If it is to be, is it devoid of becoming ?

kgotsofalang-naha-i-ntp Poems

Well then, if we agree, it is not odd that one man's filth is another's wealth or that the true pleasures comes from a magnitude of abnormal achievements; anticipation of gray shades on human error is our life's constant coefficient. Perception betrays with its blindspot: Fate tracks always meet, not here, but only in the impossible mind's sight; intentions beats recognition as we commence on thin sheens crawling to overtake that lens where highlight captures pretense cleansing darkness. So we could stand up, move on, darling, you and I, until the glare tick out the rest in the worst nothing changes, for all the blazing of our drastic style, but leading hands that move forcefully from adorable to done. We raise our arguments like a diluted depict heave to a better angle for screen clarity shake logic with escape of comfort and contradict ourselves for humor;then pixels leak raw wind dries our stand and we put on the heights as an oath; love is a tinted gloss who insists her associates play in the rain. Now you, my sophisticated fading icon, would you have me carry the dry lands Or swallow the future and coat consequences to store them on a cloud, down the server in one language: Drawing vowels from a loop through the dark we only left with [L.P] played at 3:33 am should it overwhelm the almost awake town. cycling phoenix never stops to frame If it should, should it be real or should it sketch drunks upon the vignette and Rands spent in dubious doorways Our Valentine habits, engraved decoders dining close to burning candles with our expired heads; I donate applauds, until the same cause attacks again scattering image from imagination, recovering from ghost shots of exposure. The rise leans down to hook; the resounding leak in the dustbin sinks and drowns; we consume divine west and east and sigh how do you do, and then how do you do again to a blind breathing routine till our harsh melodies reaches to call for a cut on our restored scenes; capturing photocopied reflections, shutter opens where black or white begins and separate the film from focus: the philosophy of absolute apertures exposed in a retina of moralities which idealist call absolute, and rationalist, myth: an insight like the prism of mirrors: The result that mangle direct gaze is flipped, while knowing the secret of their glaucoma is going; some day, to move, and drop, trace a wound that heals collections only to reopen as flash thickens: So we shall walk barefoot on chatroom walls build our bed as high as a dead silhouette; Duplicating the pain in our own tears: Today : we start to pay the optic with each infrared, yet love knows not of perception nor reality above the simple sum of collages.