Her eye's crochet the sweetest honey taste, from afar i canst touch her face; in only dream state for now.

Though ourn spiritual confections are locked in sky mode, heavenly perfection; myth's to men, reality of the unseen beauty.

Namelings of celestial fountain springs, nubivagant moving and dancing; aye, aye, none tears to cry.

Fears shed like scales, new thoughts, new thinking; eating pomarious delights, the river of life from which comes ourn drinking.

Surrounded, soon shalt we be, where tree's art high as sloping hills, where breath gives life; where life is free.

Impigrity wilt help us as we'll focus on scenes, aloft places believed; to be lost or fabricated.

Though the sights shalt be real,
As ourn latibule wilt be close;
To the field's that bloom yellow,
Wherein the grass is to thy waist,
And thy feet like pillows feel.

©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poets poetry
©earl jane nagley dedicated