Crescendos and arpeggios alleviate the pressing
of residual enfilades of harmonies created,
raising the frequencies of thee.
.
Primordially placing seeds in the fertile heath
wandering with Orion's lead.
Sirius B'eing chronically appealing.
.
Our tranquility will rely on the apogees of the moon
and the crescendos of our eternal music.
A belaying maestro raising our moods with diction.

Calm
the moments near sunrise
.
The comforting embrace of home
The security
.
Shadows crept slowly
across her majesty
lighting up the rolling hills
.
The sheets of white seem to glow
where the window's silhouette glides
.
I marvel only for a moment
as if not to hamper on the creation
of this marvelous situation
.
A sleeping angel
should be left to her cradle

Time is a fine blade.
Where the present moment
is the cutting edge of reality.
The pinnacle;
the very platform
in which we stand.

Thunder rolled offshore
by the dancing light horizon.

I sat quietly on a wicker chair.

Through the boring pouring
on that somber, humid morning
open seas were surly churning
the fathoms of the mind.

I creaked atop that wicker chair.

Facetiously; I was grieving.
Though in fact I was not leaving
the waves did seem appealing.

I spent the daze careening
on that rickety wicker chair.

A glimmering sunrise
set to blaze open
the rolling grey clouds
.
A candor in quiescence
over breakfast
.
What's more to
marveling the horizon's
light from parting haze?
.
The soft, lapping waves
rolling in the distance
.
By a candle lit
candor
over breakfast

I usually have the same awe struck wonder
every time I'm immersed in nature.
A grandiose moment to capture,
surrounded by the gigantic architects of life
seasoned with the peppering of cyclical torrents.
The ballistic mist that envelops the cascade,
today; the same, I sat quite steadily.
What I found within the wonder and awe
was a belonging
an abode.

You will be okay.
...
The world isn't jealous of everyone, but you.
Under its golden crown, it expulses you from happiness.
You have found cell bars hiding you away from the plastic people
who haven't discovered that their hinges are coming loose.

The world isn't afraid of everyone, but you.
Under its golden crown, you aren't there.
The world thinks it has buried you
but the hinges are coming off.

The world is absolute,
flourishing massacres with its sharp tongue.
It explodes our rights, masking them like supernovas;
something needed for life to continue.

You'll be okay. Don't let them take you down.
Up above, in the skies far from Earth, there is a crown.
This one isn't golden, silver, blue or green.
It is our minds.

You'll be okay. I promise you.
Take back your thousand suns and be happy.
Knock the crown off the world's head and
claim the one hidden amidst the clouds.

Take it back. For you. For me. For everyone.
Retrieve our minds.
Once upon a revolution.
...
You'll be okay.