Silk skin, pale as the lotus petal,
Glistening with pearly sweet nectar,
Touch of molten metal.
Sensation collector.
Sensual running fingertips,
Over prickling hair.
Sweat, beads and drips.
Breathe in the amorous air.
Deep breath, heave and swoon.
Fresh, tastes like mint.
Exotic flowers bloom.
Caresses, sparks on the flint.

Memories glide,
Murmuring through,
The effluent tide,
Of neural pathways that grew.
Synapses tingle,
Meticulously awaken,
When the eyes grows single,
The soul shaken.
And the eye sees light,
Gleaming out of the dark,
And as day come from night,
Hark the call hark.
Spinning in a vortex of vision,
Everything magnified and repeated,
Peering through the prism,
Holographic and completed.
Glimpse into the supernal landscape,
Gaze at the wonders of the universe,
Within yourself lie ecstasy escape,
Within flowering passion submerse.
Wanderer of the continuum,
Passed beatific boundaries elated,
Heart beats to the conundrum,
Collapsing back in to what is created.

A surging, endless lamentation,
Of past mistakes created.
A shrill eternal ululation,
Never to be sedated.

Visions through a fish eyed lens,
Full of unwavering scope.
Kaleidoscopic patterns descends,
Organic structures full of hope.

As the patterns turn over and under,
Weaving themselves in delicate filigree.
Colour and shape blended asunder,
Emerges the silhouette of an ancient tree.

Bearing fruit that initiates elation,
And sweet nectar that electrifies.
Flowers bloom, ornate decoration,
A tribute to the ethereal beauty that it supplies.

Golden flavoured aromatic vapours rise,
Bioluminescence glowing grand.
Its purpose difficult to surmise,
Growing graciously tall it does stand.

Then violently the tree it does ******,
Itself from its essence.
Leaving us with ourselves to trust,
In our veracious nescience.

It’s branches and leaves now just a memory.
The after taste seems so bitter,
And with it leaving a given summary,
Of our concepts that dither and flitter.

A trembling realisation.
Show me your soul and I’ll show you mine.
Torrid and flustered anticipation,
As we gaze at one another our hearts align.

Hold onto that moment,
In its singularity benign.
Postponing atonement,
Clutching on to the supposed divine.

Pragmatic paradigm shift.
From the echelons of infinity.
Negativity gently drift,
As we accept our divinity.

The awkward jutting out of spiny branches,
And a monotonous tone bellowing through the chasm,
The reverberation of sound an incomprehensible spasm,
And the shaking of rock with threats of avalanches.
Something’s happening in my mind’s eye.
Something weird, darksome and ambiguous.
As the shattered memory flew through us,
Ransacked the minds metaphors with a dusty cry.
Whale song and bird song mixing together.
Entwined like two lovers twanging in their movement.
A blast of brilliant light in the cave of thoughts, an improvement,
And singing in a strange tongue relishing forever.
The misshapen figure of my spirit guide,
Blurry in the distance and emerging from the light.
Images of my soul a riding black knight.
The two come together walking in stride.
Leading through corridors and passages bleak,
To a landscape thwarting the concepts placed within it.
And striding through its swerving scene ideas bound and tight knit.
And set fire to itself with plumes that reek.
Choose a word, I choose access,
Hear that word ring out growing in its beauty and elegance.
Then ****** violently from one place to another, the relevance?
Not understanding the situational nexus.

There once came a tale that didn’t want to be told.
It shuddered in the light of the voices decrepit and old,
That tried to conjure it at the peripheries of its boundaries.
But it fought back lingering in its formation in the foundries.  
It would not be cast so easily like metal,
It would not be set so willingly in stone,
It would float on the tip of the tongue a fragranced petal,
It would bounce on the edge of the mind an ineffable tone.
Never drifting too close to anyone’s ear,
It remained in the distance away from the sages and scribes,
Always aware of its greatest fear,
To be misinterpreted by the way a human describes.
For who in all of creation has the ability to tell a story such as this?
With all the glory and irreverence so subtly intertwined,
The colour so luminous, and texture beating with bliss,
With no earthly writer could this yarn be aligned.
The muses who birthed this defiant prose did weep,
When they saw their child miss its chance for eternity again and again,
They beseeched their progeny to take the leap,
But over and over it would say no and cause them such pain.
And in the absence of this story the world fell in disarray,
Chaos ran wild and fear grew rife,
Without the stories guidance, the part it was supposed to play,
Soon it came to the end of its life.
For the humans had lost their ability to imagine such a story,
And it was lost in obscurity, unconceived glory.
It was then it saw the errors of its foolish way,
It tried to enter their thoughts but could never stay.
It was now far too late,
It had created its fate.
And everything turned grim, in a darksome pit
When it realised no one would remember it.
And the moral of the story is this,
Take this token a gentle kiss.
Play your part and play it bold,
Let your story be one that’s told.