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Written by Elisabeth

DIAGNOSIS & DISEASE

Nobody told me the truth of this precipice

And that the wood on which you walk gets slippery

And that this fall will break you, and make the pieces

Of your conflicted soul in rancorous turmoil

So I fell down from the high of my naivety

And the ground broke me, but did not kill me

Instead I lay there, remembering something once spoken

Get up when beaten down, so that 

You may perhaps fall again.

And I collected the sharfs of a broken thing

Recognized to be my life contorted

Setting out for someone who could

Fix it, maybe

And I presented the ruined self

To the selfless guru, who I asked

Whether this still could be repaired

And she said: don't you know?

The only thing impossible

Is the thing we can't imagine

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Written by Elisabeth
DIAGNOSIS & DISEASE
Nobody told me the truth of this precipice
And that the wood on which you walk gets slippery
And that this fall will break you, and make the pieces
Of your conflicted soul in rancorous turmoil

So I fell down from the high of my naivety
And the ground broke me, but did not kill me
Instead I lay there, remembering something once spoken
Get up when beaten down, so that 
You may perhaps fall again.
And I collected the sharfs of a broken thing
Recognized to be my life contorted
Setting out for someone who could
Fix it, maybe

And I presented the ruined self
To the selfless guru, who I asked
Whether this still could be repaired
And she said: don't you know?
The only thing impossible
Is the thing we can't imagine
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

REQUIEM WITHOUT WORDS

Be quiet now, one moment

As the sincerity in the violin sonata

Says what I cannot say

Expressing what I cannot tell

A grief only understood by those who feel it

Or who ever did, because we cannot forget

Those things that become our shadows

Longing for the lost, and the love that is pointless

Why we may not meet again, outside of this daydream

And oblige when I am told to let you go

While all I want is to keep on holding your hand in mine

And know that there is no end to the laughter

And know that when the world's light dwindles

There is always your light to return to

And your love unconditional, a shelter 

When the bombs fall and the city bleeds

When the eclipse eats the light

I might fall for fear, but the despair

Can only be for the forsaken

But through the ethereal daydream

I hear the violin speak

And the longing in the suffering of the sonata

Mozart twenty one E minor

And I can only remember

You are lost forever, but the love stays

To haunt me in the reflection of other's eyes

But no more words, no more broken messages

As if I could tell you how I feel and not

End up in labyrinths of evasive affirmation

When I tell them I am okay with this

When I tell them that I let you go

And all I hear is the violin breaking

And with it all the things I wanted to be whole

So why do you want me to apologize

For the lack of words to explain this pain

Can't you see there are no words

But only music

Only time

And the music and the time

Is all we ever needed 

The only option that may cure

What no medicine may

Only music,

Only time

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
REQUIEM WITHOUT WORDS
Be quiet now, one moment
As the sincerity in the violin sonata
Says what I cannot say
Expressing what I cannot tell
A grief only understood by those who feel it
Or who ever did, because we cannot forget
Those things that become our shadows
Longing for the lost, and the love that is pointless
Why we may not meet again, outside of this daydream
And oblige when I am told to let you go
While all I want is to keep on holding your hand in mine
And know that there is no end to the laughter
And know that when the world's light dwindles
There is always your light to return to
And your love unconditional, a shelter 
When the bombs fall and the city bleeds
When the eclipse eats the light
I might fall for fear, but the despair
Can only be for the forsaken
But through the ethereal daydream
I hear the violin speak
And the longing in the suffering of the sonata
Mozart twenty one E minor
And I can only remember
You are lost forever, but the love stays
To haunt me in the reflection of other's eyes
But no more words, no more broken messages
As if I could tell you how I feel and not
End up in labyrinths of evasive affirmation
When I tell them I am okay with this
When I tell them that I let you go
And all I hear is the violin breaking
And with it all the things I wanted to be whole
So why do you want me to apologize
For the lack of words to explain this pain
Can't you see there are no words
But only music
Only time
And the music and the time
Is all we ever needed 
The only option that may cure
What no medicine may
Only music,
Only time
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Challenge of the Week #59: Modernise Shakespeare’s ‘Shall I Compare Thee’ sonnet. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Elisabeth

SUMMER'S APOTHEOSIS

You are incomparable

Surpassing the metaphor

But if I had to compare you to anything

It would be to summer, even though you are more

Truer in your brilliancy than any summer day I knew

You are warmer than sunshine when I need warmth

But cooler when I need calmness

And while the seasons change, your summer lasts.

Know you are remembered

In this poem that shall keep you

Safe from death, free from oblivion, forever

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Challenge of the Week #59: Modernise Shakespeare’s ‘Shall I Compare Thee’ sonnet. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Elisabeth
SUMMER'S APOTHEOSIS
You are incomparable
Surpassing the metaphor
But if I had to compare you to anything
It would be to summer, even though you are more
Truer in your brilliancy than any summer day I knew
You are warmer than sunshine when I need warmth
But cooler when I need calmness
And while the seasons change, your summer lasts.
Know you are remembered
In this poem that shall keep you
Safe from death, free from oblivion, forever
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Stream of Consciousness

DON'T FEAR THE FRACTURES

Fragility of happiness. Holding on madly, grasping, even when you know that this cannot last forever. There is only so much strength in your hands as you're hanging onto the edge of the precipice. 

But maybe you should let go and fall down, maybe the pain will not kill you; maybe it is the fear that hurts more than the fall itself. I am trying to tell you that we were meant to break like this, meant to stumble, we were not built to last. Temporary lives, temporary houses, temporary relationships - can't you see? Connecting and letting go, if we can (or haunted, by those memories). 

But sometimes - the shadows seem realer than you ever were, infectious, taking over your consciousness. Your thoughts are invaded by their presence, your dreams are full of the haters, imaginary enemies, old lovers and friends, the betrayers. And yet, we have no choice - we have to make ourselves unbroken. I am asking you to assemble yourself from the pieces in which you lay shattered on the floor, to pull it together, to phoenix yourself out of the fire you have walked into. Being broken is not an excuse; it is a history to manoeuver yourself out of, to walk into the sunlight, where I am.

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Stream of Consciousness
DON'T FEAR THE FRACTURES
Fragility of happiness. Holding on madly, grasping, even when you know that this cannot last forever. There is only so much strength in your hands as you're hanging onto the edge of the precipice. 
But maybe you should let go and fall down, maybe the pain will not kill you; maybe it is the fear that hurts more than the fall itself. I am trying to tell you that we were meant to break like this, meant to stumble, we were not built to last. Temporary lives, temporary houses, temporary relationships - can't you see? Connecting and letting go, if we can (or haunted, by those memories). 
But sometimes - the shadows seem realer than you ever were, infectious, taking over your consciousness. Your thoughts are invaded by their presence, your dreams are full of the haters, imaginary enemies, old lovers and friends, the betrayers. And yet, we have no choice - we have to make ourselves unbroken. I am asking you to assemble yourself from the pieces in which you lay shattered on the floor, to pull it together, to phoenix yourself out of the fire you have walked into. Being broken is not an excuse; it is a history to manoeuver yourself out of, to walk into the sunlight, where I am.
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Stream of Consciousness

LIES OF THE MIRROR

That tiniest moment after someone shakes your hand and before you introduce yourself - world of possibility. There are so many ways to tell you who I am (admitted, many lies, and only a few truths). Maybe that doesn't even really matter, because the story I tell you will say something about who I am as a person, and more importantly, who I choose to become. Do I tell you of the darkness? If I tell you, you will only see me as a shadow, a woman reduced by oppression and by suffering. Do I tell you of the doubt? If I tell you, you will see me as a broken thing, cracked under the pressure, not worthy of repair. Do I tell you of the anger? If I do, you will think me to be ungrateful and negative and caught up in emotion. Can I tell you of the sadness? But how could you, who have known none, understand that depth of purposeless lethargy where you want to do no more than staring at the moving stars as the minutes pass and the nights go and the months change. 

There is no other way than throwing the anger and the doubt and darkness in a dungeon where they cannot be found or freed. No one wants to meet your darkness; there is only access to the shiny people club if you wear your smile daily and radiate happy thoughts and general hope. I never wanted in on the glamorously happy club, but then again, there is darkness like this one, and there is the black hole vacuum of those who fell in love with their cherished suffering, nurturing themselves in richest self-pity until dehydration forces them to stop crying - I do not want that, either. So forget about the truth, if the truth will hurt more than a handful of white lies. I can be happy, truly (- even if only in your eyes, in that tiny moment as you shake my hand, before we both move on). 

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Stream of Consciousness
LIES OF THE MIRROR
That tiniest moment after someone shakes your hand and before you introduce yourself - world of possibility. There are so many ways to tell you who I am (admitted, many lies, and only a few truths). Maybe that doesn't even really matter, because the story I tell you will say something about who I am as a person, and more importantly, who I choose to become. Do I tell you of the darkness? If I tell you, you will only see me as a shadow, a woman reduced by oppression and by suffering. Do I tell you of the doubt? If I tell you, you will see me as a broken thing, cracked under the pressure, not worthy of repair. Do I tell you of the anger? If I do, you will think me to be ungrateful and negative and caught up in emotion. Can I tell you of the sadness? But how could you, who have known none, understand that depth of purposeless lethargy where you want to do no more than staring at the moving stars as the minutes pass and the nights go and the months change. 
There is no other way than throwing the anger and the doubt and darkness in a dungeon where they cannot be found or freed. No one wants to meet your darkness; there is only access to the shiny people club if you wear your smile daily and radiate happy thoughts and general hope. I never wanted in on the glamorously happy club, but then again, there is darkness like this one, and there is the black hole vacuum of those who fell in love with their cherished suffering, nurturing themselves in richest self-pity until dehydration forces them to stop crying - I do not want that, either. So forget about the truth, if the truth will hurt more than a handful of white lies. I can be happy, truly (- even if only in your eyes, in that tiny moment as you shake my hand, before we both move on). 
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

SENTINEL

Stay with me, patiently

As we're fighting the grey soldiers

In a war of a hundred years

And those who have deserted

Have fallen down like rain around us

Stay with me, patiently

Despite the fear

This is not death

Nor victory. It is survival

So we can learn to live again

Stay with me, do not leave

This is our battlefield

The only real enemy our weakness

Which is why this war can never end

We can fight but not win when

We are fighting ourselves and no one else

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
SENTINEL
Stay with me, patiently
As we're fighting the grey soldiers
In a war of a hundred years
And those who have deserted
Have fallen down like rain around us

Stay with me, patiently
Despite the fear
This is not death
Nor victory. It is survival
So we can learn to live again

Stay with me, do not leave
This is our battlefield
The only real enemy our weakness
Which is why this war can never end
We can fight but not win when
We are fighting ourselves and no one else
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Fiction

LITTLE LETHAL RETREAT

It is strange how one can accidentally stumble upon something curious enough to awaken the numb-struck mind. I was definitely numb-struck when I decided to leave my hometown behind, with its disheartening criminality numbers and the general ambience of asociality. I just got in my car and started driving south, without any clear-cut plan, and when the sun went down, I decided to stop in the first town I drove to. 

That happened to be a town called Pendle. It was nicely lit in the evening, with those old-fashioned lanterns which have flowers on them. But, as I said, I wasn't in the best of moods, so I just looked around angrily whether there was any hotel to be found. That was the beginning of some months of lethargy. I didn't even really like Pendle and stayed most of the days indoors, paying the rents of the room I was in dutifully. I spent my days staring at the ceiling and thinking about how meaningless this life is, to be honest. After a while, laying on my bed and staring at said ceiling, I could predict when the sound of footsteps under my window would be heard; in another month, I knew exactly whether those would be heavy, or light, evenly or with a little dance in them. I ignored the obvious phone calls, until I realized that I might be reported missing, and then I only wrote a letter home that I should be left alone, thank you very much. But the phone calls kept on coming. No bother, I just put my phone to silent, and why charge the thing anyway? 

In those days I grew scarily thin. It was the lethargy which stopped me from eating. The mere thought of feeding myself was tiresome. What was the use in prolonging this tedious life anyway?

I would probably have starved myself to death if I had not heard a gentle singing outside. It was October, then, and the weather was still quite mild, with a little bit of sunlight left. I had not heard this voice before because it was quite beautiful, and I would have remembered; the voice must belong to a newcomer. Its sound came and went, repeatedly, and sometimes it stopped singing to enjoy a little bit of talking as the footsteps came closer and went away. How curious! I thought, there must be someone close to my window, singing, staying here all day, sometimes talking to people passing by.

And the second day of the third week since the singing started, I found I could not stop myself. I started clothing myself slowly; an act that took up so much energy I had to rest a while afterwards. Then I moved to the door, shuffling my feet which were unused to walking, and opened the door. There were people in the corridor, surprised to see my face, and more so to see its pallor. But they were too polite to ask me how I was, for clearly I must have looked to them as if I were a ghost or dying. 

It didn't matter. I found my way outside and the daylight streamed over my face. The muffled sounds which had crept into my room were so much louder here that I was almost afraid, and it was much colder than I had anticipated. But the thought of that voice gave me some courage. I looked around to see where its owner was, but it took me a while. Maybe it was because I was blinded after having spend so long in the dark. Maybe it was because I had imagined that this beautiful voice should belong to a long, pretty woman. But the woman in front of me who was, at that moment, humming softly, was short, her features not particular, but with a most amiable expression. To think that the alto voice had all that time belonged to a chocolate street vendor was quite amazing to my dulled mind. In that moment I was rather sure the universe was having a joke on me, and I was not sure whether I should be amused or insulted, but it was definitely an improvement over feeling nothing at all

She was thumbing through a pocketbook when she noticed me and smiled. 

'Good day to you, sir,' she said, 'would you like to buy some chocolate?'

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Fiction
LITTLE LETHAL RETREAT
It is strange how one can accidentally stumble upon something curious enough to awaken the numb-struck mind. I was definitely numb-struck when I decided to leave my hometown behind, with its disheartening criminality numbers and the general ambience of asociality. I just got in my car and started driving south, without any clear-cut plan, and when the sun went down, I decided to stop in the first town I drove to. 
That happened to be a town called Pendle. It was nicely lit in the evening, with those old-fashioned lanterns which have flowers on them. But, as I said, I wasn't in the best of moods, so I just looked around angrily whether there was any hotel to be found. That was the beginning of some months of lethargy. I didn't even really like Pendle and stayed most of the days indoors, paying the rents of the room I was in dutifully. I spent my days staring at the ceiling and thinking about how meaningless this life is, to be honest. After a while, laying on my bed and staring at said ceiling, I could predict when the sound of footsteps under my window would be heard; in another month, I knew exactly whether those would be heavy, or light, evenly or with a little dance in them. I ignored the obvious phone calls, until I realized that I might be reported missing, and then I only wrote a letter home that I should be left alone, thank you very much. But the phone calls kept on coming. No bother, I just put my phone to silent, and why charge the thing anyway? 
In those days I grew scarily thin. It was the lethargy which stopped me from eating. The mere thought of feeding myself was tiresome. What was the use in prolonging this tedious life anyway?
I would probably have starved myself to death if I had not heard a gentle singing outside. It was October, then, and the weather was still quite mild, with a little bit of sunlight left. I had not heard this voice before because it was quite beautiful, and I would have remembered; the voice must belong to a newcomer. Its sound came and went, repeatedly, and sometimes it stopped singing to enjoy a little bit of talking as the footsteps came closer and went away. How curious! I thought, there must be someone close to my window, singing, staying here all day, sometimes talking to people passing by.
And the second day of the third week since the singing started, I found I could not stop myself. I started clothing myself slowly; an act that took up so much energy I had to rest a while afterwards. Then I moved to the door, shuffling my feet which were unused to walking, and opened the door. There were people in the corridor, surprised to see my face, and more so to see its pallor. But they were too polite to ask me how I was, for clearly I must have looked to them as if I were a ghost or dying. 
It didn't matter. I found my way outside and the daylight streamed over my face. The muffled sounds which had crept into my room were so much louder here that I was almost afraid, and it was much colder than I had anticipated. But the thought of that voice gave me some courage. I looked around to see where its owner was, but it took me a while. Maybe it was because I was blinded after having spend so long in the dark. Maybe it was because I had imagined that this beautiful voice should belong to a long, pretty woman. But the woman in front of me who was, at that moment, humming softly, was short, her features not particular, but with a most amiable expression. To think that the alto voice had all that time belonged to a chocolate street vendor was quite amazing to my dulled mind. In that moment I was rather sure the universe was having a joke on me, and I was not sure whether I should be amused or insulted, but it was definitely an improvement over feeling nothing at all
She was thumbing through a pocketbook when she noticed me and smiled. 
'Good day to you, sir,' she said, 'would you like to buy some chocolate?'
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

IN THESE DREAMS

You are still there

After night falls and before dawn

And neither of us knows

Whether we are awake or sleeping

And if sleeping, whose dream we're in

Whether we are dead or living

And if gone, what world we're in

And neither does it seem to matter

As long as we are here, together

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
IN THESE DREAMS
You are still there
After night falls and before dawn
And neither of us knows
Whether we are awake or sleeping
And if sleeping, whose dream we're in
Whether we are dead or living
And if gone, what world we're in
And neither does it seem to matter
As long as we are here, together
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Define what it means to believe in God. Pick a God, any God, or pick several if you wish. 100 coins to the very best
Written by Elisabeth

TESTIMONY OF DOUBT

Challenge my faith, clergymen

As I do, day by day

Doubting my religion

And the truth of the written word

Too closely to the edge

Falling into corruptibility

Tempted by the lovely sin

Because we would not be tempted

If the sin were not lovely and sweet

Perfumed with youth and youthfulness

Challenge your faith, clergymen

I cannot walk on water

Cure the sick or feed the starving

Spread the gift of hope to those

Who are clearly hopeless

And I have doubts that anyone

Could achieve what is impossible

I wonder whether truthfully, you need my faith

To be blind, a contract, fulfilling

Until the final sacrament

Can I not believe in doubt

Redefine my faith, into a God

That did not perform miracles

But merely gave us life

All the rest -

The living, and loving

The hardship and the joys - 

All the rest

Is up to us

When step by step

We learn we must be stronger

Become our own saviours

Write our own commandments

And find a place to fit this faith

Into the modern world

And in our prayers we do not pray

Just for the fate of Christians

But for all the living world

Believers and unbelievers

That we all may be, gracefully

Living in peace, and our prayers combined

Will resonate where it resounds

This religion of concord

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Define what it means to believe in God. Pick a God, any God, or pick several if you wish. 100 coins to the very best
Written by Elisabeth
TESTIMONY OF DOUBT
Challenge my faith, clergymen
As I do, day by day
Doubting my religion
And the truth of the written word
Too closely to the edge
Falling into corruptibility
Tempted by the lovely sin
Because we would not be tempted
If the sin were not lovely and sweet
Perfumed with youth and youthfulness
Challenge your faith, clergymen
I cannot walk on water
Cure the sick or feed the starving
Spread the gift of hope to those
Who are clearly hopeless
And I have doubts that anyone
Could achieve what is impossible
I wonder whether truthfully, you need my faith
To be blind, a contract, fulfilling
Until the final sacrament
Can I not believe in doubt
Redefine my faith, into a God
That did not perform miracles
But merely gave us life
All the rest -
The living, and loving
The hardship and the joys - 
All the rest
Is up to us
When step by step
We learn we must be stronger
Become our own saviours
Write our own commandments
And find a place to fit this faith
Into the modern world
And in our prayers we do not pray
Just for the fate of Christians
But for all the living world
Believers and unbelievers
That we all may be, gracefully
Living in peace, and our prayers combined
Will resonate where it resounds
This religion of concord
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Written by Elisabeth in portal Stream of Consciousness

JAPANESE FLOWERS

Unfolding slowly while you watch

We are like origami swans

In a paper world.

Extending awareness

The world not stopping

Where the surface lies

Tracing back the curvature

Of the oldest waves

The explosion that marked

The beginning of all that is,

All that will be

Developing complexity

Patterns in the water

Wings of interference

The rhythm of our hearts combined

Falling into entropy

But beautifully

Understanding our ancestry

And that our atoms come from stardust

And that our minds can indeed understand

Many things but not ourselves

A barrier of brain matter

And folding back into the shapes

By which you know us:

Paper swans of elegance

Floating on white glass

We are there where you expect us

Because that is what you wanted to see

A pretty surface, not the reality

Of maths poured into life

Where what we see may not be

What is real. To observe

Is to distort

Reality.

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Stream of Consciousness
JAPANESE FLOWERS
Unfolding slowly while you watch
We are like origami swans
In a paper world.
Extending awareness
The world not stopping
Where the surface lies
Tracing back the curvature
Of the oldest waves
The explosion that marked
The beginning of all that is,
All that will be
Developing complexity
Patterns in the water
Wings of interference
The rhythm of our hearts combined
Falling into entropy
But beautifully
Understanding our ancestry
And that our atoms come from stardust
And that our minds can indeed understand
Many things but not ourselves
A barrier of brain matter
And folding back into the shapes
By which you know us:
Paper swans of elegance
Floating on white glass
We are there where you expect us
Because that is what you wanted to see
A pretty surface, not the reality
Of maths poured into life
Where what we see may not be
What is real. To observe
Is to distort
Reality.
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