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onlylovepoetry Jul 2017
did not know her when she was miniskirts and high heels,
before she converted to the one true religion of
poetry & yoga

some stray dog thots raveling in a pack
cross the not-even-6am brain that alternates tween
new day Adam apple crumb crisp and
distracting lascivious Eve ones

I,
would have loved you same back then,
no different than now

I,
write in different styles
under so many pseudonyms,
but it is the same man

I,
who crawls into bed nightly with
great expectations and a list of salutations
to wake you up and commence writing how

I,
love your poetic yoga-toned long legs
snaking between mine
while I imagine them in miniskirts and high heels
which is a long way round of saying

You,
alone, my darling forever young one,
are my
one true religion...
inspired by C.A.

7/3/17 S.I. noon
Valya Jan 2022
Im scared
Im shaking
Im trembling
How could I allow you to have so much control
Why are you still here
I want to leave you behind
Yet you lurk like a demon
Always coming when I least expect it
You come through your own accounts
Then move onto alternates as you stalk your prey
When I connect the dots to see that it's you
You leave, but only for a bit
You keep on lurking in the murk
Waiting for the perfect time to strike
Sending your friends to incite fear within me again
And it's working
I'm trembling
I'm shaking
I'm scared
ong she needs to leave me along
Francie Lynch Feb 2016
If Sallinger hadn't written Catcher in the Rye,
Or Lennon hadn't sung, Helter Skelter;
If we'd not met in August
Would I write this? This!
This counter-productive
Counterfactual.

What universe would unfold
If I had no match,
I wasn't a match.

If I stayed home;
You'd stayed.
History's a roll of dice.

Is this a good day to ask the question?
O, the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

I'll not wear a watch...
And you,
Had you gone to the bathroom
Before driving off,
Would you have returned?
Or if Disney hadn't turned my head,
I wouldn't wish so much.
A tip of the cap to T.S,
Todd R Standard Mar 2014
The heart has four chambers running in conjunction with one another pulsing -- The blood’s pressure alternates consistently and swiftly and is just enough to allow for our survival.

it does very little else but allow for our survival.
This is interesting to note as the heart has been known to break.
If a heart is broken is death the result or can it be repaired?

...a question which few will ask but many feel
Perhaps the surgeons can fix your broken heart.  Go ask them.
Perhaps a defibrillator can revitalize what has shattered within your chest.
anything is worth a try...
by: Todd Standard
The heart has four chambers running in conjunction with one another pulsing -- The blood’s pressure alternates consistently and swiftly and is just enough to allow for our survival.

it does very little else but allow for our survival.
This is interesting to note as the heart has been known to break.
If a heart is broken is death the result or can it be repaired?

...a question which few will ask but many feel
Perhaps the surgeons can fix your broken heart.  Go ask them.
Perhaps a defibrillator can revitalize what has shattered within your chest.
anything is worth a try...
by: Todd Standard
Viseract Jul 2016
****!
The only real word that best describes this situation
Used as an insult, for example...
******* Woody, for making an amazing man
A far better mother-******* poet than you
Be removed from this site

**** your supporters
And I don't mean those who like his writes
I mean, they're okay
But **** all those who support his alternates
Big Bad Wilf and all that
R, and whatnot
**** them, you do not understand
The capacity of my frustration
That such trolls would exist
In a place as supposedly pure as this

An even bigger ****
Because I no longer have contact with him
Picking off my supporters huh?
Or just going, "**** it
Let's shoot down the real "problem" here"
******* Woody
There is a special pit in Hell
Reserved for your ilk

Just
******
******* woody, and I'll keep saying that until the day you stop this *******
*******
nali Apr 2017
It's official: age is no longer a restriction.
I have the anguish and the whole world in front of me.
I used to look outside my windows with admiration,
but now that I have to leave the house I flinch.
Free birds fly for survival,
but for me flying is a choice
and now my mind alternates between
willing to leave and willing to stay.
Sometimes I blaspheme against my dreams
and I regret having unlearned to be satisfied with a little
but the truth is that
Napoleon is a demon that lives inside me
and always wants more and
I can't achieve the world if I just
behold it through the windows of my room.
I must leave.
Free birds fly for survival and I envy them
because for them there is no other option.
Because their minds probably don't alternate between
fear of the unknown and a desire to fly away.
Because their minds probably don't alternate between
frustration and ambition.
Because their minds probably don't alternate between
comparing their own way of flying with others and
wanting to make another bird's way of flying their own,
even though it's wrong
because every bird flies the way it needs to fly
and the comparison is unnecessary.
Because their minds probably don't alternate between
the cry of giving up and anything else.
They are birds and only this they can be.
But what I am I need to find out.
How should I know what I'll be,
I who don't know what I am?
Indeed, we are condemned to be free.
It's official: age is no longer a restriction.
I have the anguish and the whole world in front of me.
It's time to leave the house.
It's time to fly away.
It's time to go.
Goodbye childhood,
goodbye adolescence.
english is not my first language so forgive me if there's something wrong or whatever
Cody Edwards Sep 2010
My roommate and I
were talking about
The Barrel Roll the other day.  

Now, the Barrel Roll sounds incredibly difficult,
rolling around the outside
of a giant imaginary barrel,
but you can do it.
Apparently.
In one of those rickety World War Two fighter planes.

The Aileron Roll sounds even more difficult.
You roll around an imaginary needle…
of infinite length.
To avoid the Germans or Chinese or whatever.

Even more difficult than those, of course,
is the “****-Off Roll”
wherein you stop the fighter plane
in midair
like a hummingbird.
Then, turning sharply,
you spell out the words “**** all of you”
in luminous green smoke
and then you explode
into a million purple cubes that then fall to the earth
and bury themselves upon impact.

Then, with rain and sunlight and so on,
up grow an assortment of tall, unlikable trees
that bear unpleasant fruits that fall to the earth
and decompose until the seeds plant themselves.
From these, more trees grow,
hundreds of them,
thousands.
All growing inward and converging on one point
over the course of many years.
The dew of twenty summers winking
and sparkling on this forest of wonder.

Until one tree grows
in the absolute center of the others
and it has this huge fighter plane dangling on a little stem.
The plane breaks off
and flies up into the sky
and the pilot alternates between shouting “*******!” at the Germans
and raining stagnated walrus carcasses down on the Chinese
who have forgotten all about the second World War
and the fact that it was actually the Japanese who were involved.
© Cody Edwards 2010

[If poetry had to have a point, we wouldn't be allowed to put it on the Internet.]
Ashley Rodden Nov 2013
Anger, bitterness, sadness, and regret
What strong emotions these are to be felt.
What horrible things for someone to feel.
Makes me picture the colors blue and black
Makes me think of bruises and tears.
Loss, lonliness, confusion and hurt.
I want to just make them all go away
I want to make your heart stop bleeding
I want to stop your mind from aching
I want to dry your falling tears and make the world a better place for you to be in.
Lies, deceit, pain, and termoil
These make up the world now days
Everyone hurts everyone without a second thought
No one cares they are evil and selfish.
Sin, loss, darkness, and sorrow
What sad things
What lonely things
What frightening and dark things
How do I go on living with these
How do I not perish into the night.
Money, ***, *****, and drugs
Thats what you do to cope
That's what you long for
It's an unquenchable thirst that can't be slaked
Alternates the way you think.
Abuse, neglect, hurtful words, and agony
The yelling and screaming
The hitting and beating
I know these aches
I have felt these things.
I detest them so much
What agonizing pains.
Stupidity, hatred, carelessness, and shame.
What things to feel
What heavy burdens to bear
What thoughtless things
What hurtful things
How does one live with these things
What a better place this world may be without all these things in it
They will eat you alive and swallow you whole
Make you black and cold
Bitter and scaved
I know about all these things
I have felt all these things....
© Ashley Rodden. All rights reserved
julian Nov 2010
my emotional feedback alternates-
hot and cold
it is sometimes like fire and ice

my dreams totter back and forth-
hot and cold
it is sometimes like fire and ice

my weakness is strong-
hot and cold
it is sometimes like fire and ice

her beauty floors me-
hot and cold
it is sometimes like fire and ice

when they leave me alone-
hot and cold
it is sometimes like fire and ice

today the pinniacle is at it's peak-
hot and cold
it is sometimes like fire and ice
the poem that never ends...hot and cold it is sometimes like fire and ice
wolf mother Jun 2015
I am but

a nesting doll, the outermost encasement
chipped from years of fumbling awkwardness, or purposeful
resentment
nicked and scratched by ***** hands pulsating unsteadily
growing impatient in
attempting to reach the innermost layer
the consolation for hard work and determination

the drool on your collar after the too-long, too-soon snooze on the bus
when you missed your stop and any of the alternates to reach the ultimate destination
a rotten half-eaten apple on hiatus from mouths trying to push away the impending scolding from doctors and dentists
who knew it had already been too late to make significant enough change
to prevent disease

the cigarette **** snuffed out by New Year's Resolutions
and good riddance

I am, by no particular consensus or consent

a small chime, at half-past nine from the old grandfather clock out of sync with the natural order of things
that cannot project its sound too far, but persists in stubborn hostility
not a blaring warning or reminder
but an insignificant tick and
a sad little attempt at notification

a faint headache
a dying balloon
a cry in the night when everyone is listening to radio shows
or the kind of opera that pierces the skull
futile and distant, muted
unspoken for
unnoticed

I am also, surprisingly,

the feeling you get before crossing the train tracks into new territory
or climbing the stairs after months of elevator riding due to the injury you'd incurred trying to prove to them you didn't have two left feet

the notion that time stands at the forefront
and the line of fire is a black hole
where warped memories are welcomed in hasty pleas

I am

a whisper of defeat when the pine trees collapsed in the middle of that summer upheaval, steaming and desperate
and out for the politics
turned into the
knotty pine paneled walls
that DIYers frown upon

But I am especially
the pearl of an oyster
gouged out
and taken to
someone who could decipher worth of shiny, iridescent things...its clarity, salability
a pearl now on a strand of comrades—lifeless pearls
in Chinatown, under the ruse of glamour and bargaining chips and great steals

certainly on clearance
and pushed on the people as inconvenience
a misuse of table space
and getting one-overs
or semi-precious insults
from tourists
who guffawed
at the feeble attempt
to turn a profit

eventually to be
tossed with slightly bitter nonchalance
into a black garbage bag,
thrown onto the sidewalk
and feasted upon by
seasonally elephantine rats
as they swallow the waste
from careless excess
and plastic soul collectors

yes
it's true that
I am,
with disdain,
especially and most certainly,
that pearl
Louisa Apr 2011
foreign tropes
plastic bags
paper napkins
altophone saxo tenor-horn
you make notes into words
i take your words and break them with
harsh breaths, bent knuckles
Sometimes lets press play again
lets play again, play again
eggin me on
you off into spaces with
tenor saxophones, horns
alternates and alsos
too-high-hopes
tread Dec 2012
who stretches and sculpts his hair in the mirror late, all alone, on a Friday night
looking for the God-given hat to suit his frail self-imaginings to impose a distinction that exists as a gravel-clasp low-look remembrance of his eyes meeting his body meeting his head to say his whole is no social white-teeth good-look Prince Charming
but I hope I can charm you anyways.

I'm the kind of guy
who will self-righteously decide he is over you,
but one slow morning of solitude and dream will remind him of the way you used to close your eyes and curl your lips to hum, almost purr, like a satisfied cat, who meant it when you said his eyes were globes and he a globe-trotting student of the universe, and the way the early morning sun over 150 years of neighbourhood cascaded across your left ear in sleep used to birth him into the world like he had never been here before, still years from taking the judges oath or even considering a need for his own little Office of Internal Affairs, and your sweet little figure with its imperfect squalor's, and.. okay, okay.

This isn't a love poem

But I loved you
and I probably always will.

I'm the kind of guy
who cries at the end of sad movies.. studies the news as a history book in progress, yet always goes to bed with a tear in his eye realizing these aren't statistics of Stalin's collateral damage
but people as real as him walking to work in the morning only to be struck into the nether by a texting drunk on the corner of 9th and Trunk or shot in the wrong place at the wrong time for the wrong reasons or even no reasons, just primal utility or passion means suffering in Greek.

I'm the kind of guy
who alternates between knowing nothing, and knowing the absolute and knowing it and knowing you and knowing him, me, woah, what?

I'm the kind of guy
I'm the kind
I'm the
I'm.
Gaius Normanyo Aug 2016
I am an open book, yet not a long one.
However, I seem to not be easily read.

I am not tucked into a nook or cranny, but know some
Sticky pages should be pried to see inside my head.

At times, I feel like a journal of dreams,
Scrawled into and left beside a bed.

My cover, it alternates, older and sewn with intricate seams.
My author is only He who bled.

Do I have a title?
No, yet I was named with a purpose.

It would be unfortunate to find me an eyeful,
And stop when you have yet to scratch the surface.

I can only pray for my pages to add
Substantially to my true story.

To see experiences passed down to younger ages, I would be glad,
To share true wisdom before I am in glory.

I am an open book, but certainly not a long one
I want to share love any way possible and be blessing

Either a single work or in volumes, how ever it is done
It should be one that only adds to life, never lessening.
11:50ish PM, 8/13/16 - 11:26 PM, 8/14/16
Austen girl Apr 2017
I know time doesn't stop
When we want it to
never accepted love
I didn't have to beg for
Now you say
You don't want more
But I play
The worn tape once more
I break my own hurt
We don't get the ones we want
Say we learn to love the ones we get
Who wants a love like that,
Cold and unafraid?
Love is a threat, love is a weapon
Don't tell me different
My hands on his body were not enough
It's an enemy we don't understand
Just like that forsaken loop of a tape
Taunting me with images of alternates
Stuff a sock down its proverbial mouth
With eyelids squeezed tightly shut
They never fall for a pure heart
What about one stained black
With dashed hope and excuses to let go
What was it?
Love is a weapon, love is threat
You've taken away
I feel as though I am nothing
O'Reily Nov 2014
Written shots come in all shapes and sizes,
Size matters like size six, eight or fourteen.
Fortune braver the first line alternates the second so on so forth.

What becomes sizeable?
What's your size?
Little antidotes from a measured eagle size flies,
Weighs it all up from a prolific mind blasted out its circumference,
Two lines make three so on so forth.

In size short or long corridors open left and write,
Rooms of poetic justice words escape its meaning of pride,
Trying to connect its versatility,
Weighing up all its options to a third eye so on to the forth.

High five thinking outside a sizeable box,
A perfect band meets five,
Your five a day fruit flavoured squashed for you,
Drinking your rainbow colours that your taste buds acquire,
For then be hit for six.

Six like **** curves figure dressed up in  silk hanged up with a second coat,
There's a cat amongst the pigeons,
A cricket high score,
A winner catches it all out from a wicket duck 0.
A severed chase far from Devon.

Sailing on the seven seas on a ocean boat ride reach so wide,
Beckoning on a horizon with the world looking so flat but at your feet,
Never reaching the edge just for evermore,
No deck of cards would collapse or fall from this fate.

My great mate who I now hate as late as it goes round and round in a figure of speech,
Rate this of the eight wonders of the world,
Paradise monuments globalisms tournaments under and over a bridge we go and we go.

Nine I'm not taking no for an answer, upside down to the left six had it all,
Too much size from those verses,
Saliva grown twitch es,
A centre forward scores a goal,
The last but not least single number,
Einstein a rocket launch..

For then ten let it be impeccable when circling around next to its dolby one den,
Fur marks of a Lion gathered round a pack of clubs five odd and five even,
Doubled up figure of been odd but really been even Steven or maybe roughed up down in Nuneaten nine mine.

O'Reily@15112014
Poetic T Mar 2017
Your fingers like petals that fall upon my skin,
the aroma fluctuates on the membrane of
that which alternates between the
                            vessels
of what tells me to
                              gravitate
between the consequences of conciseness  
and consideration. I'm whispered upon
to accept both realities..

But innuendos are the motions
                          that make me linger
on the words you weave within my heart.

Can you ******* smiles when I look at you
when your not observing.

They are a confectionary that is only visualized
when I steal an embrace when least expecting
my lips to collect candy from your thoughts.
Xyrrio Jan 2017
It begins at a moderate pace,
Picking up steadily like time is in a mad haste,
Confined to one dimly lit area this fever cultivates,
Stretching endlessly as this heartache alternates to a physical pang,
Emotions barbed and jagged as those of thorns the heart turns to rage
Written by Tristan
allissa robbins Aug 2014
Pressing my skin tightly,

Wrapping cold, short fingers around my edges,

My middle,

Wondering,

Waiting,

Images echoing out of my lips and

Into my ears.



“Stop doing this to yourself”,

“I can’t,

I don’t know how”.



Glass

After glass

Of water and tea,

Hopes as thin as the substances

I religiously put inside me.



Trust wearing down,

I’m stuck between two alternates,

One better than the other,



I know what my choice would be.

I gave up that choice

When I let myself go.


Started off lucky,

Never thought I’d face something like this,

At least not at 18.



I’m clutching my sides,

Staring at the space between them,

Trying to make a decision.


The decision is no longer mine,

I’m stuck until the judgment is

Finally placed.





God, help me.
Sarah Wilson Jan 2011
i think it was the kind of love
that alternates heartbeats
and steadies breathing.

i think it was the kind of love
that yearns and wants and
pleads for some kind of cure.

i think it was the kind of love
that soothes the heart and soul,
but still destroys your mind.

i think it was the kind of love
that scratches and gouges and
spits on you when you're down.

i think it was the kind of love
that smiles at you and holds
you close, at the end of the day.

i think it was the kind of love
that changes you and hurts
but leaves you so breathless.
title credit: amanda arpin. check her out, she's got talent oozing out of her fingers when i'm dredging mine up out of the muck.
Far away, and far from this madding crowd,
Away, and a lot too far, To a place where all memory is dead,
And, Where silence is golden, and thoughts are but seething,
Far away, far from this litters of a latent heat, weeping.

Away to the sands and blue skies and to the seas,
Away and far from all of these falsities.
To A warm place without all burdens of hope,
And, A blessing to clean my soul, with an oily soap.

Where soils are but wet and, forgotten, the weather is withering out again,
Where there is more of love and less of pain,
And, Where there's sheep, all tender and meek,
Such a place of a complete innocence, my self-needs to seek.

But all I breathe is musty air, which smells like rust, and browny leaves,
And, All I see is but yellow days and gloomy lights in cityscapes,
I don't need rockets and space tricks and fiction or science,
I do want what I need, and I do not want what I feel.

Being blind, I still work with these puzzles you know,
Someday maybe, there would be a place, where we all just can go.

There would be a garden, a pyramid, and the lotus of love,
There would be a blessing, too beautiful a burden from up above.
The negative will always turn,
to burn the burn out of the
burned in germ
and the positive which gives a ride
to the mental attitude on which I glide
quite gracefully,
returns to me.

It alternates, this state of mind
it changes things in which I find the
energy which then combines with something,
I don't know the name,
but it makes things better all the same.

No pills involved
I have revolved to spin again and
turn to burn out all the pain, in doing so,
I'll either grow
stronger,
or I'll die.
Corset Jun 2015
Crow-bars as big
as an Oak,
or the head
of Egyptian alien
architects build desert
triads,
ten thousand buff
onyx oxen men
to remove the kite
height splinter
from a kitten's foot.

Somehow I'll hold
my tongue-
tied like cherry stems
cross-like
the national anthem
spools of yarn
big enough
to fill a football stadium
in colors of senescent
knit sweats
alternates with purrs
and claws.

How can one apologize
by way of ESP?
Or plead with ghost
dripped vows  
stay up all night to write
while you were up
scratching the post.

I am remiss for not
admitting in all
the languages
of the world

I clearly
do not speak
in Morris code
or maybe cats
just can't read.
I thought I had,
let me try again.

I was wrong.

friends never say
goodbye
but lovers
so often do.
I couldn't let go. And just say no, because I'm an addict and once I got into the flow there's no doubt that the ps4 went into rest mode. When the poem that I wrote for you was lost to the abyss I grew despondent and may have suffered paralysis a minute or two before this revision. Here I sit with a stale cigarette because it's been a while. And I'm not talented, so after reading your poems I've decided to steal your style. Then I made a decision to cut the lights, making the room dark. Because maybe if I shut off a sense or two my mind could begin to spark.

And quit berating me like a shark over losing that last thought. Even though I know you feel that kind of energy that I'm so desperately trying to lay bare naked for you to see so ******* unapologetically.

So once again I apologize for my intrusion. I'll try to keep it short and to the point and omit the confusion... Just let that raw spongy meat fill the sink like a blood soaked delusion. I'm like a fungus trying to find that tender feeling. The very same that's left me reeling. Congealing at the mouth for a minute or two until I let the tears run that had been concealed as if in a Sun fusion tomb.

And not to be rude but these first lines are garbage. I wanted to save that last one because at least there was some heartfelt flow. Not just rhymes and the due time of some clandestine woe. Here we go.. I can't do this. It's like the moment has passed because it got ruined. And now I can't get back to the place where I'm imagining your face or our palms interlaced...

And now my phone is dying. I'm scrambling to the charger deranged and out of place. I can't let the phone die then one more time curse the sky and wonder why. I won't take it as a sign that these words aren't meant to be written while I'm trying to remember only what the last one said like it needed this phony precision... Just acting crazy and coddling this vision like it's my baby. Like 7AM is a normal time to still be up. I don't know, maybe? Maybe it's because I've been thinking about you lately. And the thought of that had me in denial, lady. And look at me getting cocky with what I say. Like I can stand here and act queer and make sloppy jokes like that's okay!?

Maybe that's the reason why I can't sleep. Because I can't even hide my pride any more this time. I'm tired of rhyming. I just want to touch on what you used to tell me was a piece of me that was inspiring. I'd be lying if I said I have any of it left because any notion of that premise is so much less than deft. And here I go thinking I'm about to touch upon what's left in my heart when I know just how it will end but no idea where to start. Maybe it will come to me if I talk about dreams. Something innocent enough to dilute my own selfish reprieve.

What you meant to me.. Has me stricken with grief. Every word that I write feels like a giant hypocrisy. Every time that I think these thoughts I want to drown myself in my sleep.

And now I have that other poem that's going through my head but you have no ideas as to how it sounded or what it said. I described myself as a felon for what I did to you. How I stole your time for my own designs that much I know is true. But the truth of the matter is I can't stop the superfluous rush of rhyming words that want to come and they need to hush up. I'm trying to come from the heart. And all I can say is that I'm in a lot of pain just trying to relay... Trying to close my eyes and enter that flow state. For you I will.. I'm awake with my intent. It's almost eight but not too late for me to tell you just how I feel. If I try to rhyme it's not going to be right. It kills me inside that it's hard to fight. But I guess that's typical. Because I'd rather think of what to say next than be literal. Because I'd rather be a figurative criminal than dig deeper. I'd rather grow cynical than for once just face the reaper. I know my character when I despise my own reflection that alternates between this state and a newly found perception Because I'd rather be an outcast. Reject and misunderstood preacher than a disciple... and I'm my only rival.. But this isn't a confession to you and this digression isn't the Bible...

Just a predecessor to an elaborate truth and one at which I've been so uncouth. I see a black hole when I close my eyes. I know that I tell lies and hide behind alibies so my vacancies are my disguise. Now does that suffice for my ******* ego? Can I finally tell someone that I love just how hard it was to let go. How two years have passed and nothing feels so special because someone met tonight lead me to retrograde and that was heavy.. But it was more like an epiphany. It forced my pride and opened wide the holes I have inside. The very same that came from the time we said goodbye. When I forced your hand and took that stand and created a divide. I try and I try to convince myself that I miss the idea of you. But I'd be lying. I changed things up and pressed my luck but here's to trying. The stupid rhymes won't go away. They think it's safe. They think it's dignified, composed, and chaste. Whatever their reasons they fight being erased. And I guess that's the next wave of emotion I have to face..  

Even in a room with no-one around. I have to think about how it was you who lifted me into the clouds, and I in turn always brought you to the ground. I do believe the love we had was profound. I knew that you could speak to me without a sound.

And yet we still drowned, and I'm left shaking, still headstrong and rationalizing and faking. Still ******* rhyming even though this is the second poem in the making. How I managed to render the most precious bond I had forever forsaking it. What I'm left with to know is that I have no right after all this time to come into your life.

What I've learned is there's a difference between what you know and what you believe. In a moment of clarity I know what I've got is deserving. And then choose to believe in nostalgia and empty tears. Because Nissa, darling, it's been two years. And you're a new person in the moment I was here. Somehow I hope that one day you will read this little post-it note that means more to me than any wisdom or quote in the few passages here that aren't cunning or rote. It wasn't meant for many eyes to see. But I can't take this familiar loneliness haunting me. And there I go trying to connect synapses into the next day like it matters as time elapses
I lay here in bed with nothing to say but convey memories within my head. They don't fill me with dread, I reminisce with a soft version of sober ringing like the singing call of the dead. And though it was fleeting you will never leave me. So from the deaths that I've caused this to follow is what I'm bereaving. I might have been dreaming but I once was believing that all my deceit could prevent me from grieving. Like I don't already know that you're long gone and I'm still breathing. Like I don't sit here seething and still trying to rhyme or think of that last design. Like I'm not lying at all or that I haven't been crying. Washed up water methods and coping mechanisms may sedate me for a week. I don't want all of your love because for me it was enough knowing we were Nissa and Cedric.

I'm beginning to understand why they say home is where the heart is because I scream while I'm alone remembering and receive no catharsis. It's why I starve myself of necessary sleep to stay awake then soothe myself when I shake reflecting on mistakes. Now I only have to wonder about what you're doing. Because I won't reach out, ungluing and unraveling a door that's been shut when just a reminder of you washed me into a rut. It's why the ocean's waves are bringing me peace. They're consistency is what I have left to just cease and desist when I grow sullen and remiss. When I've now spent my night writing this. When I miss your kiss, but truly long for your echo. When I know I have to move on now but I won't let go. I love you. Just in case.. You didn't know.
I had to stop writing. I'll never understand why and part of me will be lying. But you won't see this anyway. And that's okay because I really didn't have much to say. Maybe I should have just said I miss you every day.
Things are not the same. Retrograde.  Time to take control of this play.

As your mom alternates the waves, rivers and death's signal.  I recognize the elements  in all of you.

Ascension is the lesson. 'Good' & Bad' are perspective control definitions,  even in TAROTS

Words can be disruptive rather then constructive.

     Opportunity, shows it's face as ambiguity.

                    who said you ACTUALLY Knew me?

These Triggers towards your conscious connection

The things your uncomfortable talking about will always be protected. (Here)

Disruptive...

Protect yourself make sure everything is the way it should be. 

 The TRIGGER IS  to not be conservative, DON'T miss out on a opportunity, don't fall for the fake fantasy success in your head.


Opportunity...

really be aware who you're associated with, It's tough to make a Conscious connection


Change has to happen !!!


The power of this reading, yes these words are truly alive and breathing.

Be a rock this month this also resets the next month you read this....bless.
Vernarth's term overage was not exhaustive, as Vernarth would return to Alikantus after his journey to Kanthillana for the Winter Solstice and Patmos in spring. He was collecting each time in the decantation of each corollary of texts, images, narrations, and epigraphs that were being deliberately written on the flames of the Apokálypsis. All the experiences of the tragic characters in Vernarth were embedded in the papyrological Datum once it was detached from the Dragon's snout. This result and action verse became the reconstruction of the cessation of a physical body, whose final living objective was to legitimize everything in which it was uniting in the nomenclature of written prosopography, advanced in all the roles of the ruler of their own history. parapsychological incorporated in its own self-analysis until reaching Everism that reconciles its mythology as something secondary to the Tragedy for all societies that evolve in a focused technocratic aspect and the rhetorical unsaying of attacking the world that was destroyed under a redoubled dose of anesthesia of the disgruntled ideological of being judged by the entire world as a being spawned in the papyrology of Pergamon in ruins. The visibility of him as an actor drags her with the vision of him asleep under hypnosis that allows him to combine the periods of antiquity more than six thousand years ago. C. allowing him to build a person from low to high visibility in a consequence where totalitarianism was exclusive to a millenary East, in pursuit of a nascent South America suffering from the birth of itself from the geological split 120 or 150 million years ago that did not they would be enough to bring about the consequences of Spílaiaus when he allows, hears and tells me to give him the world that only he had been chosen to live in.

Vernarth welcomes and obeys his command to divide N times as a normal body could run and fall into this current maelstrom that would take him throughout Greece, Judea, Central, and Eastern Europe, from a place of origin called Kanthillana which resists the intermodal phenomenon of quantum that would overwhelm him to the point where his entire genealogy would follow him wherever he went if need be. All this was mending and composing itself in those alternating impurities of some paradigm, reinstating the constitution of the random present of Greek mythology already alive in the blood that unites the same rivers that are born of a narrator, always disposed of in the eminence of inspiration either in Olympos, Profitis, Ophel, Kantillana or any tomb that constitutes the format of electric actual mobility where it distills rapidly at the speed of emotions that will always be directed by gods who feel it before they are received by a distant reader. The elaboration design of the works is spaced from the hand of the argument that sometimes tries to hold on to the runaway reins since they are commanded by real emotions provided by unknown forces, generating a great collision and incomprehensible data header for an eye or ear human that needs the neat pause to attend to the discretions that are intertwined and accelerate with solidified sources of extemporaneous mythology diverging from prosopography components of Literature Heritages Sites.

The chattering of the monuments will be of great superiority as an addition to the compiled history never told or narrated where it intertwines with two dissimilar, dissonant geographical zones, distant in such a way that they themselves react to a thunder of life, which makes up those zones that are individualized and inanimate as sources of multidimensional fervor, causing high-sounding narrative imbalances that at times were made as a great source of the power of what makes sense or what could mean at times that could continue progressing in the potential wealth of beings that were never geographically rooted in a system of use or group accent that could be immersed in the biography of that which has never been told, since there is no record. The information that is unknown could not be collected as well as a concept that survives the networks of a shipwreck of the passing of the centuries that run between even and odd centuries of today in the antiquity of the Middle Ages, however, all this traceability leaves us in micro spaces that are not perceptible, nor in the incorporation of chronicles that can be driven by the linear ordering method. Vernarth is in itself a precipitous advance, a quantum of dissimilar interests of civilizations that survive and will survive from where they were forged, perhaps integrating the second face of a life that manages to detach itself from the vital circle, to experiment with its canceled free will and redirect its life. revived canons of a new nuance that concelebrates within the face of an unknown character of prosopography; to the same one who imposes the laws of everything he should for each own individual having the opportune world of him that receives him lavishly.

After the seventh century, the phenomena of the Mediterranean between what simply promotes a turn of the page leaves the hemisphere of each empire more distant from the social phenomena that distinguish us once the stumble of generations cannot count what is not could mend in the subsequent generation. This is why Vernarth's hybrid containing allows you to travel between immemorial times, allowing you to store them and tolerate periods that do not fit the scale of all their wills deployed towards an administration that manages to revitalize their monuments and ally them with other geographical areas that could not strictly speak of the same contemporary, having taken more advantage of them. Such efforts would make a great providence and closeness of all the garments that represented suitable characters who are still looking in their wasteland for the true chronological process that should fit their conditions. Vernarth is a great enlargement of prosopography that he has or ambitions excessively, and that may heavenly tempt him to build vaults that can fit the figure of himself equivalent, of the libertine whims that could stipulate the crosses of the early and late periods, eager and differentiated for everything that could fit in a bunch of flowers like a bunch of verses that would be destined for the available that waits to be presented from the incorrupt mound of Olympus with the chain of being repeatedly presented in the Kanthillana before the god Spilaiaus.

The tool will allow the reconstruction of each elapsed period of time, which is exactly what the submithology intends, to return to live with the villagers who tend to trace their lines of traditions, customs, and much-needed etymology to revive the peripheral description where some manage to to be protagonists, leaving aside those who should be participants in silent actors that intends to expand the euphemism that is only revived in the courts of the emperor that is not even established in an ironclad draconian family monograph, as could be seen with the vast majority of the descendants of the Merovingians. The portrait tends to allocate budgets from the treasury of who should be the budget of the vast majority of true Labrador Hoplites as true ascendants of the great hidden treasure that will provide the eloquent looks of Medousa. This is how much of the vindication of cinnabar must have been established as a burial of many individuals from the Middle Ages in the vast majority of Europe to daub the bodies in sulfur or Cinnabar to try to keep them in the underworld with their entire body in linen shrouds or substitutes, and how to preserve or how to return to an organic chemical environment from which was the union of two beings when they engendered a being by the chemical explosion of a body in the autonomous cycle of procreation. Linguistic guidelines will undoubtedly make the entire Middle Ages the creation of a symbol of faith entrenched in unionized social spheres, made up of guilds of families that were never registered in a regime or corporation to supplement the lack of the Datum that in this work is It aims to decorate, uniting all classes, latitudes, and sectors that could well deserve complete the spaces that should have been executed by intercontinental clans, offering them a history that is part of their emblematic ancestor.

I would dare to name the Hoplithography, as the archaeological social fabric forging the question that establishes the Hoplites as sowing cultures of the significance of their prosopon of military body, contemplating further than all the nations of a way of life that probably would have been perhaps univocal to a pious being of the science that surrounds him, with the loneliness of a being that does not admit that he is overcome by science that submits to autonomous man such as Diogenes of Sinope or Archimedes who join an axial connection in the evidence of the senses, but in the Solstice of Sinope 412 a. C. specifically in the efforts of Vernarth to make them participate that the free man belonged to a Don who was more removed from his gaps of mistakes or successes since the free man was going to be imprisoned in the urn that joins him to his body and not to the illusion of your senses. The gates of truth or otherwise are just a few steps away from this Vernarth Tragedy that asks for a little hint of space-time movement. All the paradoxes that linear time will persevere in great calculation errors that could be an Aporia as speculative logic, followed by the fiction that exceeds reality where the paradoxes will be unresolved inconsistencies, essentially with what untimely arises from an indication of life in a common being that is related to quantum mutes as exhibited by the explosive Parapsychology or "Paraps" that are subdivided from the different scenarios of Aporías or enclaves of logic that are conjugated with the non-existent reality, given to the mechanics of Submythology of heroes, gods, and others coming back to life in a passage of time that is not explained in some expired history book that had more to tell than what its own ruins hid from the truth that could be told. This is a wealth of objectives that this Thesis proposes, to discover in the immensity of the unknown what was and could never be told, and that the past genetically survives in varieties of classes of organic species that continue to be assembled by worlds that tend to clear and rethink what any storyteller, philosopher, historian or archaeologist can interpret.

Physics is made of a servile space or instrument of the paradox, in such a way that the events point to reopen doors that are of the unknown History that could be part of a god that did not exist until the shelves documented him as part of a living culture associating it with its patterns of daily life, politics and the chores of common human life. It would be like the Arrow of Flight with Achilles, perhaps leaving a great inheritance to Alexander the Great in the dichotomy of how it would be Zefian by instituting the balance of the world with the geodesy of the world of Vernarth, not alluding in between the time that dictates it for its governance, but rather the cosmic heart that allows guessing where the thoughts will be directed more than the elliptical of ascent, and descent how far the arrow will arrive because even so whoever finds it will be of the mental times that elapse in different fractions as it is Parapsychology not moving, but more than the time that only moves where it is not or rests to give primary indications of intelligence in which thought must establish the concrete fact that everything takes place in its elliptical, but not in dissociated thought. Perhaps the singularity of this polished rule could show that this Paradox of Zeno that everything that exists could outline that the line that divides Achilles from Alexander the Great is the elliptical of thought because in the rhetoric of parapsychology there are no contradictions if it is that in the Dimension of Hellenic History find in it a distant today that communicates with this faction of the dimensional medium. The infinitesimal calculations of the Duoverse aim to link or reconcile what is being advanced in parallel in the mechanics of neuroscience, without the need to have practical scientific vestiges to determine what inhabits the intersection of a circle of quantum with respect to another that it occupies, a classic example of Vernarth when carrying out the flashing Kenósis of his Kli or Vessel that reunites his independent non-parallel lifelines, but that of belonging to a Hellenic trunk with the mathematics that exceeds infinitesimal numbers moving all the lamps of the Universe when both demi-gods walked through the relevant infinity.

Vernarth is a paradox that begins with the analysis of his initial "V" of Lacedaemon with the intention of traveling in supposed time, more remotely than a word can be subordinated to what could reconstruct an infinite regress, which is what will happen with the Apokálypsis in question where he is the threshold section of analysis of the genesis of this work in the Kanthillana, then with the reissue of the Medico in Piacenza by recognizing the constitution of the area that is more than what any specialist can understand; that is, much further from any speculative stealth before Vernarth or after that other prototypes could arise that are indirectly related to the concretion or invisibility of Non-Visible characters, but with the arrival of the submithology genre, its structure will generate conciliatory physical fields of what that he could never refer to or know if a beginning began when the end of the prototype of an invisible being was just being gestated. Perhaps the genesis of the world is a great paradox that was looking for the beginning of the end that manages to meet with a definitive beginning allied to that of an indivisible that indefinitely and infinitely creates micro spaces where time has no place, only physics links that overlap quantumly and represent the truth of purpose.
The argument goes beyond the linear narration that tends to describe who was or was, supplanting it in that of who will be and will be whenever the bonds of a timeless continuous reality remain in all assumptions. Here it is clear the axiom of the infinity of divisibility that is predisposed by an objective to achieve an unforeseen event that is forceful as much as it is likely to plan, from the Duoverse and its composition of everything including all the magnitudes and tendencies to his feet what will add up and will be charged with what has not been built or discovered making this hypothesis of the conceptual that displaces the historical because the conceptual occurred and occurred in outdated times not altering its objective since parapsychology in its infinity of regression will annex him in every Greek, Hebrew and Western dimension and latitude in an ancient world that will always be composed of addends that incorporate it into the Vernarthian World that in turn dares to challenge that the importance of the world of emotions are not part of the study of this Thesis of Literary Heritages Sites, as an infinite potential to achieve when the Apokalypsis is definitely triggered, prior to the ascension of the Vernarth when it leaves the Megaron and its living vibrating magnetic body. The regimes are not egalitarian with the fall of the determined slave democracy of 404 a. C. It could perfectly have been ruled, making the political destinies of an entire nation that is subjugated to attract and implement political and economic experience unclear, that those who would never be sustained by a regime determined by the inclusion of quantum paradoxes would be migrated more than any political-administrative order, which never led to the development of a new dawn of science of the infinite regressions of Parapsychology that unites everything multidimensionally.

The best choice is the equivalent of Prosopography, which results from an anomaly to the rule where Vernarth's Mythology regulates the organization of prosopography, claiming to demonstrate that there are gods who intercommunicate like Spilaiaus with Zeus, claiming to establish that what is going to happen is what that he wanted for his regency the prolongation of one mythology towards another, but without it being written but "Live" this is a postulate that Submythology proposes, substituting all the method rather experimenting for the superimposition of everything to the lesson of everything that is interconnected, although maintaining the univocal root that represents all the structural, cultural, historical and sociological components that intervene at times as an entity belonging to a reality of legends that border on the reality that must be preserved vividly. The compilation lists of Greek mythology is the product of enormous processes of years that have been developed in their territorial regions, a cultural union since Christianity displaced paganism from the year 391 AD. C. tormenting virgins and nascent creeds from a multi-paganism step that was based on the diversity of their daily lives to a universal expression that surpassed all excessive freedom or nullified free will that contended with the delicate slave democracy or dissuasive militarism based on the Oracles, who never had a real interpretation of what originated from a real god or nature that governed itself, rather than a god that questioned others that only individualized their own dramas to represent them to a god that pro-tradition that he freed them or condemned them to live at the expense of a Dramatis Personae. Here is the prosopography that with the well-formulated passage and sense of defining that the Ardors of the Drama make sense of being systematized from the gods of Olympus, but also in social stratifications in part to the worldview of their own ancestors to be the most faithful interpretive of the wealth that makes up the source that structures those of us who are not destined to be deities, but if we could exist before them with a recognized pattern in average reports that could be placed when Vernarth leaves the confused division of a body that will remain in the Iridescent Hydor of the Mashiaj or when the prophetic appearance of his Mother Luccica is sustained by such a portion of a physical world, rather totally petrified before the hecatomb or end of the world, generating in her a stony and inanimate being, but if sufficiently existing to define her new role in the universe "Ab Initio" of a general objective of uniting eternity of the competo of existing of unifying the geomorphological latitudes of mythological existence with other unknown vertical cultures (Submitology) and hypothetically pool the experience of the elements of the universe as a whole to empower roles among themselves. Then unify everything that can be narrated as an imminent truth to lavish it on those who could not exist at the same time, but rather describe it with the quantum channel, as it is here that Vernarth remains conjugated to his literature, history, theory, and quality of his speech. focused on a fully portrayed and defined system of Patio V of Hellenika as the Fifth Dimension as comparisons that are rationalized with space-time, geographic-chronology submerged in a theme of Political History as the axis of states that exert social change for numerous characters who recently there they come to life, as is the case of the new stage of Zacchaeus and the Sycomoro or Saint John the Evangelist in the Hegira to Judah provided by Vernarth to rediscover its roots, and reduce what could have been but the journey of Judah if there had not been ended in a conclusive in Jaffa where the metaphor that returned to Limassol would exceed the metaphor of Rhodes as an intermediate point that perhaps nu It could never have ended.
The interrelation of conceptions is due to a Primogen of the sixth dimension that was established as it was in Izzana with the Unicorns or Uilef that carried them to Genoa, or of the Giant Camels that were transfigured in Jaffa when the Ghosts of Shiraz had an impartial interference in the successful sea off the eastern sea. The relationships of the primogeniture allow a timeless mobilization led by Eurydice as a living figurehead that structures her Orphic proselytism, further than a conventual desire to compensate for all the unfocused in the elite and the outcome in the Profitis Ilias as the maximum height of reception. Trinitarian back with the ecstasy of Saint John the Apostle as the mobile center of the Hexagonal Primogeniture, the similar inspiration of living images of Ein Karem and its shepherds.

The Birthright is a family that composes them in their faith that guides them by themselves, whose goals are primarily directed by their sacramentals from the first to the seventh Giga Camel. In the imaginary and cultural reference that is delimited by its monotheistic ideology, acquired from a Hebraic-Hellenic scientific connection, whose postulates will survive the unusual phenomenon from generation to generation, but rather infinite inter regressions that could sometimes revolutionize the entire creation from scratch interpolated by an alpha, being the same for its intended end. Behold, the crossover element of this theme alludes to objects, events, or phenomena such as the reopening of the Kassotides as a central element from which the hypothetical support of all faith could be shipwrecked, if it is put at risk of re-raising culture to save the fate of the world at risk from climate change. If two sages met in limits without knowing Schopenhauer or Nietzsche with the relevance of ideologies that would offer more factors, expanding both systems or theories as alternative areas to think free from humanism or intellectualism that somehow reveals itself at the end of the times reconciling all time of action subsequent to his potential periods, more than his written legacies because his potential lies in his social prototype more than his work, given that his virtuosity is deeply rooted as an atheist believer, more separated from any intellectual root of wisdom What if it denotes the non-existence of a Pagan or Divine Enlightened God, what would provoke the indirect means that persists of calling a society whether or not it was a believer? In the specific case of Vernarth, his entire biography revolves around a Supreme Being who appears before him as a god of mythology, and who then takes him to the portal of Saint John the Evangelist as a being of compassion who alternates with him to embrace him and your arms. Everything there is that allows to treasure, store, or interrelate in different social strata uses the divine work that a character that sheds light that can even give more brightness than any star that can be demonstrated in a written work as an essential starting base reliability of an author who is inspired, and is not inspired.

Submithology also replaces prosopography, to say the least, that unites in general circles that cease to be physical until the ethereal limen that converts them into micro translation spaces such as quantum, in the same reciprocity of a point A-B and B-A and vice versa as it stipulates the connectivity of what exalts thought, and its inheritance when rising to the point that would be the “Intellectual Heaven”. Vernarth in the present time of any researcher could attribute that it will depart from the Iridescent Hydor photo-duct by seven channelings of the spectrum of the refracting luminaire but of the concomitance of the observable Vernarth, or rather of what little remains to be able to observe of man after leaving It is sighted by the masks that caustically protect or envelop it as a waste of what is not attributable to a Politai, having conditions of dense interests of a destiny that will never be recognized or belong to it. It is because of this reluctance that the proposal of free will offers greater perspectives in a series of misunderstandings such as Empowering two famous atheists like Nietzsche or Schopenhauer at the service of believers who would never object to the full range of possibilities that they could implement from scratch, to convert a Christian who is like himself to a convert who will purge and reverse all his permissible externally in the farthest destinies that allow him to ascend in freedom of annulled will, not only on the earth with one more differentiated, but as a tender being who saves the world so that the world does not forget him. This thesis offers the man who has been bastardized or discriminated from a social marginal depriving him of alternating with nobles or well-to-do who circulate under the same roof of half humanity that allows the common man to dispense with all humanist beliefs, opposition, syncretic, etc. .) To detach from all vanity that is limited in the abandonment of any of it progressing with all creation that if it is when every living organism ceases to be on Patmos.

The Patmos reef may contain inventories, archives, demographic indexes, religious spheres, congregations as repertoires of those that will form when an external being arrives to build a society that imposes its character of contribution to society, and tends to adapt to particular aspects that the that they will be until today on the island itself, in itself demanding the leadership of an elite of the Passional of Iahvé through Saint John the Apostle in conception of qualifying him with the great stratified of the species that compromises in the optics of converting his followers, as an essay of an illusion made real ad honorum of a residual fragmentary that does little to unify the eras in which the rich and poor will be relatives not because of their genealogy, but because what the poor lead of the other to save him from an end that has another handle of his heraldry and portraits of his game that is deactivated in the collective imagination of all his progeny highlighted as a representative of mutations of numer dark ales, where nothing will be recorded only in this untrammeled probability of granting a life that resides in everything that cannot be seen or named, that transgresses all sources of prosopography as something deductive in this case Deus Ex Machina; as will be embodied in the final tableau of Vernarth's Trilogy III "Like the god who will descend from the machine or in this case from Hydor to Vernarth to take him to Alikantus with his mended golden hooves"
To conclude where it remains to argue that it can attract us from the Intuition of being more than a human who can actually live more than what can be budgeted, without prejudice to common sense that is quiet and distant from the epilogue of this work when whoever looks at it and hold on to a legacy of Heritage Site Literature, and manage to embrace it so that its pulse can be felt in each character it is in, and in each episode of a post-classical story. The derivations of a critical analysis of psychological Vernarth is greatly affected by an independent reaction of a real regime to which his fellow Hoplite Soldier leads him to the event of Arbela in the great battle of Gaugamela, integrating himself into the analysis of a reality that did not belong to him due to because he came from another remote erudition, and was only recognized for defending common acts that reflect the awakening of a new seed of value and temperament of a whole baggage of anthroponymy that could fit in all the spontaneous civilizations that manage to transgress the barriers of time and normal space, here is Vernarth who manages to fit in the names that substantiate in others that revalues them, and could appear as a perfect leadership name to access a Helot, Hoplite or Politai housing space in the same way as It could be transmitted from a leader who, together with Wonthelimar, was able to cross the Pyrenees or the heights of Ida or Kanthillana. as a high descendant of the Arakynthos Mountains of Messolonghi destined for the Koumeterium of the same name where the genealogical table of Vernarth is carved together with his brother Etrestles, under the invisible courtesies of a man when he is condemned being born from here from the numb invincible spirit of the Heroes of the Independence of Greece 1830. Finally, in this penultimate episode that Vernarth qualifies the sense of not being affected by an oppressive cause as being influenced by supremacies of ideas, creeds, philosophies, or governmental order, rather by a divine general scientific exordium that is from where he manages to interpret when the Mashiach or Messiah, will take his hands to carry him to meet the Hydor and dwell in that place with Him. The archivist will have the possibility to investigate and study in situ the paranormal events referred to as mega parapsychology, This way he will allow his vast merciful heart to be a strategist to carry in his inventory everything s the petitions of the living who remain in the land of Greece to take them to those who remain in the land via Patmos. Vernarth from the 6th century AD. in search of his genealogy he can create a meritorious dignity of giving funeral rites to his ancestors, the long-standing family coat of arms became returnable to the Reign of Horcondising: Spílaiaus and Aiónius with the major gods who waited for him to reside in the entire fringe of the invisible beings that in eternity will take chronological charge of a revolving time that will recirculate from all that is not dimensioned like a spiral dragging all the empires that request the renovation of their ruins, and of their beings that cry out for the misuse of this world and new coverage of a new world of replacement; as Vernarth's Strategoi legacy through all the reigns between Justin I and Justinian I of the sixth century, since previously a large part of Vernarth's family was exiled to the South of Spain by the then Roman Empire from the north of Venice to the Mediterranean, from here he transfers all the families of his lineage with his Coat of Arms of Lacedaemon to protect them over the course of more than 700 years. In this way, a large part of those who had to protect the family raft that was protected by Vernarth in the revolt of Constantinople after signing peace with Persia. The Apoinandros preserved all his lineage along the paths of an enthronement ritual that protected the distinctions but also the families of the world in the Mediterranean regions, curiously where a large part of this Trilogy navigates the Triacontero Eurídice together with Vernarth as Strategoi of expeditionary forces in glorious parapsychologies of the Middle Ages moving periodically from south to north of all of Hispania, even alternating with Nordic and German elites, such as Greek-Hebrew nominating Vernarth as a dignitary that will be preserved in the coat of arms Strategikon that managed to be collaborated with the Emperors the century VI, attributing that some of the most robust could be part of the elites of the Roman legions as exclusive Praetorians. In this way, all the family trunk and his insignia were migrated from the north of Venice, then to Lombardy to be redirected to Spain later in the coming centuries to South America. The Strategikon has presented as relevant to the present elaboration thanks to its representativeness regarding the egregious existence, compilation, and hoarding of relevant technical information for the performance of the distinguished tasks of ex-military, being able to be verified with absolute certainty within its family traits with its existence, and continued use as a source of the great Taktika of Alexander the Great and Saint John the Apostle as Magister Militum.
Epilogues Trilogy III ( Excerpt)
Madhukanta Sen May 2016
Thoughts alternate:
Happy,
Not so happy...

Everything alternates.
Nature, Life,
When
there is sadness,
we have to know

Happiness
will come
knocking at our door
Very soon.
Keep hoping.

— The End —