Now now, once today, again tomorrow.
Now now, thrice a night, twice a morning.

Let us abandon all rhyme and reason,
That did make my thoughts flow.
Let thoughts ferment through mindless thinking,
And reek of nothing other.

Where then I did wake from a long journey’s slumber,
That did make me think and drown asunder,
In winds that blew then, and clouds that flew then,
And made me not one of mindful thinking.
There I did wake, where then I made,
A journey forward, and backward all at once.
Through Paris that paradise of frauds,
Through Florence that blossom of thoughts.
And found myself nowhere other,
Than there where I woke but fifteen days ago.
And asked:

Where I did wake, now I am again,
To where I shall go, for all that has past?

And at once I found a path I had walked,
A thought unthought, an act undone,
That was where I wept but three months ago,
Of that unthought decision.

But alas, no time to think, there are places to be,
And in no time I was again fast asleep.
But this journey was not ‘cross planets, but across stars,
And much longer did I this time sleep.

To a throbbing head I woke,
To foreign words and blabbering mouths.
The sands that layered about the lands,
Could never again make a sight to me.
Yet there lived a cousin or two,
Or three hundred then that I did not know,
And to they at least I must pay my please,
For how else could I mutter again these:

For a thousand journey's rest, I shall not end,
Lest I’ve seen all that the worlds have to offer me.

And a smile I did, or two or three,
Or unknown faces, in oddly tongues.
A mindless other that did make me think,
So drink I did then, in reckless reverie.

And next I woke on ocean’s bed,
A dream, ay, but one I had.
To swim ashore would render my end,
And there I did lay, ‘til its time to wake again.

And next I wake, ‘twas noon already,
But time is lost, and thoughts aren’t thought.
To work then, where I shall again,
Lay my head in hopes of never waking again.
But dreams aren’t made of cotton candy,
And thoughts aren’t thought with fancy machines,
So there I did stay, a two hundred days,
To knowingly know nothing midst those deserts.

The pale was lit thanks to the city lights,
And a restless city could make me dead.
That night a moon did shine her light,
To ask me a question I had thought time again:

Where I did wake, now I am again,
To where I shall go, for all that has past?

But time would never give my rest,
And ‘morrow was the preplanned date,
So pack I did under the moonlight’s gaze,
For travel again, a short while it’ll be.

To another city across the space,
I land within but a day’s time.
But there I did meet a friend long lost,
And adventure was in the name of this time’s journey.
Aha! What joy I had, in but 3 days time,
To live in a foreign city had never been so fun.
Yet it was my companion who would make my joy,
For it was over in but 3 day’s time.
What woe.

And now to a time where I shall by myself,
Conduct and live under the pale moon’s gaze,
To compose in solitudal misery, the excellent fertilizer.
An opus greater than before.

But nay, and there I did lay, in spite of all dreams of prose and geometry,
For I may not have this time.
Another journey awaits, and what grief!
But how else shall I mutter again these:

For a thousand journey's rest, I shall not end,
Lest I’ve seen all that the worlds have to offer me.

But words are mutter by adolescent fools,
And thoughts are what really matters in the end.
In tired fashion I must go on, regardless of me,
And how I wish I had never left my house.

This I ask thee, oh eyes of tears.
Since when did you weep so?

The rumbling of the abyss whose dark did wake,
The mumbling forest folks whose skin did rot,
For the curse of the ancient god whose dread did wake,
The rumbling of the abyss.

The cries of that child beloved by lies,
The fears of that girl ecstatic and fake,
And that boy who could not help but weep,
For the child’s crying.

For where else did their falsehood lie,
Where else does their aspirations die,
Except in the rites and sights,
Where their falsehood has sighed?

This I ask thee, oh my eyes,
Since when did you weep so?

This incessant beating of the human heart.
This increasing bleating of the voiceless other.
When wake I do from the dreams I mark'd.
Shall it all return, as did the ashes of my maker?

This caricature of unbound madness,
This cacophony of untethered voices.
Pain does it inflict me so, that one
wishes to wallow only in sadness..

The language of love incessant,
Not stopping, never stopping,
To not ever know the end of things,
    Ever.
Inhuman projection of the soul,
Unto particulates of unsought desires
What woe it is that they cast upon us that we cannot see past the fog,
Lies upon lies they built the majesty upon.

The silvery lake of mercurial thoughts, afloat midst the misty isle.
To look in is to die a thousand deaths and live a thousand more lives,
To gain knowledge beyond man and gods alike,
    Ascendant.
And no one has gazed upon its shallow depths.
The simplest answer of all question:
That one is many and many is one, and
Unto a multitude rests a singular thought where all minds converge.

Thoughts unthought and minds unwrought,
To not know whether knowing is well,
Seeing that emptiness before these eyes,
    Hollowing.
The crazed void with no beginning nor end.
To find something midst the nothing must be quite the task.
To find oneself midst this madness also,
Must surely be a task undone.

The singsong voice cannot hear my cry.
The bars collapse along with their pry.
In dark, we stand 'gainst the test of time.
In night, we weep to the vict'ry of this mime.

"What colors will you weave to occupy forever?"
What weep, what woe, that this is the whole.
Linger in the darkness with eyes that foretold.
In the abyss, without company, ever and never.

Poetry is a window to the heart.
Poetry is like affectionate cries.
Poetry is my love, my language, my despair.
Let it be known, then, that
Poems shall be plentiful and abundant in this book of notes.
If nothing else, if not art, not music, then poetry is my soul.

And to you, the outsider, the trespasser,
Let it be known, if you are beholding my essence, then, that,
This is my soul, my palace, my poetry
And I demand thy respect.
But,
Still I pour out my waters for you, my blood for you,
It is only right that my vessel be empty and hollow.

Allow me to cast my being into these molds and colors,
That they crystalize into an effulgent matrix,
Constituting all that I am and could ever be.

Hateful ignobility wrought upon us these
Blissful fragments of tormented peace.
What shall be said, to our high priest,
"King!" Amassed before the lowly beast.
Unfiltered foolishness rid us our dream
"Avaunt! There is no place for you to bring."
Wherefore betwixt the serpent's gaze malicious,
Bloomed a thousand vibrant fruit precocious?

Anon I cast this body ablaze, amaze!
No ceasing tongue could me more grace.
Writhing agony upon the stakes makes
Not a sight inticing of my craves.
Heresy upon heresy, to dare invade
This earthly domain we've made.
The fig tree bears no fruit, thus let it
Be jilt upon the basket we knit.

Still are adored these little green branches,
And their pink buds, yet undone, too, matches.
This twilight over the hill, dusks before dark,
This half light erelong, stars unmarked.
Forsooth the answer ought come, but
Wilt it be made known to such a mutt?
Curtains will close, roses will wither,
Wherein will we know to go thither?

This mud, tis cold. This grass, tis old.
And there's nothing else in sight.