A book is a shark depicting the flight of ravens on the breath of ancients coined by the earth into indecipherable pigments. It carves a dream into the heart of the soul, a coffin and a grave carved of coral shoals. A ******* weaves its material into a sadist for a ******* again to weave gods from a tide, it implies.

Intimacy;

The ache, what holds it, clenched wings, cold air, soft eyes?

And yet, in forgetting everything, forgetting nothing; colors shed in obtrusive blindness.

What archaic endlessness, holds its world aloft?

Ashes float away and coalesce in-to waterfalls.

What gains nothing but changes quantity?

{
     Experience
    Destruction
}
defmacro chaos()

The mystery of calm surfaces might best remain so.
Wherefore, its hidden daggers might never cut.

A hillside--Wind;

Metallic beads from nowhere make tracks, that gears, follow and leave

Is the world really so simple?

My sanity is a car crash
Wrapped in ticking cellophane
Armed with the threat of cirrus clouds
It threatens rubix avalanches.
Hark, Hear the bells.
Who Awakens?

Not a song, but a place felt with sound;

Not a memory, but a time of thoughts;

Not a beginning, Not an end.
**Greet Death.