How Deep Is Hidden The Holy Seat Of Your Love? This Love That Burns In All For Others

The night sound of sand on sand, the rustling of ancient books, the call to prayer in the crumbling city. All left behind, and all coming back, and all already here.The sunken city will howl through our dreams again: The City of the Old Ones, The Pillars, The Forgotten.

Plato’s Paradise

As I walk through the allegory of my own cave I take a look at the shadows and realize the forms’ll save ‘Cause I’ve been speakin’ and teachin’ so long That even Protagoras thinks my mind is gone But I ain’t never crushed a thought that didn’t deserve it Basing my work in the world, you know that’s unheard of You better watch how you talkin’ and where you walkin’ Or you and your sophists might be lined in chalk I really hate to trip, but I gotta show As they choke, I see the victory is mine they know Fool, I’m philosophy that little bloggers wanna be like On my couch in the night, spittin’ truths in the polis heights  Keep spending most our lives Livin’ in platonic paradise Been spending most their lives Livin’ in platonic paradise We keep spending most our lives Livin’ in platonic paradise We keep spending most our lives Livin’ in platonic paradise

Silence is death, nothing is death

Then, death is nothing at all.

You really should read this. It's powerful stuff.

Read This Short Story About A Famous Persian Poet Returning From The Dead

In the short story “The Accused,” by master storyteller Zakaria Tamer, translated from Arabic and illustrated by Molly Crabapple, the poet Omar Khayyám is brought back from the grave to defend himself

The fat policeman entered the tomb, walked a few bewildered moments, then shouted with a stretched voice: “Omar Khayyám!”

No one answered, so he took a dirty white handkerchief from his pocket, searched in its folds, balled it up, and returned it to his pocket. He shouted grouchily: “Omar Khayyám…Omar Khayyám…You are wanted to stand trial!”

No one answered. The policeman left the tomb and returned to the police station. There, he wrote a report on the events, stressing Omar Khayyám’s refusal to appear in court. He presented his report to his bosses, who scowled in denial and shock. They began to issue orders. They immediately dispatched a number of policemen to the tomb, each carrying a shovel and pickax, and the policemen dug up Omar Khayyám’s grave. They brought Khayyám out from beneath the soil — drooping, dusty, and worn of flesh — and carried him to the courtroom, where he appeared before the judge.

The judge said in a sedate and friendly tone: “You, oh, Omar Khayyám, are accused of writing poetry that praises — and calls for the drinking of — wine. Our countries aspire toward economic independence, thus our laws forbid the importation of foreign goods. Since our countries lack the ability to manufacture wine, your poetry constitutes an incitement of demand for foreign goods — something the law punishes without hesitation. Do you admit and recognize your guilt?”

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Rest in peace Cruzeiro Seixas (1920-2020)

We Fight

People bray, and shout, and scream                                                               They fight and rage against the machine.                                                           Yet fire still falls from the sky                                                                                Mothers pray and children cry                                                                               And voices are still silenced beneath the bloodstained sand and sun and snow, and tomorrow still torrents towards us from a strange and distant land.

Nothing like the constant feeling of inadequacy to keep me company as I stare at the empty page, ignoring the heaps of deadlines that advance like the shadow of death.

“Such is the nature of Love, it makes Poets and villains of us all.”

-My journal

DOES ANYONE REMEMBER THIS OMFG

If all roads lead to Rome, how do you actually get out of Rome ?