“The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of that which is elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope,” Author Unknown
Through misty forefathers, our generations have split inside the winds,
attainable in the strongest of masts, pressures conforms to expectations, whilst,
expectations perform to meet the demands of masses; expertise.
Running towards the hills, fish swim through the dampened waters,
currents bellow as dedicated weeds corner their insults,
it is the finer taste of the rainbow that one accomplishes
where catching is the permanent state of non-existence.
Once the game has begun, there is no turning,
the sway has calmed the storm that provides nurturing and request,
fisheries attempt to feed the masses, our populations rise,
our hopes rise that someday, our grief shall be lessened,
everything you want is simply a short walk away. …
Life is a series of continuum’s.
Up’s and down’s, crossing bridges and everything in between. Everything from love to communication to inhalation is part of human existence, whence, a person becomes a higher part of the self, transitioning from one ritual to another, growth to growth, Spirit to Spirit, lending out and granting advice in order to survive and to thrive.
We are such constellations that there is no end to human existence. Fascination is our birthright, we are downright creatures of exploration, fragile space fearers who illuminate the world with one footprint, one single act of love, one attempt after another at appreciating the world’s sunrise and the moonlit end, after each day has passed. …
In the auspicious territory of finding the self,
identity crises expand, where drooping willows sing songs of truth,
humility creates a higher force,
songs of hummingbirds continue to fascinate the onlooker.
Inside each word, the speaker contains a destination,
connotations move inside the heart’s vestibule,
holy scriptures speak towards lies and truths and the in-between,
love thyself becomes anything but, merely a slogan,
expressions form beyond potential,
scaled dragons form a stronghold inside terrified chambers.
Laughter becomes acceptance, whilst, higher love illuminates,
strangers pass hands as if exchanging loaves in heaven,
it is a phenomenon of existence where one is loved for who they really are.
Anna Rozwadowska 2020
Here in the central cavity of bleeding hearts,
workers become a centrifuge of emotion, caught in the crossfire
of lust and a non-understanding of the cartilage that breaks.
It is a different place for the broken-hearted,
heat consumes costly flesh inside the bullet of flames,
the rich perfume of frankincense leaves your tongue
engulfs your lips in remembrance of what could have been.
Fighters mold into emeralds; hence the split of the organ
which delivers the most turbulent emotions, an eternal dragon
which feasts on rings, rings of fortune and misunderstanding.
Fear deduces allotted times; perhaps for betrayal,
perhaps for logic to overcome the power of sensation,
it was always meant to be in the ether; questionable concepts,
it was always meant to be two hands instead,
yet, fortune awaits unexpectedly towards the unfortunate,
money advances multiplication of deceit. …
Dripping in excess from satiated mouths,
taking advantage of the delicate salted corners of our lips
here is the new born of a vast space of illusory capacity,
one holds the inner child of silence, within.
Poisoned delicacy outnumbers healthier habits
instead, pieces of the uttermost senses take over~
ruler, pierce the inside of the sweetness that lovers choose,
instead, bring about passion where love grows
in fields of lavender.
Fresh daisies cover the intimate exposure of the lick,
coverage of the foundation which hides imperfections,
yet, vows are exchanged as those who have joined lift each other,
memories performed in exchange of the tastier~
chocolate perforations inside the sweetener.
Anna Rozwadowska 2020
Inside the explosions of the inner fight,
lay meager means of disposition, such as figments of imagination,
love conquers temptation, such that filaments remain threads of illusion,
laying on checkered floors popping pills to stay alive.
Inside the concubine remain fragments of the inwards,
popular contraptions beat grenades, where joined souls sketch their names,
outside fireflies occupy the night sky,
orchestras in the minor, major insights take precedence,
while inside is all that remains of a fragrant evolution.
Bewitched by the sap of amber trees,
your revolution becomes the prophet’s conclusion,
here you are, evolved and trained as night’s soldiers,
saviors and survivors of trauma, afflicted inside.
Anna Rozwadowska 2020
In the bright conjure of the morn,
it is a wonderment to my pupil where people wander,
undoing societal structures simply by standing still,
displaying the unsolicited.
In the beginning, hope prevails duty, justice is the shiver underneath,
breath begins dilation, whilst endings enter the forlorn mind.
In the spaces in between, chivalry begins as a duty,
fascination between sex and preparation in the unduly world,
it is the calling of the lone wanderer, the geese flying high in currents above.
Higher than the mighty,
men allocate rations of mentions, whilst women capture the imagination,
prepared and conditioned, unprepared and caught in stature,
lonesome and needy, progression provides the utmost imagery
into the world of the troubled kind, into the mind of the shadow,
kindness begins as dew settles on grass, blades shifting underneath the weight of such. …
Within the capacity of each individual lies emotion,
motion set free by the semblance of movement, set free by hindrance,
we are walking through space; metaphorical,
butter worth hazel eyes in constructs where concepts lay.
Human beings tread softly in the construction of the self-being,
truths are hidden as fireflies dance in eternal forests,
canopies burn as night skies are filled with forgiveness and,
anticipation dissipates as storms of lightning destroy compassion.
How the dissolution of love perforates skin hidden underneath,
how lovers question the pollution of bodies,
how one can fall into entrapment of details, when,
waiting all along was ‘the one.’ …
Treading slowly in musty shallow waters,
desertion is presented;
crackles in human hearts approach absolution,
nomenclature confuses the spark of souls;
kindred spirits melt, simply.
Anna Rozwadowska 2020
Inspired by this week’s theme “Approach” by Samantha Lazar: