Will it be that phantom lovers
Illustrate kisses of moon flowers
Within Its dreams and send it
upon your woozy current of sleep?
How they press upon your pillows
for souls to speak a fragrance ever so sacred
Never for a soul to keep.
So shall it be with a moment
when you draw in its scent
Will the summoning of you fall echoing
in every depth of your endless compass,
Indulged in content
Reaching you to the shadows of the naked trees
Where the bats come to greet
thrown into the swelling of the seas- surging
And thronging of the white blooded elite
amidst the women, who are oh so petite.
I realize
I am in my dream.
Walking abundantly in my spiked sheath
Matching the flickering of the suns wreath
Offering the sacrifice of my fanged teeth
To halo the acres of sunflowers
That beam from your face.
Only true mother nature can tremble a thousand souls of envy
by the extol that is not from her grace
In that case
**** all that is true
Send it to the dreams of hell
in a black box adorned with fine lace
With kind words of thank and you.
I stay green all through my rind
I tell myself, don’t follow the blind
I tell myself don’t act unkind
I tell myself don’t abide combined
Speaking malign
Whispers now become wails preaching
Be in the right state of mind!— Peace of mind.!
Abandon the unrefined!
Remind that we are all mankind
!that we have been assigned
to stay on the grind!
And meanwhile find
The shadow we leave behind!
And finally answer
why do we comply to a life so confined!
And all in all
I am still asleep
Concocted in a libertarian dimension so passionately deep
Driving my souls energy to rejuvenating madness it weeps
Emptying clouds carrying legions upon
legions of breathing ancient seas.
Reducing utopia, exiting the scenes.
Now choked door and blackness
Weightless amongst the scanning of chakras
Here iam
Dragging of feet through meadows of red
Could it be that I have awakened in the land
of the dying and dead?
Where the blood paints the sky an awful shade of red
And no specific cry will you hear
But a simultaneous screech cementing your ears.
It is not my feet that I lug
But my ****** knees that on its own dug
A grave ever so snug
That when it hugs
Ribcages become holding hands
While flesh is the feast to underground larva lands.
Like the beggar with hands who wishes for hands of alms.
Like the reader of fortunes with no voluntary palms.
As it is like a land force-fed with war and never ending bombs
These are sights that awaken me with qualms.
-Arizona