Floundering in a tide of unforgotten pride, the ghost of faded opulence is forced to decide; create the rungs to then climb, or quietly subside...

Remembering a forgotten past, fast.

Memories flowing over each other in riveting technicolor.

Gushing forward, a flood of things not seen, not heard.

Populating a seamless void, yet a question has one cloyed.

How have these riveting delights burst into life?

Alleviating strife, dulling the sharp knife.

Pressure of an incongruous blade, striving to extort, to be paid.

Cutting deep, but wait, behold! A gate, and through it a luminous river of gold!

Flowing and changing an effervescent river, so avid a giver.

Presents presented in the present, limited to subjective perception, how pleasant.

But what isn't. These days brain makes the big plays, stifling the mythos, the old ways.

Some hold on to the secrets, some stay behind rather than get hit, or so they say.

Recollections running rampant, scant happiness ******* clad in an orange sun dress.

What a mess, this cluttered web of needlessly intricate excess.

Social pariahs claim possession of tired desires sired in the filthy minds of professional liars.

Majority vote totes a certain permanence broken only by explosions of unyielding opulence.

What springs from lips holds power untouchable to fingertips. Though remnants trickle through, as if taking sips from the trough of knowledge...perhaps once we knew.

Full exposure is supremely reprimanding, as to leave one no longer standing.

Not in the sense of senses deemed supreme, not in this bizarre dream, the way we place ourselves into these pseudo-sensical roles all day striving to derive meaning from the needle, not the hay teeming with nutrients to sustain life as we know it, pleasure and pain.

Vanity must run through our veins to think us able to ordain a solid truth from any plain, or that linear reality reigns.

Comfort is a salve and a vice, when offered one doesn't think twice, but blind acceptance won't negate price.

Contrary to popular belief, popular belief is a contrary beast that consumes the strong and exhumes the weak.

A contrite appetite, a gaping maw with teeth like pikes and satirical satyrs playing in the inimical reeds in which it breeds.

So goes an old saying, early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy wealthy and wise, but does sage not grow as sage unless it is left out both day and night until old age?

What makes a thing sagacious, wisdom, growth? Spacious tracks are needed to cultivate both.

As to the memories of trees, what hides within our lives and within the breeze? Sometimes little is less and best. Lessons learned to our behest are not ignored, we just can't seem to find the door.

Within the confines of life's insistence, all beings act in accordance to their existence.

Deliberation, restoration of a beaten nation. Beaten into the dust, rusted, cohesion gone, the gall of so many wrongs finally come to fruition like children's songs of un-suspended remission.
     Cognitively oozing out of pores like sores of an otherwise un-marred beauty, and all the scoundrels come looting rudely to destroy the tapestry deliberately deployed to instill an air of utmost joy.
     Money falling into the hands of moral lepers, economic pressures untoward, yet still pushing forward. The tenacity of ants, unparalleled cohesive cerebral structure, chants of a buddhist nature bleed desperation wrapped in graceful slumber to ward off the mortal structure, inevitable in its destruction which ruptures the potential reduction of essential corruption.
     A gleam in the eye of every schemer, transferring blaspheme to the revelry flying high in the mind of every dreamer. Spewing out clouts of reconciliation, renewing like dust clouds of just degradation. Rejuvenation of this nations ancestry, patient in its wait, parched in the ancient vestry, waiting to sate the state of arched backs, superstitious black cats. Careful if a human crosses your path, losses run amok...invoke the acumen of wrath and bad luck.

In the dust of days
Where ancient seabeds dry
Ghosts of children play
And rarely wet their eyes

In wild deserts barren
Blind to life and time
Hearts continue tearing
But never you mind

In the depths of dreams
Forests full of gifts
Bursting at the seams
Ripping little rifts

In the horrid screams
The beauty of a sound
What does all this mean?
We all come to ground

In the flesh of words
Lies an empty whoosh
As of baby birds
Upon initial push

In the cornered beast
Something stirs awake
This something is the least
Still not for us to take

In the present dawn
The promises of dusk
Wafting from the lawn
A dank and pungent musk

In the flow of blood
An incessant calling
The roaring of this flood
And all that it is hauling

In the grasp of life
In the dust of days
In the curse of strife
A benediction lays

In the seabeds dry
In the loamy gainful ground
Children wet their eyes
It all comes around

In the depths of of dreams
In the funeral mounds
The eyes of lovers gleam
Please don't make a sound

In the raptured haze
In this collective mess
In a raptors violent gaze
The final sweet caress

Sliding through the doors and guiding perception, reality's a bore and we abhor killing, although god wills ill willingly. We wield a flaming torch of senselessness and in taming our skin peels, but without pain, only restlessness.
     Numbness of a thin membrane spawns pseudo constitution like that of a tin roof, fighting nail and tooth to keep out the rain. As if that wasn't proof enough of our inane train of thought, proffering in another trough to sing of strident screams assaulting our brothers pearls and laugh it off.
     Accumulating ardor until the dam bursts and we're cured of thirst, but this isn't the first time we find ourselves raiding the larder which houses our rind.
     Lurid and unfound, did you check the abound amount of wrecks, a seething fount of tiny specks that think and gasp, laughing they clasp hands halfway to passing the brink and sink into communal revelry. Right on queue they impugn all with great brevity, calling upon the sordid boon of morbid longevity.
     Seeking obvious allegory as if promised an ominous story, the glory isn't in the reeking meaning, the stench of truth seething, bubbling up with states of static erraticism, no. It is in the glow that surrounds every energetic imprint forever bound and finally rests, but never severed, in the glory of the hoary ground. And despite this relentless memento mori, all the little specs are lost...and found.