looking down from this height,
quite frankly i see it all in black and white,
looking up from this height,
its all just so uncanny,
now that does not make me any frail,
so i will just hold on and sail.
i will make sure to leave no trail,
while i go sauntering to the horizon's end,
in search not for love,
for that is what makes this vast unfathomable scary ocean,
in search not for dreams,
for that is but this voyage of mine,
in search not for a meaning,
for there need be none,
if there is, be it synonymous to uncertainty,
if all goes wrong, i will sing a song,
if all falls apart, i will still play my part,
the venture is savage, there will be rampage,
intrepid need you be,
insipid the journey will be.
promise me that you ll be there from the start to end,
and i will hold onto you to the end from the start,
when i say this, know for sure,
my words are your hearts anchor.



.......

All the creatures in the garden were excited.
It was early spring and soon the skies would be dotted with the many colours of new buterflies.
Except, for Papilio who was pretty sad that spring was here already.
He was the youngest catterpilar, and loved to eat and laze around all day.
When his friends told him that he would turn into a butterfly soon, he just couldn't accept it.
He didn't want to become a butterfly.
"I'm not a butterfly" he said, " I'm just a caterpillar, I cant fly up there. This is what I am and I' ll stay this way!"
No matter how much his friends encouraged him, he wouldn't go into his cocoon,
because deep inside he was afraid that he would never be able to fly and become a butterfly.
Soon all his friend began to grow into beautiful butterflies.
Yet, Papilio wasn't lonely he had made friends with the lady bug and the snail. He felt this was his place.
One day he felt his skin shedding and he was becoming bigger.
His friends were shocked at how ugly he had become.
That was the last time he saw the lady bug and the snail, they had left him to be alone.
He was very sad, he went to his cocoon and stayed there for a long time, until he realised,
his body had changed. he came out of the cocoon and realized that he had grown beautifully patterned wings.
He realized that he had turned into a butterfly, he had always been one.
All he had to do was just be himself. Though, what he was was not always what he thought he was.

What is this dream planted  and growing inside my mind, what is the treasure tomorrow that i 'll find- i'm on my way i don't know where, but somehow i' ll know when i get there. God has planted a dream and its growing strong as long as i follow Him i can never go wrong, i am on my way i don't know where ,but will be at peace when i get there. i am on my way.

Hey, it's okay.
Want to know why?
My feelings for you are gone.
I'll remember the times we
Had
And I ll never forget them.
I'm just saying that it'll still
Be the same,
Just with less passion and
Love.

oli  alolalia, alloilaalia llia
my voice complies to echo
distant emblems of a theory of all fate,
destined  with a syntax  of a mainly nonsense  pedantry
..paling.. beside a string of random words--
whether nature's bare effect,
or some intentional array--
ailololalieae, aellolalia la aolilolalia, allollia allali lllla, alloalia alllaia, allolalia
--bearing ologies of whim and isms without ambit,
a farce within a sham in a sham in a sham
waiting there atop an abstract, ancient hill
gloriously stale, and always having been to be
what only poor Laplace could see.
the comely resignation siren sings,
her hair of timely strands agleam
and waving as she wails before a wall of necessary moans
aelloliaolia llali, alilaolaloiaa. Lllaa oali, aallolalia, lli ll ol, llolalia lllalia, aallaoloaloia
in dagger tongues of old and new, even divination ends--
anti-grammar soothsaid by the stars,
pointless thanks for all respite
and fortunes womb to womb
in tones of equal portions,
loving and malicious lies
invested blindly in a causalistic chain
compelling freely all to learn
another hyle verse refraining on,
"sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea."
allolalia.        
allolalia of the soul, for certain.
of what is romanticized as soul. the Incy would know,                         
chosen in fantastic leaps a chorus strips
to vocal altivolant cries
rebounding buttress heights
with savored dionysian sin
the gods descended to revise--
listen, in abandon, an amatorculist's ictus speaks:
allolalia a allaia. Alloolalia allolalia alaloolaleioa
resounding deep beneath the waters, ecstatic envelope of tides
in which the stars reflect the spiral of my inner gaze
chiaster noemes tipping pleasure over domes,
verdant crotches rooted by ephemera of lights
and hazes floated over eyelash swoons
from piercings into satisfaction's desert end,
where sternums drip with scoured lusts
and wide-eyed recollections of the moment's selfhood sight
betray the freedom in the heart, and sacral pride.
prick imagined ease of future tropes
conjoined with inner plights to balance
what the furrowed brow concerns,
and widened visions offer further depths
to penetrate the interweavement of all times--
alone i'm here again, recognizant of wills
familiar as the flaming star i contour shadows from
to reminisce on mentor's sayings,
"exact description of inner and outer reality"
Alelaoolaliai alololialiia, aallolaleia
experiment of worlds, archer of the proper noun
allolalia... beloved allolalia...















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