and pick up
heavy and lose
i own the night
i own my dreams
the right to live
On the ground dead
Half buried, arm sticking out
Abandoned and left with a lily
A ceremony long finished
People just passing through
A sequence of prayers
Long dried up and floating into the ether
Winters almost gone
Duplicity is just about melted
The sun is helping the rot
And what's left of the body
Is bordering near dust
Forests of stone, glass and light.
The truth cries out in the night.
Dearest oatmeal, Sometimes we fail to be whom we need to be.
Sometimes trepidation assumes form and takes judgment.
I need you to ASK yourself,
Can I trust this voice?
Discover the self,
And feel for what you say,
Does it strengthen my position or fragment it?
This world full of thunder,
Awaits someone more than you.
Someone outside the domain of opaque
Someone ready to tender, and accept the world for its stench, and will enough the courage to make it better.
The best kind of people are the ones not afraid to tell the truth.
The best kind of people are not afraid of showing vulnerability.
The best kind of people laugh with infectious glee.
The best kind of people make a stand and work out love or for the possibility of it.
The best kind of people shed themselves of filters (judgements) and fall fourth straight into arms of possibility.
The best kind of people sacrifice in the now for a better abstract future.
The best kind of people are wholly selfless.
Transference is inevitable.
A flower that grows in between the dead cold moss.
A small hope cradled as a warm stone.
A kindness born through some invocation,
some attempt to make sense of our place in this world.
Its a prayer, a distance seen in your eyes,
A doubt formed in the mind,
by the brief rejection of a potential lover.
We are the esculent,
made ready to be consumed by the love of another.
We are a breath, held on by the hands of a good friend.
A flame stoked,
Gently in the night.
We are, we are,
Is a whisper crawling out me.
An echo made by a stranger underneath my skin.
A tiny yearning that bubbles up,
as a set of continuous chortles.
My heart beats,
and I give into phantasm.
The Crimson sun that never sets,
The moon that bathes and overthrows us with all of its beauty.
The ocean breeze and it's cool attempt,
Beautiful things don’t ask for attention.
ineffable contours, that cannot be tamed with a wordy depiction.
Like water running through my fingers,
Ephemeral, and leaving me to linger.
Caldera, my steaming desire.
Instantiates a spy, that is ready to be set on fire.
Daughter of eve,
Carousel of dreams
You’ve drowned my angels
And left me to die in a reverie.