There is no time
As you time passes through
Eye's perpetual needle
And a basic understanding,
      There are no seasons
That resonate forms and certain
Needs,
   There is not enough time
For anger and happinesses,
Only that it remains equal
In the chaos of a a hurried
Mind,
   A flutter into tornadic
Expressions,
A desire into a yearning fire,
Indirectly the season gives
A feel,
The cold winter she walked
Into the wind and her hair did
Not move, time does not beat
There, but arches into
A future,
    That summer the sweat
Off your brow bought the car
Of a dream in a dream,
   Carefully time snuck by
And perfected a moment's
Theory,
    A man needs both time and
Stillness to recognise that
All is fleeting,
And the only thing real
Is the mist,
In the mist
A temporal moan.

A regards to the singlular
Chaos,
But life dwelling is not a
Trek alone:

   I forecast order in a feminine
Touch that clouds the menacing
Aloness,
That order feminine
Which will throw away old
Things lukewarm in my
Memory,
The old cup that barely bears
The insignia of my team,
An order feminine which will
Prearrange all the chaos
And let me fill it's orders,
A space all my own,
A dusty garage
And all the feminine order
Will not follow me there,
But direct like a good woman
Does pushing behind every man.

An oder feminine like the sweet
Smelling home she scents
As with everything she touches,
    The chaos will never truly
Die,
It will slumber and awaken a few times a week,
An occasional game and fire and meat,
And filling in the time
Between the spaces,
An order feminine
Diguises a brute and differs
Into a man.

Tell me if you heard this one,
I was at a bar,
Ok that's it but the rest is mine,
I was at a bar last night
Sifting through slurs
And undulating whimper
On daily pestful subjects
I thought should be left at home
Or be drunken under the table,
           And in the jungle
Of blurr a voice like a tiny God
Came to me and said
Things that didn't make sense
    But sounded so alluring at
Ear's tickle,
   Such words shouldn't be
Wasted in a bar with a variety
Of urban sloths and various
      Creatures that remind
Me to leave the bar at 1
Because I might take one home
With me at 2.
      I took her words
And sifted through them
Like I imagine God would
When He makes a soul,
    Saying, you're going to hell
And your going to Heaven,
    Since I could tell her
Verbiage was passive and rehearsed,
     Such beauty wasn't meant to be spewed,
    Under a tortured light
That shows the faint
Lines under everything
I said to her,
" Baby, shut up, lets make beautiful music together! "
     Little did she know
She didn't have a chance,
     Poets never do against
A musician.
    Suckers!