Not to **** it,
or cry songs of deferred hope
and countless threats

But...

*sometimes the Spirit-Soul tires
and longs to return *Home,
regardless of death.

Writer's block stroke like ethereal pottery, but just can't touch to feel the pulse. It's nothing to those with that inner zeal poetry, but just lack guts to fill the part. We're Silver lines, the reason our God is enigma's got the World coveting. Uncivilised to us that they can't see...the irony of their stigma is what's got the World conceiving. Thorough Bread always falling on the buttered side, the devil's hate for a Maverick misunderstood. I turn my head against the battered side for the simple sake of managing what's missed under this good. Picture Grandma's souvenirs in the living room, untouchable as if waiting for Jesus himself to come test us. Remember Grandpa's sober years when he was still living, shrewd and uncrushable...you'd have to be a Genius yourself just to reach a consensus. 10 years old words sprouting from this Sinner's mind to growing grey hair...
Man, fear is too old in this World clouding Silver lines from this pouring rain scare...

"To all the fallen Kids, Heroes and Sheroes that fell victim to the massacre of June 16 1960, Sharpeville, Soweto…
Callings for new Seeds and Haloes, we pray for new Victors and Messiahs…coz still we ask “So where to?”*


Worthy knowledge deserves the one who will acknowledge, it found another, he was in shortage, threatened, he found joy in carnage.
Retaliation turned sour, as we shed tears for fallen heroes. Rest in peace to all the Petersens, the Malcolms and the Bikos.
Great minds edify and think beyond limits and sky.
This systematic routine of life laced with politics and economy infiltrates us numb, living in a liberated space and yet at times feeling so dumb.
To equip oneself with the truth, the past, broadens the mind with a quality that will seize to last.
A continent, must be God’s definition of art, beautifully authentic ancient dark civilization…envy must’ve burned the heart.
Propaganda made victims, a disease intended to chronic; now all that’s seen is reversed conscious, invincible and sonic.
Pride is you, continent, head up, chest up, we becoming confident. Mother of the soil shining naturally yet shining somewhat redundancy.
Reconciliation over retribution, an astounding virtue, still forging a social democracy.
Peace will be hard to find in this pandemonium world.
True healing comes from divine providence, I was told.
Male and female, human beings, we need to perceive each other like nature, true identity knows no stranger.

Bubbled inside a raindrop as the pressure descends to a whirl that needs us, plus inertia...pop, here lies the jungle inside the main cause measured by Rand in a World that breeds lumps, must be Cancer. Caught up in thoughts of no authority, what else can one do in this dispiriting zeitgeist? As I plot these dots of hope analogy, maybe there's still a chance in these persisting guidelines. Calls of Monks chanting on bright skulls and we seem eager to hear the voice of God, which leaves a lot to be desired like mastering the bright stars in the deep Ether, just to bear this void of course. New waves come and go disguised in these ageing times Apocalypse, the past shouting names of old sinners coming back to life with disgust, like ***-changing minds...I'm appalled by this. Modern demigods blinding clairvoyance with binding flamboyance, and it's hard to sense a touch of innocence there. If it's not the Flaming Sun, then why is it global tolerance for my people to perspire despair in such abundance here??
Dark Clouds cover the mission of Churches along with the diluted message, while Half-Brothers fail to spread their scriptures for searches to diffuse these sketches...