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azurePond
11 3,958 M Seeking Light 4
The name is Pond, Azure Pond. I make lame jokes. Calm on the surface, but with some ripples underneath. Watch out for the occasional duck!
PathStep 103 Compassion hearts974 Forum posts458 Forum upvotes831 Current upvotes831 Age GroupAdult Last activeFebruary, 2025 Member sinceOctober 3, 2024
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Force Majeure
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
2 days ago
...See more He moved like the shadow of Byzantium’s fall, A city once golden, now a whisper, nothing at all His steps echoed soft, like ropes from a tower, Where the last emperor clung to his power Eyes like falcons, distant as the moon, He spoke in parables—an omen too soon Not a lover, but a prophet in disguise, Building empires, then revelling when they die His touch wasn’t warmth, but the scorch of ice, Not cold but aware—like a coin’s final price He’d stretch out his hand, just to see if I’d fall, Like the tapestry soldiers who watched the last wall In the hush before dawn, I felt his approach, Like the sigh of Carthage before it was encroached— An empire of words, lost in the sand, An ancient dream slipping from my hand Yet there was a softness in him I couldn't name, A quiet calm of hands wrapped around the flame. Both peace and storm in tangled bind — A love not love, yet more defined. And as the Ides approached, I knew the end, His hands would find a knife, leaving wounds fatal to mend For he was both crown and the guillotine, A kingdom's fall, and the rise of a new reign.
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A Tug of War
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
Thursday
...See more When you smile, is it for the me here, Or the version that vanished forever? The air smells faintly of paper and ink, Of notes I wrote but never could remember. Am I the wanderer or the one who stayed, Is this skin a puzzle I can't unmake? I didn’t know jealousy could curl Like a rope around your throat, For the me that’s long gone– But buried somewhere in my head, And still hate the reflection of this face, The one who was killed but remains undead.
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A Guide To How To Survive In The Fairy Land
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
2 days ago
...See more First of all, Don’t say thank you. Not too loud, not too soon. Gratitude is a transaction, And debts? Debts get collected. If they do something for you, Do something back, quick. It doesn’t matter what, Just make sure the scale stays balanced. Don’t let them see the weight of the favour. Laugh? No. Don’t. Especially not in wide-open spaces Where eyes can see. Keep your joy inside, Like a candle you snuff out, So no one can tell you’re burning. Tears? Tears are for the shadows. Don't let them know Cry, and they’ll take it all from you, Every single thing... The warmth. The beats. The soft spots inside your ribs. They’ll just… take it. So don’t. Anger? Anger is a crime here. It’s a monster you don’t feed. Be still. Be obedient. Tuck the rage inside And let it rot. But never let it out. Love? Don’t you dare. The fairies will trick you, Wrap their silk around your heart, Call it love, And before you know it, You’re chained to them Like a soulless slave, They’ll promise you the stars, But they’ll take your wings And leave you crawling, Hungry for what you can never have. The trinkets? The treasures? Don’t look at them. Don’t let your eyes linger on the shiny things That sparkle like they mean something. They’re bait. They’re distractions. And if you care too much, If you reach for them, They’ll take it away. Just like that. A snap of the fingers, And your world goes empty again. What you think you want here Will always slip through your fingers. Sweet words? Don’t believe them. There’s always a trap hidden inside. A whisper here, A promise there, Remember– Words are serpents poised to strike. Compliments? Don’t give them. They’re like sugar, sweet on the tongue, but bitter in the belly later. Don’t make the mistake of feeding them, they’ll expect more, and soon, they’ll own you. And never accept compliments either. Not one word, not a glance of praise. They’re lies with strings attached, meant to twist you into something you’re not, to make you believe you’re theirs, just for a moment, just long enough to pull the strings. Keep your head down, and don’t let your heart rise at their words. And when you speak, Let your words be deliberate, Short, sharp— No room for confusion, No room for change. Don’t improvise, Don’t leave gaps Where they can twist your meaning. But it’s better still not to speak at all. Smile. Smile, and say nothing. The silence will serve you better here. No one asks you what you feel. No one asks if you’re okay. And if they ever did, they never mean well. And if you ever say it out loud, They’ll rip the words from your throat And hand them back to you, Twisted and wrong. Here’s how you survive in this fairy land: Shut your mouth. Lock your heart. But keep your head high, Like you are above them. Never ask for too much. Never show them your need. And if you’re lucky, Maybe they’ll leave you alone, Just long enough For you to forget– You’re trapped here And not one of them.
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Do you think this will be enough?
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
February 1st
...See more I can give you the crumpled pages of Borges’s poetry, Adorned with coffee rings from mornings I spent Searching for meaning in his mazes, The edges torn from the pages I never dog-eared, As though I feared folding the space around me. I can give you the torn ticket from a metro, I took in New Delhi, Its corners tired from the long journey, The one where I sat by the window, And made small talk with a girl About the "Heat Dome Effect" and Golgappas. I can give you the hours I spent lost in White Nights, Walking under the rain, listening to Dostoevsky, My mind echoing with stories and analysis I’ve never told anyone . I can give you the cracked vinyl of a song You’ve never heard, Its melody warped by time, But with a rhythm that pulls at your chest As if it’s always been yours. I can give you the map I never unfolded, The one that shows a place I might visit But never get to— Somewhere between Lisbon and Porto, Where time moves just a little differently. I can give you the rose I never picked, Left to grow wild On the side of a forgotten road, Back in my homeland, Its petals soft but fading, Like the promise of something I once loved. I can give you the Polaroid of a night in the Bolivian salt pans, Where the water held the sky like a broken promise, The reflection of the moon, a thousand versions of itself. I can give you the grainy copy of a Godard film That always made me feel like I was Both too young and too old to understand, But it was always you I wanted to watch it with. I can give you the hours spent in the silent chaos of— Airports, railway stations, and buses Waiting to take me somewhere I’ve never been, But hoping you’d be beside me wherever I arrive. I can give you the pages of a journal I kept During the year I tried to forget who I was, Each word a reflection of a road not yet taken, But I still have the map. I can give you my fleeting moments of solitude, The ones where I sat atop, near the edge of a tower Watching people and traffic move in slow motion, Wondering if anyone else ever felt this small And this alive at once. I can give you enchanted hugs that hold you like water, Where your mind feels weightless, Even as you struggle to breathe, Lulling you into a dreamlike hush, A suffocating calm of depths cradling your soul. I can give you tissue papers stained with poetry, Trivia knowledge that you'll never use anywhere, Sorrows and desperation of a devotee before an altar, The hopeful words uttered by a cynic, I can give you recitations of love that sound foreign on my tongue, But I will believe it for you, Because it is you. I can give you the pieces of me I thought I’d never share, Because I believe they’re safe with you, And maybe, Just maybe, They’ll be the parts that bring us closer.
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Yuri
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
January 30th
...See more He doesn’t know how to touch the earth— Only how to plough the land And sow the seeds Of things that grow But he doesn’t love the sprouts– He waters daily, Doesn’t wait for the tender green To break through the cracked soil, Doesn’t pause to watch them stretch Toward a warm sun He cannot feel. His hands work the fields not with care, But with the precision His fingers leave behind Patterns in the dirt He doesn't bother to read. He stands, watching his canvas As it spreads out— An expanse of green and gold, But the harvest feels foreign, Like something he’s never learned To gather with joy. He watches the wind move through the rows, And in the rustling leaves, He hears no echo of the laughter Others seem to catch. At night, the stars come out, Cold and distant, Like the faces he doesn’t quite understand— Flickering in a language He doesn't know how to speak. But he tries, He tries to listen, Ears wide, Hoping for the whisper Of something he missed Since he was born. Something that could bloom When he’s not grasping— A seed buried deep, That sprouts only with rain, And flourishes with care, Perhaps one day— He’ll be graced with its gentle scent, A quiet blessing, Carried on the breeze..
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Short Story
Reading & Writing / by azurePond
Last post
January 25th
...See more Here’s my first short story on 7cups. TW: murder. I’d really appreciate any feedback, as I’m new to writing short stories! The Final Vow The house felt too quiet without her. He thought of her perfume lingering on his shirt when she leaned into him. He remembered how her phone had buzzed incessantly, but she had ignored it. Sitting in the armchair by the window—he stared out at the dark street. The tea on the table had long gone cold. His thumb brushed the edge of the mug, almost by habit. She had held it in this very chair, her fingers adorned with a slim, elegant wedding ring. It caught the light when she gestured, her laugh warm and easy. He hated how much he had noticed it. He ran his fingers over her scarf draped across the back of the chair. Her perfume still lingered faintly—vanilla and jasmine. It clung to him too, inescapable and bittersweet. The memories pressed in, vivid and raw. The way she had laughed that first night they met, her head thrown back as if she wasn’t afraid of the world. Then the way she had stopped meeting his eyes at breakfast over the last few months. He had known. Of course, he had known. The late-night calls, the quickened steps as she left the house. He had seen her looking around to evade his eyes before whispering into the phone, “When will you return?” He had heard her call that man “darling.” But he had forgiven her. He always forgave her. People made mistakes. The knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts. He rose slowly, smoothing his shirt, and opened it to find two officers standing on the porch. “Good evening,” one said. “We’re looking into the disappearance of a woman from the neighborhood. Her husband reported her missing earlier today. Have you noticed anything unusual?” He shook his head, his expression soft with concern. “I’m sorry to hear that. No, I haven’t.” They asked a few more questions, thanked him, and left. He closed the door and stood there for a moment, gripping the handle. The silence felt heavier now, pressing down on him. In the basement, her body lay beneath a stained sheet. He stared at it for a long time, then reached down and adjusted her hair, smoothing it away from her face. She wasn’t his wife. She never had been... like everyone before her. But in the glow of the dim basement light, he vowed, “Till death do us part, darling.”
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A Comet of Well Wishes
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
January 25th
...See more You’re a comet streaking across the sky, A flicker of hope in a sea of darkness, A wish whispered on trembling lips, But your brilliance casts shadows, While your tail ignites the night. You blaze through hearts, Igniting dreams with your fiery glow, But in your wake, You leave only chaos. You gather the stars, Thinking you can light their paths, But your orbit is erratic, And when you spiral down, You crash like a meteor, Shattering everything you touch. You keep saying, “I didn’t mean to hurt,” As if your apologies could mend the scars, As if regrets could turn back time, But the impact is heavy, And the echoes of your passage Rattle through their lives. You reach out, Trying to guide the lost, But every hand you touch Is scorched by your brilliance, And now you wonder If the wishes you granted Were worth the destruction you left behind, If the light you brought Has left you in the dark. If the fire you sparked Was worth lives blown away as ashes. And you are so very sorry. You would tremble while crying, Creating tremors across the land, Shaking everyone and everything to prove That you are indeed very sorry. And the tsunami waves Of tears will vouch for you. But at what cost? If there are no lives left to see your remorse If everything ended in your tears of deluge.
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Swallowed Whole
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
January 23rd
...See more “I don’t wanna get up.” The bed is a stomach lining, Raw and heaving, And I am the swallowed lump— Half-dissolved, half-forgotten, A stubborn clot in its churn. The clock doesn’t tick; it convulses— An artery spasming on the wall. I lie in my own stink, A blanket of sweat-stretched skin, Breath sour as reflux. The body is a mass of wrong signals, Fingers clawing at ribs, Scraping the cage, Trying to dig out a heart That drips through its fractures. The door yawns, A torn oesophagus gaping in the wall. I don’t step through. The world outside is a smear of mucus On a dirty lung, Its breath thick with rot. Even the air clogs, Coagulating in my throat. Routine is a shattered jawbone, Its shards gnaw at my thoughts. "Move," I whisper, But the limbs are rubbery tendons, Slipping, curling back. Every step is grinding teeth, Splintering under weight, The marrow oozing through cracks. Perfectionism burrows like a parasite, Its fangs sinking into the stomach. It chews at the soft pulp, Tearing away flesh That bleeds hot failure. The stomach churns, Hungry, Never full, Never satisfied. The words lazy, spoiled Trickle down like pus from the skin, Sealing me in layers of doubt. I am a corpse of ambition, Burning under the heat of what I have dared, Chest heaving for a breath long snuffed. Still, I churn in this stomach, Waiting for the rupture— To ignite, To vomit, Or dissolve What’s left of me.
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