Flourished, and quintescence,
A ghoul to be,
And we are but the marbles in machines.
I am too the body of yore,
It was a dancing glory,
It was but another day between.
It heard in sight,
And day light being,
The crescent of a moon beam.
I am not shadow,
Nor white,
A dad in the moon beam.
It's just a saying,
The world of rapture,
And in it a refrain.
It's in the morning,
By which I stand,
Between.
Sat 31st May 2025 20:32
I find that existing is impossible to describe. I try to with a lot of my poems, but I always fail. There is an innate discrepancy between not existing, the realities in our minds, and the rythme of reality. There are indescribable aspects to each of these states of being. I do generally believe in the soul, but I can't describe it.
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Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh
Sun 1st Jun 2025 05:35
I've often seen the question asked "how do we know we're not dreaming?" What's "reality"?
Perhaps leaving your mark on a piece of paper or a screen which someone else can see and respond to, is a successful enough description?