette twist
And laughing on the public bench.

Pretentious, yet refined.

Just turn your head, and see the sea. Oh God, the sea.
If I ever find a sight that makes my
Eyes lose all focus as does the sea...
All I know is I have never felt so free.
The way it just ripples in,
Yet rippling the eye out, and out,
And out.

A seagull stands on Science’s head,
And seems to regard me disdainfully.

The French could have shelled this place,
Perched on maritime cliffs,
At any point in history –
Monarchist France, divided Italy,
Fascist Italy, divided France,
Have both advanced over cliffs that surround
The beige-and-glass apartment blocks,
White yachts,
And banker’s penthouse suites.

It ends in the Passage de la Miséricorde.
In the gloom of la Miséricorde.

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My reflection ( please give feedback )

Her eyes like mine are ocean green,
Her lips curl slowly round,
She'll never know the things i've seen,
Or hear the ringing sound,

Of laughter, trickling through the wind,
She'll never see a face,
Apart from mine, a certain sign,
In me her trust she'll place,

Though surely envy aches her heart?
She knows she'll never be,
Amongst the souls, she is a part,
A special part of me,

With sadness do her eyes look out?
Or is it that i guess?
She wishes with her heart to shout,
Of echoed loneliness,

To her i'll never be a friend,
Yet not an enemy,
A sister, bonded to the end,
For all eternity.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Please give feedback :)

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