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Izlecan Jun 14
Cue upon the shore, through the heaving,
The pull might contrive the sediment;
What subject a mere iota might have strung?
‘Twas a hist upon some certain shut.
What course might have momentum brung about?
The dust through the maneuvers or
The time through the slip of a tongue.
What course might have held that time?
May be a hiss that slithers through the waves,
Or might have been a whirlwind of an abdominal clime;
Man must, therefore, certainly thrive(!)
What hardy keeps might be  hither to chime?
Therefore, a man tolerates the bearing
Of an unfathomable crime
Through
Assuming
That
Some
Can
Still
Be
Alive.
Izlecan May 17
As the vivacity of entourage seeks to proceed
For the rivalry of no lead;
As it cleaves through the restated deeds,
And then, the attributes come to hold no chore.
As the dusk flees over the sediment and
Over to the sheets that cloister not,
The promise of another wallop seems obsolete,
Because it clings to a phase of no strike.
Once a thread back than, goes for the thrice,
And solely rebels;
If the desultory crowd lies between the creaks,
And If not,
A breath still teases for too much.
And as the rivalry becomes the leading act,
the day is made of the weavers,
and the night after that,
Seems to simply appear.
Izlecan Nov 2019
As thou leap in lieu of a lay,
Would i be eminent within a brawl of the sane?
Or,
Art
Thou
Insane?
Would I see the dilemma of
Impostures
From the very own standards;
Am i prone or mayst thou not?
One adopts too much of that haze.
Am i in tone or canst thou not?
Till the loop becomes a tease,
I acquire a bit of a bitter taste.
And like a confusion teetering a jelly cake,
I blow the candles with no such sense.
And the sheets shall not tolerate(?)
The breaths of a complete phase,
But rather a heap of the mind game;
Like an unimaginably,
Ironically,
Wandering nightmare.
Though age counts the years,
I heave for the confusion on the jelly cake;
As thou leap in lieu of a lay.
Izlecan Jul 2019
Attires of a closer regime,
Closed in on the muddling assets
of a light,
Flickering.
On a dead end street,
Through a meandering
There’s an eventful animus.
Past eleven,
P.M.
“To lobby is to redeem,
Apparently(!)
For I sin and repeatedly sin.”
Only by 1 and only through one
Single flock of wind-blown sediment,
man acknowledges life and
It’s dreadful stripe,
Laid upon a landscape;
Full of faux images of random schemes.
Well, there the ongoingness goes
Of moments that are no way chronologic
Where one plaster over another
Seems like a perfect match.
When the clock strikes to 3
A.M
Merely a sigh passes along,
Yet another minute,
On the cold street
The light knows no acuity at all.
It means for another tick,
Yet does not wait for the tock;
Tick-tock(!)
Tick-tock.
There lies 3 hour worth concurrence,
Confronted for each tock, for half a minute,
But only the seconds pass.
And with each skip that matters,
and only that matters nevertheless,
The clock goes back to
Eleven
P.M.
There(!) the gutter calls for another drink,
For another trace
On another strike.
However mournfully,
Escort of a humanly maze,
The muddling sort,
Births confusion.
The attires seem gone by now.
The heaves; quite impeccable,
The path adopts another protest,
For a much tackled breathing
Time overlaps,dreamily,
On a spectrum,
Laying as a single faceted imposture;
Mocking a postering of shed upon the pavement.
For another street that seemingly differs;
where the marching will always depend
(Regardless)
Solely on the counts of seconds
By the potency of motives
That merges as to defy
The years accounted
On the flesh and bone.
Now there goes another strike,
Audible over the plane
And
It carries on as
“To lobby is to redeem
For I sin
And sin
And sin
On a 3-hour worth strike,
Starting at 11
P.M,
Over another man’s bearing.”
Izlecan Oct 2018
Thou tangle the mortality
And seek the mourning of its course,
With an outrageous cloak  that falls adrift
To have its custom afloat.
The decorations,  thereof flatters this turmoil
That has its doubts and moments,
A longevity beheld upon the chores of the subject,
Never cognizes its everlasting trials,
For those of which handles the elation
Of successive falsification.
I know not of the clumsiness of hymns,
That sighs the mourning of a course,
The chaotic iteration of single pauses
And the faltering of a mere *****.
I know not of the turmoil
That bedecks the frostbitten clavicles,
Onto which no sigh wavers
A petition of no faze and any dome.
I know not of the cloak
That nestles around a haze;
Bringing confusion that betrays every vivid sense.
Let it be the matter, ‘tis a matter of time(!)
Would it morph itself around the mourning mould,
When it dries away with the mud?
Izlecan Sep 2018
On the heap,
Thou dangle and screech
And bedeck, for I seemingly espouse.
The anecdotes and myths:
Engaged in a mutual pose.
There comes the hymn,
And the sway and the hum;
The abnormality and the deform
Halted on a single stance.
To dozen of the tokens
Whom I prejudged;
The prevalence of the chaos
That sleeps merely on my tongue.
To all the estrangements
From which I refrain,
Within the bawl of the tantrum, upon the hook of the day.
Farewell to all, farewell the haze
Farewell the cluster,
To the resolution found within a fane;
Where rituals confuse,
Where the practice becomes a fame.
There thou taketh solely,
A hymn and an interminable haze.
Whats the sense of the ovation
When no screen displays
A mourning motion
For which no motion craves?
I sigh, and mumble
To which mere consciences giveth
To me only, mine solely.
His to hear and his, keenly.
Izlecan Jun 2018
Cataclysmic act of craving;
Driven by the motive of unknowingness,
Those made of the urges
May befriend the style of heaving,
longing, surging, sighing,moaning, knowing, embracing,
Till the matter becomes an acquaintance
Of sour taste, however intimidating.
Those of the taste shall still be unknowingly,
For the oblivion is its lifelong fool,
For thee head either towards a truth or hither a reasonable rue.

Beware the promise of the sky!
Where it shelters both the moon and the stardust;
However the course it cries,
It fosters and cloisters the air with seemingly glitter at night.
Though the gush never sweeps away the moon and the sun,
The leaves will still sway melancholically,
however tremble, with which they die.
They own thereof rhythm
Of the notes, strung by the wind.

May thy sea heave away by the sun,
Then 'tis her feet thumping by the moon.
(As it wears a repute of its own undying gloom.)
Stand thy ground, then dance hither their gravity
As you crave beyond thy own truth.
Those of the desire,
Aught to drown in a minute shade of its own very blue.
Then,
They may befriend the rules of heaving, crying, trying, accepting,
And the art of letting the flow, hopelessly and incessantly, in.
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