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Kyla Clay

 

Kyla Clay is originally from Las Vegas, Nevada, USA. She is married with two children. This is her first published poetry. 

 

 

 

 

Ode to O

O love that warms a Winterís night
By time I came you were alight
With Purple lids I knew you slept
Up to your lips I careful crept
And so you flash as sparkle ought
With mine a want divinely wrought
O Dawn upon my shoulder lave
That dewy drop of love I crave
May god remain in passionís height
And warm me every winter's night

 

 

OHMS LAW

What many hold fast surely to vivify
Do i conquer and slay, myself even die
War with the ego shunt by distance default
Dissolution itself in absolute gestalt
In certain, belies the abstract and concrete
By way of negation pass whole and complete 

 


TIAIAUAIAIT

Time Emit, Who are you? 
I am noun as verb
And number as letter
I am thought as action
And sense as emotion
Unity as neither here nor there
And everywhere 
I am anywhere and nowhere
At the point of one
In betwixt zero and two
The collective singularity

 

Long Division

Verily, I think not that I am
and none become the wiser
but supposing I should stray
resort to sleeping with the miser
Surely I'd sink, aught but swim
between a gap in the sidewalk
a synapse larger than space
Doomed for all eternity, to walk
Yea, even condemned, to pace
adrift and proud, like an incomplete thought

 


Curse of Tongues

Curse this tongue
Oh hapless tongue
That thought it were divine

Curse this tongue
Oh inferior tongue
For it is yours not mine

Curse this tongue
Oh woeful tongue
That leaks and rambles on

Curse this tongue
Oh suffering tongue
That sings this shoddy song

Curse this tongue
Oh pitiful tongue
Unto depths of blackest rings

Curse this tongue
Oh miserable tongue
For far more pleasure brings

Curse this tongue
Oh execrable tongue
Just to lop it off for shame

Curse this tongue
This wretched tongue
Be gone from whence it came!

 


Steampunk Id

dreary dead clock of my brain
stowing within the Humanoid stain
rap go the tap taps, the click clicks go whirrrrr
while gears they do spin only nothings will stir
greased are the eyelids that paid particular heed
when they surveyed the cogs of a well oiled breed
peer into my abdomen you'll find my parts are replaced
with shiny cold metals and a mechanical taste
engineered neatly to tick a meticulous on
but now without witness to the great automaton

 

 

 

 

 


copyright © Kyla Clay