Two Years of Words Much Like Poetry
Amazingly, for me, the two year anniversary of Words Much Like Poetry is a few short weeks away. Laughably, at the time I began this blog, I knew nothing of blogging and were it not for my cousin, I would likely still be ignorant of it. So, with her guidance and encouragement Words Much Like Poetry came into being.
Self-evolution is a wholly necessary, unavoidable fact of life and as I evolved the blog evolved—where I'm concerned the evolution was a marked moving from hiding behind the pseudonym Gladys Moore to the use of my real name, moving from the simplistic introspection of a five year long relationship gone bad into far more riotous concepts and imagery, to conceiving the true course I wish to chart for Words Much Like Poetry. However, I'll be keeping mum about what my goal is for the blog. There are a great many things that need to be done to accomplish that goal and regrettably I'm the superstitious sort. I believe it entirely possible to jinx a thing by speaking of it before it is fully realized. :)
In the coming weeks, reader, expect to see some of my and Antony's favorite poems being re-posted within article-like entries (I know how hard it can be to read through an ever growing list of posts and there are some poems that I feel shouldn't be overlooked).
Also, as the year itself draws towards its close, I would like to say a resounding "Thank you and happy holidays!" to all of our readers and followers. As well, I'd like to say thank you to Antony for agreeing to co-author this blog with me. Words Much Like Poetry would not be what it is now without you. Last, but certainly not least, thank you to our guest authors. I am honored that you chose us as a forum for your work.
Blessings,
Mũhu
P.S. We have a new writer on our team. I give you the Merovingian.
passion is no more than a bygone sentiment,
our ardor long extinguished itself,
and I've only vague impressions
of being as a fiercely lit conflagration within your arms.
I sift constantly through the ashes of that emotion,
in desperate search of an ember that might spark
and reignite the flame,
only to come away with nothing, fingers gray.
no, instead I have become as a black hole,
once the epitome of supernal magnificence
turned nova, then super,
o cataclysm, o crux,
o nervous breakdown, and insanity won,
becomes the epitome of nothingness,
an inky void which begins to draw
from everything that surrounds it.
laughter, the elixir of ages,
drained.
memories, of what sweet, small splendor there was,
lost.
tears, the outcome of heartache,
siphoned dry.
nothing is spared the inexorable pull,
the irresistible dark force, not even the light.
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