*Smiles with in Solitude* - Page 14

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us-if at all-not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer-

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the kingdom

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

TheHollowMen275, great work! Your grasp of meter and rhythm is spectacular, and your imagery is fantastic.

It seems today that conviction
is something that blares from my television screen
as another scumbag is send to the cage.

It's connotation is now ruin;
politician's fall and murderer's rap
but I see conviction in another light.

Today, when we convict,
we ask questions and by building a story
put out a jury on the answer.
Very few stand and say "It was me. I did it."
They cower behind suits and excuses,
and pray that not enough semen was left behind
to nail them.

But conviction to me is not a prosecution
but when the witness on the stand says
with unwavering tones "this is wrong."
and no matter how the suit pries with the screwdriver,
the bolt does not lose grip of the steel.

Conviction's connotation should be that of honesty and honor,
not its action.
For today as I leave the courthouse, it seems to me
there are far too many lawyers

and not a lot of people who know exactly what they believe.

Vortex271, I wish I could claim that to be mine own, however, i thought this thread was not only for your own works but also for inspiring poetry, and so i posted some George Herbert and T.S Elliot. i take no credit for these magnificent poems.

My role, patient advocate. My title, basic guardian. My job... My job... I don't know anymore. I'm supposed to speak for the patient, but rarely, if ever, is there someone to listen. My moral beliefs tested each shift as I'm surrounded by incompetence. Lives pulled forward over thin lines of survival, as I watch from the other end hoping no one falls over. Each shift wondering if this is all a joke to them, and if so, where's the punch line because I'm sure as hell not laughing.

Witnessing the implosion of a strong will and moral mind, and noticing the destruction is stuck on slow motion, his smile broken. A minor bleed goes unnoticed, a grand event awaits, with an all too familiar ending; our hearts grow enraged at their nonchalant attitude. Why won't they stop to listen? Why don't they care?

The same thought keeps popping up, one day those automatic double doors will open and as I pull forward the ground will make it hard to advance. The load grows heavier and heavier the farther I go. It begins to overflow and I start to run over them. Nameless bodies that will just end up forgotten, I'm surrounded by them.

No matter whom I talk to or how much help I ask for, we're made to hold. Knee deep in frustration and anger, I begin to drown, struggling to keep both me and the countless of nameless bodies afloat. One by one, no matter how much I fight, they fall. Each face forgotten, with countless diagnosis overlooked. The money keeps them going as their ethics and moral compass are tossed aside, leaving a faint mark of where it once stood before.

It never ends.

I often wondered
why haikus exist today.
It's busy writers.

I need more time to write!

Nice poems neutered by nature!

Are you hungry? Are you sick?
Are you begging for a break?
Are you sweet? Are you fresh?
Are you strung up by the wrist?

We want the young blood.

Are you fracturing?
Are you torn at the seams?
Would you do anything?
Flea-bitten? moth eaten?

We suck young blood.
We suck young blood.

Won't let the creeping ivy.
Won't let the nervous bury me.
Our veins are thin,
Our rivers poisoned.

We want the sweet meats.
We want young blood.