I dreamt once of a monk;
Who put paddle to water and wandered over oceans.

My dream;

My dream dreamt of women,
Draped in towels
Dripping their sweet sweat on his brow.

My dream;

My dream leaves me empty,
I dream of celibacy.

My dream?

I dreamt of ancient monasteries
Filled with mausoleums
And gravestones to great men,
A shattered core;
Where monk fearfully
Utter panic sing,
Convincing,
Pleading,
Hoping,

There is a pure thing.

These walls have eyes you know.
Another aesthetic second,
spoiled by the wailing walls
of a Meadow vale.
Moonbeams blowing at my web,
life, leased and brief.
Another eclectic second fused
by well and worn strings.
Their half life
A heaven of my thoughts.

Time Tracing.
Taken thoughts through broken seconds.
Once again,
this enclave,
this oasis
holds shadows of shattered city folk
who repose in yellowing leaves
and heavy air.

A manufactured spirit roars outside this  fundamental square;
a pulsating rolling mechanical moment
that turns tears to poison.

Down the road ancient gods bleed in forgotten palaces
where only the old worship now.
Youth sees hate;
Youth sees lies;
Youth sees life;
Outside the
burning heart.