Dip your brush in crimson letters,
Add a dab of red-gold blush,
Paint a landscape of upsetters,
Those who need a soul to crush.

Those of hollow form of flesh
Those whose soul has left 'n fled
As they seek out weak to thresh
Till last drop of blood has bled

Here a sphere o' fire setting
'Midst a blood-hued sky,
There the haunting silhouetting
Tree with branches high.

Grasping, scratching air ephemeral,
Swaying to the sounds of death,
Knocking at the gates empyreal,
Clutching at pure babies' breath.

The dead not-living swarm like dusk
Crushing sweetest sprout
Winnowing ripe corn from husk
Winnowing the life-force out

Hear the hunted sheep begetting
Howl and wail and cry,
Watch the darting bats bloodletting
As Lord Life slips by.

Covered by dark guise of nature,
Everlasting bides his time
Safe as no nomenclature
Can guess his pantomime

Let's paint with broad brush strokes
from centuries of blood,
ye fair permeable maidens:
Once upon a summer's eve,
menotoxins killed crops and wilted spring flowers.
Pandora's box, opening to such bad reviews,
closed down and fled to a monastery,
where she wrote scarlet letters to family back home.

Vallopes of black holland cloth, intrusive
but necessary little bedfellows fit for a queen.
Don't keep us in suspense,
your fancy royal harness,
guards are posted at either side, hooked & girdled.
Take Communion some other day,
Elizabethan petticoat.

History tells of the strangest restraining order:
Hippocrates threw his two cents into the fountain,
banning bleeders from nearing the wishing well.
Hey, Father of Medicine,
our hallowed moon lures the currents,
driving us all a little mad on some enchanted evening,
not just the lassies.

The foil of every fable
rests in the absurdity of its fate,
so often presumed upon the faint of heart:
A damsel in distress,
who must be saved from herself.
The nonsense of which then seeps into the pores
of reality, rousing fear in certain unmentionables
that just might one day incite anarchy,
tipping our planet over on its side
and away we fly.

Ignorance wears rose-colored glasses.
It's high time he got his eyes checked.

I hear your echos on the wind
sweet whisper in the air
The gentle touch sorrow’s pine
a longing to ensnare

Near slumber, my dreams of you
perhaps something you should know
I dream in vivid colors of multi hue
and relish in your glow

Sometimes I hear your laughter
or way you love to tease
or taunt me like the surging
of a deep and watery sea

Images float of mind on seashores
with sand beneath our feet
Or I’m lost within a daydream
in the bend and flow of wheat

And when I’m lost in passion
with my heart or soul exposed
where kisses float like butterflies
or blown petals of a rose

I dream a dream of you
enraptured by your hues
And hope to meet you there
when you are dreaming too