the sequence requires a temporal pretense,
thusly prescribing time to thoughts that i tend to frequently frequent,
learning to liken my notions to pen strokes, ascensive.
harmonizing with the world, instead of agonizing over it,
prosperous from this defective preemptive pension.
remaining aggressively pensive, and peaceably gamboling,
towards a dangerously receptive conscious-less contemplation.
never unrelenting with the questioning, iron-****** in the leavening.
perpending, then comprehending viable praxis and cognation.
flirting with what i initially anticipated, practicing diurnal satiation.

transcend underneath cacophonous birdsong,
not in the flowers or trees,
feeling more at home in this less than urgent morning breeze.

feeling my fingers flutter, hammer to paper,
i penned my own nail.

didn't know until now quite how childhood tapered.
now finding no logic in subscription to faith in the future tense,
whether that happens to be through hopes or through dreams,
i don't seem to bring myself to expect anything.

contrasting prior maxims and beliefs,
i am preemptively eating every single word i speak.

in terms of uncertain worship the question is not whether to;
the cogs bear their teeth when queried via how, what, and why.

naught to seek, adorn in a figment of pseudo nautical chic,
my face betrays, it may misspeak.
i don't need a place to stay,
i don't have a place i seek.
coquetting with myself,
i am ever at my peak.

it can be hard to assess necessity in a cesspit,
calculating and scouring different ways to find respite.

it can be hard to commit time against the heart.

finding access to hiatus just to breathe,
it's never been easy to be lazarus.

unsure of consequence, skirting bereavement,
reborn doesn't necessarily imply previous demise,
what's almost new cannot be considered unwhole,
nor can it be trusted as a reprise.

it's an artful venture to learn the cadence of presence,
not an effort or a movement, but something of a lucid sweven,
something nestled in the stitching of the seventh heaven.

autonomously authoring my perception,
desecularizing my intense intent and conception.

understand that the brain is a somatosensory mech pilot,
no shame, no rhythm, just an absently-go-lucky organism,
chasing imaginary crystalline butterflies into the background,
thriving in the quietness, malaprop to say forever semper-vivus.

i consume my need to separate ideas as fuel for philomathematics,
pioneering new tactics, new habits, through acts of active practice,
emphatically denouncing the topical, the maladroit, the labels,
let me sing my own mantra,
humming to the hymn of my own humble tantra.

being in the way
of absolutely nothing
is the way to be

terrible forest
crystal pillars loom over
ancient are these peaks

upon becoming a nestling sans nest,
i decided to make a half-baked plan of mandates,
stating how i ought to quest, trough to crest.
egesting the presently unpleasant facets,
i adopted a policy of empirical puerilism.
now a newly groovy pluvi-dendrophile philomath,
a counterbalanced feng shui caricature,
promptly finding rapture bereft of culture.
plundering the dysfunctional,
worshiping the digressive.
anything is adjustable,
everything can be lovable.
finding bravery in regret,
forever simply vincible.
basking in the ebullience,
bringing passion with my presence.
learning to rhapsodize my sentience,
projecting admittedly confusing ontologisms,
concerned with not much else than pleasance.
my means of conception have become my heaven,
and with no evidence of the clandestine,
i simply stepped in.