Love, 'tis said, chooseth by way of fate,
but 'tis also so by lucky stroke.
Like wonders chance can thus create
as kismet's powers in hearts evoke.
Love's favor can thus be likened to
a bundle from which one straw is claimed,
chance pairing with the one who drew
the favored one whose straw was named.
My hopes now in thy fingers lie,
willing the outcome of the draw
shall to my happiness thus apply,
and my heart thereby exclaim "hurrah!".
Though if by some design or flaw
thou callest a name but mine,
then shall with bundle lie my straw
upon the ground a broken spine.
Poison shall be released by sorrow,
festering upon the broken heart.
Ache shall carry into the morrow
to stay and never again depart.
Though if by fortune or some design
the straw thou chooseth shall be mine,
the poison by my joy be smote
and thy kiss - oh, sweet - the antidote!
The crystal was perfectly aligned.
It exposed an image of the day I left seamlessly.
But it also echoed the future,
the design of tomorrow.
I wouldn’t follow my wildest dreams,
but I couldn’t say the misuse was improbable.
To the next phase in my elegant maneuver,
I gather the strength from my abysmal insides.
Wide open were the gates of hell.
as the outline of forever,
Forever guided me.
Time was traveled.
And as passing eras bettered my intellectual design,
I redefined the reality of Sir Hawkins.
My speed was increasing,
as was my very corpus.
And as it did,
so I transcended.
Amended such as our legitimate antiquity
of the dickity desire.
The feeling of an outwordly choir
singing you to sleep while injecting you
with futuristic methyl-amphetamines.
I dreamt of better things,
but too late.
For I've descended into tomorrow,
and the decisions of the borrowed souls
will cease to follow.
Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)
This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message. But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.
This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"
Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."
Fact about me: You design me.
thinking it's about time for a road trip.
create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.
to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.
travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
Gomer, Gomer, & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,
I rise with it,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
retuned to be whole.
learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.
missed the original
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
it is writ in the good book,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?
in Nevada City,
which is of course in
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
works in progress,
from which I
so damn deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...
while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
further on to
in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
I am on way too.
to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.
even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.
in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
they want their
double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.
on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
and learn from him,
to stand down.
man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.
this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
with an old dented pail
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).
souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
in each other words.
You, who live in
your very own
I think we met there,
tho not found
on any map.
maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
no longer will she be
but then again, some
very special things,
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.
while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.
all the university students
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.
but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?
to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.
Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
we are all naked
twice a day?
In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?
though I despise the
not my America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but damn sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.
Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.
in a beautiful city,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.
off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.
maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.
you, who live in just
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
or huge plains,
to hide your
moody dust trail
somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
on the shoulder!
will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...
my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!
ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
chuck, in *PA., friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.
can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,
of course not!
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;
The BBB's -
British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
the goodness of *Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,
did you think I would forget ya?
those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.
even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.
I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.
yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.
2. Can anyone explain to me why the site labels this poem explicit?
Welcome to my nightmare of monstrosity,
A view, deep within a person's atrocity.
We live in a world where evil dethrones,
All what is left where light once shone.
From the depths, once we dreamed...
Now we crawl hiding from the beast within,
Through the infernal flames, we walked
Out from the darkness, once we thought.
It's endless and so it seems!
The suffering won't just die from within,
It rages through like blazing fire,
Devouring all of you and your desires.
What makes a nightmare? What makes it real?
Perhaps you're not dreaming? Maybe it's how it seems?
Waking up hoping for a difference,
Then forcing oneself to sleep
Just to pretend, to try escaping it!
With the absence of illusion one may suffer, not knowing the truth!
Does it matter now? When you're consumed and left nothing to lose.
Just go on live your life! Or just end it! Enough design your demise!
Hiding, Cowering in the dark! Just to know you're all alone...
A living nightmare worst than when you're asleep,
No point of escaping either way you will face defeat.
For it is you who won't let go! Addicted with the affliction!
For you feed your demons with fears ad desolation!
"Wow, what a mansion!"--Albert Wesker RE1
Gothic mansion, where every warrior lost it,
head, heart, and soul--as Faust did,
there walks a scientist who's blood is acid,
with glasses that turn to shade--death reactive.
" Who dares touch my holster" he says bombastic.
as walls evaginate victims, send out vines,
it is from Jesus' in the crowd--Mathew--his lines.
the sight of thorax, stinger and fang,
humping the slain,
do not phase him, for he is phase-less,
turn off receptors of pain, and all is pain-less.
A fallen teamate, still and a'swarm,
the black shades do not mourn,
as thorax crawls ontop of her
but laughs at the irony of a female,
impregnated with ovipositor.
He helped design those creatures,
and--he is her traitorous leader.
Howling night forest, awakens the staff,
as if they sleep facedown in saltwater tides,
shuffling and whale moaning, as if harpooned--
going to lonely depths to die.
then there are the hunters, reptilian apes,
can open locked doors with skeleton claw,
move to quick in hallways,
why pump buttstock you saw.
Pepper the orgy on the bed with full load,
with zombies fellating down to bone,
scream through your muzzle,
slide room apart in jigsaw puzzle.
then watch your six for the hunter,
it is stalking you, wants to put its foot on your face,
and dig in, then kick its leg--and rip off your skin.
retreat from hunters and faces bloated with cadaverine,
find a safe room to safely scream.
Sit down at the bar, pull scotch from its coffin,
on counter, rest pump and python,
do not think of the things you will die from.
there are three darts in the bullseye,
in William Tell style,
but the board is in fashion of an atom,
with electrons in orbit,
the numbers are the human genome,
and a surgical marksman has scored it.
He is Wesker, and this mansion is his tester,
blood and bone is both colors of his litmus,
horribles awaiting in dark room pay witness.
his muzzle flashlight's rooms with hot spark,
entry beats claw swing, shades now clear in dark.
they say in total black silence, one will go crazy,
from the sound of their heart.
but "My trigger that squeezes within,
charged from pupil's firing pin,
sweet semi-auto strokes of violin."
as he vaunts over dying beast,
and darkness returns to his shades,
from moon light through window,
reflecting knifes on wall from moon in wane.
he slicks back a loosed strand,
locks the door behind him, and continues with his plan.
" In my father's mansion are many rooms,
" I'll go prepare a room for you." he mocks, as he walks,
with parabellum hollow points and acid round glocks.
This is his mansion, he is Achilles loosing knees,
he is warrior and scholar, a student of Thucidydes.
team-mates--out air holes in jungle boot bleed,
blood seeping through pants--
olive drab uniform now fatigue.
rooms: blood grooves running down your bayonet--
traps-- channeling you to your death.
prop open oaken door with knife, hope it will hold,
walk to the far side of parlor,
the sound of medieval bolt.
door spits out knife,
just scream through keyhole.
The iron maiden taper is coming slowly,
do not let it go through non-vitals,
a slow way to die,
take it through frontal lobe behind eye.
alas a team-mate hears your screams,
in the sepulchal hall,
door swing, and out of deaths thrall.
Charley Mike: continue mission,
and paint the walls black,
with dead flesh backsplash,
gun or nerves jam, then die a ripping death,
smell a cannibals breath.
Be it known, the man in black and strap,
laughs off exposed rib cage slats,
with only a scrape to his pistol belt.
They rip, and stretch, and moan, half human half beast.
as the cook, in mansion kitchen, cooks his guts,
bowels on cutting board, butcher knife making cuts.
moaning, and crying, yet appetite never dying.
Enter the man in reactive shades,
Picture a alligator, calm, age old in the everglades.
One in the brain, and none in the chest,
those extra shots for rooks, without prowess.
" Wesker, you'll pay for this treachery," invoking Karma,
but the man in black measures her tears as he harms her.
So all that enter mansion portal,
and reach the basement, before becoming morsel,
finally catching up with Wesker,
no more trail of labotomized minds,
and jaws and eyes in epileptic shock,
from a calm trigger squeeze of glock.
Face to face with the master of the saxon race,
mastering gunpowder under the scope,
and you hear the hunters off distant,
primal howls and hissing.
Listen to what the man in black says,
the mortal contest is over,
and he has a virus to offer,
" Die here, and your death will be longer than your life,"
says the man, who's shooting hand is the reapers scythe.
" But live with this virus, and you will never die."
but watch the sun burn out in the sky."
You can refuse him, and face the nightmare creatures alone,
adding your skeleton to the calcium of mansion stone.
or take the virus that invaded the first cell,
making 'other men' the meaning of hell.
" Come decide, lest I go prepare a room for you".--
From powder burns, your tears are black,
eardrums ring from screaming contest:
chrome python against giant asp.
shoulder numb from combat loading shotgun,
thumbing shells straight to chamber--
blood in boots: not much fight left.
your friends are dead, and you answer,
" I rather die forever traitor, to rid the world of your cancer."
In my masters mansion, are many rooms,
dying, crying, moaning: eternal tombs.
On forgiving former loves-
I understand your worry for uncertainty
It consumed you
Emerged as an ideal that you could not abandon
So you abandoned me instead
And maybe abandonment is a strong word
But I'm a strong man and I finally have a grasp on this
A clenched fist gripping empathy, not animosity
I understand your intentions weren't reckless
But a blinded truck driver can't avoid oncoming traffic too long
And accidents still design destruction
No matter how sorry the driver is after the fact
And sorry is much appreciated but still neglects the fact that
Heart brakes don't stop collisions, they create them
I understand your past problems peaked into the present
And interrupted our intimate conversations
I had no problem erasing the demons you carried
To carry your baggage to the nearest trash can
To make room for our own difficulties
But I know attacking these issues alone was your preference
And I admire an inspired inspector of treacherous ground
I understand your passion wasn't illuminating
Our relationship's mansion anymore
Your embers resembled smothered ashes on love's battlefield
Your heart- a committed commander to Independence
The sovereign state selected to attack happy couples
I won the battle and the war this time
But my troops are resilient for commitment
I understand your calendar didn't coexist with mine
And I appreciate your treated tenderness
Your existence improved my experience
Your love surrendered waving white flags
Which I greeted at first reluctantly
But over time I've come to recognize
The importance of self-harmony
Let me give you a piece of my mind.
Allow me to crack through my cranium and you can
Extract whichever lobe you find suitable to fix your mental feebleness.
Take my frontal lobe, I beg you because
Your so called conscientious thoughts
Permanently belong in the dumpster.
Your brain flies confederate flags at half mast
As a constant reminder that even if
The South doesn't rise again you can still rest
Knowing you wave ignorance blissfully in the air.
Or maybe you should have my parietal lobe.
Your manipulation of information is highly suspect.
I suspect you've placed bigotry and hostility under solid ground
Equipped with racial slurs and misogynistic remarks
Like a weapon of mass destruction hidden beneath
The foundation of a sensible society waiting
For the perfect instant to immediately destroy any hope we had left.
Then again, your occipital lobe is out of whack too.
Considering whether gray clouds paint the sky or
Royal waves reflect golden rays
All you ever see is black or white, gay or straight.
Wrong or right, hate and hate.
But your eyes fail to focus in on how we all
Lose scarlet plasma to paper cuts
Gain white hair and hardened scars
And share copper sediment six feet deep.
But what about your temporal lobe?
That needs an entirely new design.
Because it seems as though you can't process
The filth that spills out of your mouth.
Like the smell of your rotten attitude
Escapes your nostrils and pollutes the openness around you
Preventing any genuine intention the air it needs to breathe.
Your entire brain deserves an extreme internal makeover.
One where acceptance and understanding transform your neural network
Into a well-oiled machine fueled by tolerance.
Like premium petroleum with high grade sensitivity to diversity.
I want your synapses to fire positive discussions
Rather than recreate cerebric tyranny.
I want your gray matter to mind its manners
To render exceptional positions
So your point of view refuses to point fingers.
I want your prejudices pressure washed so far down
Your head's highway that they resort to becoming full-time pedestrians.
I want your ability to communicate eliminated unless
You annihilate the venom from your vocabulary.
I want your brain to take a permanent vacation
So your intellectual veins can get some sunlight.
But pardon me, how rude am I?
Please tell me one more time
How your mindset is more preferable than mine.
is my life.
18 years I have lived,
brought up by a family
where emotions and love
was viewed as sin.
18 years I have begged
for fatherly affection
and for a mother's patience.
18 years I have lived in shadow
of the first child. of the one
that could do none but all wrong.
my life was not like most.
always pressured to be perfect
but that's been heard before.
but to stand there beside my father
already an insecure 15 year old
and have him bash my accomplishments
in front of my face. talking down
to me. to do more.
you can always do better.
you get the point
i have not known happiness.
i have lived with this heavy
presence all around me.
he became his own person.
Depression hung around my neck
like an anchor, constantly pulling
me to the ground and each time
i think this would be the final
time. the time that i could not
get up. wrapping around my
chest, squeezing the life
out of me. the breath.
i hated myself so much
overwhelmed by hate
worry and sadness
that i would go into my
room, take out my pocket knife
and carve away the pain.
let the blood flow.
scars up and down my
wrists and legs.
i would cry out in pain.
they all knew what i was doing.
they were in the next room in fact.
but in my house, if you didn't
acknowledge a problem, it
but my sickness did exist.
and i was left alone with it
for it to destroy me.
and so it did.
ago, i met this boy
who seemed quite nice at first
he was my first real boyfriend
and i trusted him.
but he had a monster behind that mask
that appeared every time i
would want to see my friends
or even spoke back to him.
he hit me. simple as that.
he hit me and choked me
and knocked me down to the ground
he told me i should kill myself
and i told him i already considered it.
i told myself that he was just playful
to stop being such a pussy about it.
i was afraid to leave him because
no one else would love me.
i would look in the mirror,
bruises around my neck
and his entire handprint
around my arm. i lied to my
mom when she asked, and she
believed me to avoid conflict.
it wasn't until in september
that we got into an argument in
the school's parking lot. it
was around 4 o'clock, we stayed
for film club so the lot was vacant.
he was angry, more so than usual.
he grabbed my arms and shook me violently.
slapped my face and threw me to the concrete
and left me there.
he drove off while i was unable to move
blinded by the pain in my head
from bashing it on the pavement
and crying out for anybody.
it seemed like forever until
my friends came out from the building
and found me.
i attempted suicide. (let's forget this make believe meter) i can't specify why i wanted to die because it was everything. ever since i can remember, i've been hoping for death to come. for it to be accidental because i didn't have the balls to kill myself off. and it didn't happen as some great event, as some dramatic turning point. it was a realization of complete unhappiness with my life. of a definite desire for death. that i had nobody. i never knew love. never had affection. that being alive was just painful. and so, by my old means, i took the razor blade from under the collected works of edgar allan poe and i sat on the floor. without a second thought, i jabbed it into my wrist, pulling the blade up. it wasn't long until my entire hand was coated by a crimson glove. my entire body throbbed, rocking me softly to sleep.apparently my parents found me in time. lucky me.
i have lived a somewhat different life. i decided not to rely on the love of others, but for me to love myself. and believe me, i'm still working on it. my wounds have turned to scars. nasty, ugly ones. but i'm in love with them. despite the antidepressants and the counseling, i still have bad days. i still miss the relief of cutting. i miss it more than anything. but those days no longer consume me.
you call me a mistake? i might be, but not in relation to you. others may read this, but it's you in which this matters. you wasted those days because you refused to act. i will take responsibility when needed, but this wasn't on me.
you couldn't have possibly loved me, because you never knew me.
The eye of God is open
it bleeds into the cup;
I drink the wine.
Daylight falls behind
me slowly as restless
hands count time.
My waking hours are no more;
I gave up what I hungered for;
and all the answers plague
the bricks my bloodlines slaved to lay
their brilliance in crimson
pools upon the ground,
and blinding snow
blankets the black
of the earth in a mask:
the Truth is below.
Dig through the roots to the
heart of the matter and know:
the eye of God is closing --
get in your sins while there's still time
The spy of sophistry
mulled over the tangled web
of his design,
as Saturn fades into
the shady groves of
Surrender to what I must endure,
taking it all like the sacred whore,
and when the ashes blew away
I had no place to lay
their brilliance in crimson
pools upon the ground,
and blinding snow
blankets the black
of the earth in a mask:
the Truth is below.
Dig through the roots to the
heart of the matter and know:
the I of God's demise
is framed in theologians' lies
They were clouds but they formed the longest white feathers it wasn’t the noted war bonnet of the
Plains no this was a head dress for a maiden that could only be the glory of love embodied to look was
To stall and stop time your breath slows your eyes grow wide in the throes of elements started in loves
Dreams untamed without bounds or borders the cherished object grew it was everything man knew and
Then more was created as the heart dared explore all the possibilities love drew and did spew the
Tantalizing the finest detail from the long mist of islands truly cloaked in mystery she walked somber
Paths her silence and grace tripped the scale of wonder elegance it termed in language that only poets
Could write her soft touch was the trinity of sun light moon light as it practiced the art of creating
Earthen things by just a softening glow with at touch of waters mist to complete the total design of
Natural fabrication out of all that is natural and human it bespeaks of spiritual clandestine movements
That created life in the first place all this resides in her eyes and the starry crown she adorns in the night watch where she shares her magic to all who seek loves possessive hold on every fragment of thought
And being stir this scene with angelic fingers romance set adrift with the power to make emotions that
Last beyond life times the bedrock foundations of generations from thee eternal sky her forever
Dwelling place all lovers say thank you.