Poetry Blog by Lory Gaur

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Big Sal on Burn Me (Sun, 29 Apr 2018 02:00 am)

Lory Gaur on Hollow (Sat, 14 Nov 2015 05:33 am)

on Hollow (Fri, 30 Oct 2015 09:44 am)

Lory Gaur on dream (Tue, 7 Jan 2014 09:50 am)

Andy N on dream (Mon, 30 Dec 2013 12:51 pm)

Lory Gaur on dream (Sun, 29 Dec 2013 07:59 am)

Patricia and Stefan Wilde on dream (Sun, 29 Dec 2013 12:21 am)

Lory Gaur on that silence.. (Fri, 27 Dec 2013 02:35 pm)

Tommy Carroll on that silence.. (Fri, 27 Dec 2013 02:33 pm)

Lory Gaur on that silence.. (Fri, 27 Dec 2013 02:19 pm)

Its Time

Little by little,

the noose is tightened.

Breathe slow,

Its time.

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Burn Me

Burn Me,

piece by piece.

Burn my shadow,

and my soul.

I've been a parasite for far too long,

aren't you tired, my gracious host?

I've sucked enough blood out of you,

to turn into a big fat dynamite.

Cut me off your arm,

and off your heart, while you're at it.

Slowly, I shall stagnate,

smelling of your sweat,

and your love in bind.

You should see the stars,

...

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Hollow

Hollow screams in hollow dreams,

of hollow mind and soul.

hollow gasps and hollow sighs,

in hollow eyes lined with Kohl.

hollow days turn into hollow nights,

hollow pleas trying to put up a fight.

hollow talks and silences,

by the hollow candle flame.

hollow vows and promises,

and this hollow game of blame.

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dream a dream....

dream a dream,

so unreal and fragile.

don't open your eyes,

for it might slip away.

and take with it,

your tanquility and

your sane existence.

and you are then

but an empty shell.

with tattered curtains,

to wrap the wounded soul.

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Him and Her

but he was a poet,

who loved his words.

often enough to forget,

the one, of who's beauty

he wrote volumes.

her grey-blue eyes,

and honey-brown hair.

he felt like a slave,

of love and ink.

and who was she then?

the love, or inspiration?

his muse, disdained.

she felt torn sometimes,

between poetry and life.

she was immortal,

but merely breathing.

caugh...

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Rain

a story untold,

of passion and pain.

she shelters in

the forgotten corners

of the days of rain.

the sky is quiet,

eversince that last summer storm.

only to shed tears,

when she closes her eyes.

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she to herself...

i think the devil entered me

when i coloured my hair red.

or was is the first sip 

of that red vodka?

maybe the curlprit was

that first drag of smoke

that went down my lungs.

the infiltration's instilled,

in my veins.

thick as blood

that black tar of badness.

prevails in me,

through and through.

 

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You

i still have that memory,

of the dance floor and

you and me.

when all so apprehensive you touched

my fingertips

and slide away.

oh so slow,

that you can't hold,

me in your arms for long.

just a moment,

played out for eternity.

ever compromising,

this tale of dance,

and of love.

do i see it in your eyes?

or is it a cloud?

fog over my heart.

You, ev...

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tonight's menu

i'm not falling for you again,

my wicked wicked heart.

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I am here..

I am here,

stagnating slowly.

caught in a turmoil,

days go by.

I am here,

just like yesterday,

when the sun faded,

and it was dark.

I am here,

for one more day.

to wrap myself in the flames,

that burn still.

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dream

i know not who dwells in my brain,

maybe its you, maybe its him.

maybe its the morphine,

in my blood stream.

or maybe its just my lucid dream.

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that silence..

she watched him,

swaying in the crowd.

his infectious smile filling up her lungs.

she watched. for,

she was a poet 

of the fallen hearts.

ready to lose her own.

if only.

unaware, he walked the streets,

and she walked behind.

just a few steps away.

and when they sat at the table,

he touched her hand.

frozen in her memory,

is that moment still.

and seemin...

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yellow

she saw again,

the yellow bottom of the sea.

when she drowned 

in memories,

of that two bedroom flat.

with pale yellow walls,

the yellow tea pot, and,

the yellow photo frame with

a black and white picture,

taken in 1953.

of she and her lover,

and she sees through

his kaleidoscope eyes

the days of yellow flowers, and,

the sunday mornings, and

the yellow ...

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the music turns away

melancholy melody,

the music in her smile.

like the guilty guitar strings,

aching to confess.

the let down of the flute,

it doesn't play peace anymore.

she hides her sax, in the

dusty cupboard of forgotten memories

the violin breaks its strings, and

strangles the tune.that

once was cherished.

for,

he won't come again to

play the old piano, and

it will sit ...

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