A sleep so sound

As to only wake

The dreams of others

Where armstice

Is given to thought

That wanders beyond

The jeweled dawn

In a defection of insensitivity

A quality of oppression

To look on beauty

And wear its lightness

In generosity, a generosity

Of mutual attraction

That bargains not for purse

But wealth much more sought

To sleep a million dreams

To bask in a different version

Of that which is the same

To have that embrace

Or metaphor entwined within

Yes and awaken with a smile

A smile, a smile, just a smile

I hear a whisper on a spirits curve

In vast isolation's of exaggerated stresses

Become touched with fire

My mind adrift with a beautiful squandering

Of inclusion which acquires an uncanny capacity

To breed, to reproduce to have floatations

Such flotillas of words that sail across my horizon

An armada of silent sound for such as is their rebirth

These whispered words that dot my waves

And leave my lashes blinking at their boldness

For they are the words, they are, they are the words

The color of  lost time

The color of white on  an horizon

The color of midnight in the garden of words

The color of sound pealing in a vast sea of bluebells

The color of thought indentured to compelling

Imunities that complain of authenticities so intence

There are cloistered calls for an incantatory language

of soft colored vowels a,e,i,o,u

In an enigmatic language of legitimacy

That wrests the color of colors from themselves

And provides a history of the world in 13 tweets

What meaningfulness

Of historical process

That undermines itself

With irrelevant ineptitude

Of the unpredictable

Concatenation of events

A resolution sought

Less with human intention

Than with achievement

Of contending collapse

Of its experience

And reflects the

Divine informalities

Of exuberant desire

Have I been given worth

And in my hour of need

Alone, alone again indeed

Have I been given worth

That divine deformities

Present themselves upon me

Bind a hideousness of shackle

To an already confined bone

That desires a rent of tears

For folly, if folly be its place

Or something greater has its owe

A valorisation of humane feeling

Or mighty angers friends

In diabolical theater

Have I been given worth

And in my hour of need

Alone again, alone again indeed

Space confines

and Reminds me

all that we are is thought

Preoccupation what is it

It is on this occasion

With a subliminal HERE STOP

One that finds itself

In a starry, starry night

But for all its efforts

Can not go forth as before

To live anymore, to live a particular more

For no other chapters are available

They are all preoccupied

Preoccupied with DUST

For as preocupational moments go

DUST is pretty much well up there

With the best for all things return

Return to a subliminal HERE STOP

To DUST, yes to DUST, just DUST