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