OF DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES Klearchos Panteleimon Nikolaidis

They are dreams indeed, simple but cruel assets of the pathetic human will, yet they incessantly escape one’s grasp.

A dream’s blessing shall be used wisely, as is fitting, For dreams will forever be unmatched in hope and faith forlorn. Do not be content with your fragile soul drifting in their uncharted domain, shrouded by the smoke of your fading crimson flame.

As for nightmares, they are best left alone, displaying their prowess as masters of the untrue. They shall satiate that lust for flaws. Soothe your deepest fears, and beware of your precious frailty–the very thing that makes you a man. Let your sanity remain untarnished by their sinister creed.

Able to bear this frightful burden no longer, one seeks what is meant for them to hold, an everlasting duty, a curse bestowed upon our very own humanity.

Thoughts while eating lemon pie

by Anastasia Spyromitrou

When did we become old and wise enough that we turned to penning poetry? Stolen old red camaro at the gas station, Cheap nail polish, Almost empty tank, Sweat tangled up in the necklace he got me when we were seventeen, Halfway to nowhere

When did we become old and wise enough?

I suppose when we started taking tranqs to sleep.

When did we become old and wise enough that we turned to penning poetry? I only ever wrote bad poetry because all of the good ones Were lost behind words that couldn’t be said.

The Greatest Man

by Eftychia Panousi

The great man

The greatest

He bleeds and sullies his hands

Deeper and deeper into the ground’s crevices

He bleeds his figure into earth

His form digs the grass

An exact replica of his arms

And legs

And mouth

Knowing that after death it is there

There he’ll lie

Years and days and lives fled away

And They will come to find him

“There the king is buried”

“There is the greatest man to die”

And his hands dig

His nails wither, dust they drink

His teeth his heavy words can’t carry

And his shoulders kindly draw a curve

Deep in the ground he is buried

His hands having spent a life to bring him to the earth’s core Sound won’t bother to visit, nor smell can shake his nostril

“Let him sleep”, the worms will say

“Let him rest”, the earth will say

Drop by drop his body leaves him, Then life begins to steal it all over again

For They need to eat and They need a home to breath and They will soon die too

His cartilage will rest their appetite

The bridge of his nose was kindly eaten away

The shining orb of what was left of his eye trod the water still Stubborn, as nature can be

And soon sound was lost

The newborns failed to warn their mothers

And mothers stopped to birth

They started carrying

All-seeing in their motherhood, all knowing in their governance

And They finally sunk the earth with their steps

They finally shoveled his grave, rebirthing his tomb, his sacred home in absence

And They found him,

"There once life was"

"There is the womb of the world, of Nature".