Age, a concept, we're doomed to portray,
to judge our virtues, which year is best,
We'll hang it and proclaim each doorway,
and **** it to hell, when the soul has to rest.

I loved most of all
a cold blue eyed doll.
I knew that fall,
I'd fall for a doll.

Red my doll if it could blush,
how most I'd get a such and such
and my mind, a grove, a lush
such and such.

Then a doll raises peaceful uproars,
if it weren't alive then before,
I'd pray peace at its door
the **** 'll open before

me. I beg and steal for all,
I begged for this blue eyed doll,
we're stuck between ourselves and lawls,
that uttered from a cold, white, doll.

I've waited for you
to confront me and
I've been plain as a
pine board; I am warping.
Stick me up
straight and return
those favors.

You haven't seen my collage
in this little green book,
I speak all things, true as
spring.

Perhaps you are waiting
when the buds are sitting
on the tree and kiss the
air,
And perhaps I can breath better
and confront you: love and affection
gleaming in my eye.

Instead of the way I walked to
my duties, nonchalantly, handing
this green book to you,
but, I should have smiled towards you;
encourage the renaissance
of truth and the affectation
my mind has upon you.

In her spring, I peer at her ground and I see,
petit, it's branches reaching the sky
and I know, her cold spell has vanished for me,
its green, how its branches boughed and sighed--
Little summer, how its heat brings to bear:
I swear, it flowers to spite her cold heat.
And pink! To rival her sunshine, it dared,
and noontide, its blossom shrivel so weak.
And how I have noticed, her leaves have gained brown,
I grab the seeds, I will spread them all over,
I'll hate you 'till april mem'ries are bound,
Like it gained its laurels, to shed them cold.
When april comes, I'll love you again.
Time she is my enemy-- but a friend.

The lord taketh and the lord taketh away,
is all I can say,
when I smell the baying buds of may,
he takes them away.

He lies in some dark cloud,
to float and some big sound
drowns my sorrows out,
and moves away the clouds.

Our nights of assessing God,
With our heads conjoined to the windowpanes,
Our thoughts permeating throughout the glass.
Two lukewarm coffees embellished the windowsill,
The synthesis of our cognition and entwined fingers,
The soft touch of shoulders leaning upon each other,
Brought forth beatific vision, we saw God;
His blemished flesh, the formation of his bones.

It began,
His vertebral column, intangible lights, the Aurora Borealis.
His archaic vertebrae, stained in ethereal fluorescence;
The curvature, swirling, as the Deity writhes in euphoria,
A childish game,
Our God, content in the night.

His hands, formed from the dust of Bethlehem,
Grains of sand corralling to form flesh upon the detritus of Rome.
His Holy land, The Vatican; Structures of marble and stone,
Merely his cupped hands,
As his disciples' feet caress his palms.

His organs; The planets in orbit;
His heart, our sun.
The rays of light that adorn our skin,
Merely the palpitations of a hidden pulsating heart.
his divinity,  subject of uncertainty in the petulant eyes of his children
walking in Terra Incognita.

His skin, Lo, to the stars;
Our hands yearned to touch the celestial freckles,
outstretched to feel the fibres of God;
And like our limbs, so did God outstretch,
his flesh, but space; suffusing within the translucent contours of the cosmos.

To be told we were made in the image of God, is to be deceived;
Our childish conjecturing, truly a theorem to be displaced,
Our augmented minds, illuminated;
An aureole behind our heads,
We became biblical as we touched lips by the mantelpiece.

Little shards of paper
that haunt my passing mood,
I see it's true, it's dead alright,
some decade withered feud.

And yet the paper scrawled and mangled
spells a definite end for thee,
and as I look between those lines,
freedom, there'll be, for me.