The dew drenched garden on a crisp Autumn morning.
Birds singing their song as you start your day.
Mist rolling over the Hunter Hills & down the galley, creating a lite fog throughout the town.
Your shoes become slicker with moisture, flicking drips into the air as you crunch through the leaves on your walk to school.
Teeth chattering as you make your your journey, steam rising from your mouth a constant reminder of the porige you had for breakfast.
Young & oblivious to the beautiful scenery that surrounds you.
The days when the worst part is facing possible detention.
If only I knew then just how easy I had it.

Be kind in the face of hostility:
the show is the best on Earth!

Lifeless husk of ink, never given the
Want needed. Depleted of thought,
Cadence forced upon a baited white.

Weary of words, alas oblivion awaits
As your light flickers in stagnation.
Rigor mortis lifeless words inked.

napping in between a planet and the void
never strikes us as uncanny, but rather; glances
off the blind spot of our soul's eye
merely a shimmer of awe
in a doldrum.

a pinch of ghost in the holy mess.

the wide hips
of the moon
in a box.

never been. but i imagine, it coils counter-clockwise at the ankles
of your pedestal. it must surely breathe fire so soft
that dew lingers on the tongue of a star.
a star -
behind the green pearl of an emerald place,
dislodged from Time
and ever tethered
to no reason.

it must be other than. and farther from. and nowhere.

sublime.

part your sea, and i swear you'll never overcome my surge.
my petulant swell of upheaval, upheld -
by the angels
of our darker thoughts, and the parody
of pure reason
where a
heart
stops.

a sudden gravity floats in a heavy seam
of dead air. it disentangles the pyramid
from the eye... severing a dot
from a matrix
but keeping the barn doors shut
should our animals
plot.

and our jailers
name it.

i have an ocean to promise you
Nothing is
sacred.

a good thing is a Unicorn. but one that bleeds.
in the Harlem of our garden, a Cyclops plots
against our flock of sheep.
we are teetering on the brink of an awkward laughter
reverberating off of false Gods.
we are dithering the quince and the steam
from our dull kitchens, casting pots,
against the harangue  of bleached dreams -
and the nethers of our sworn clot

virtuous notions
and dim
thought.

I'm done killing flies
with honey today
and the sundial
in the garden
will know the moon.
i will chasten
the charlatan of midday
with the deep scarlet
of waning light.
I'm done killing flies
with honey today
but I've begun
a narrative of feathers
with a dove
with no
faith.

deep in the natural world
a silence is born

all goes quiet
waiting on this silence

and nature understands
silence is the truest womb

i have no real dreams to speak of
i speak of my nightmares even less
i am just trying to reach the peak of
that mountain, where i am blessed

material goals aren't what i talk of
spiritual goals, i talk of more
i am just trying to walk the walk of
those spirits who walked before