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Mar 2
That night,
Jehovah the Almighty,
the god of armies,
who rescues
those belonging to him,
heard your soul is screaming for relief from the world. so he poured  down the gift
Of seeing and hearing pass the painted gates
of false realities down into rain.
The almighty felt compassion
and sympathized
with you knowing well,
How, mankind would create numbers,
and time; in an attempt to hold the weight of their loss,
as they descended from perfection,
all they would create, all of these things
are lost,
things, and people by people,
heart, body, skin, all these are dead or dying,
all which we create flee from us; or we from them...
and yet,
The soul remains, where only its maker can find him. 
I have read the lost words stains across time that deny the hands that gave them life,
and some of these, have called themselves poets.
However, if the things I have said your ears do not hold,
you are not a poet.
You are just a watcher
replicating the ghostly dead shadow,
true beauty of the now, bodiless poet.
Still, this is also the truth.
Perhaps you are in a love' with a poet.
Or they have loved you,
When you should not have been loved,
And, you yourself,
did not love them in truth;
Please, Give pause to your stellar tide  of suffocating emotion,
raging, on and on about your own heaven"
Be wise, all of you...
That you do not destroy
The wanting heart that has loved you...
When you should not have been loved,
do not become hasty,
If you believe that you must go,
Before the day of departing,
do not agitate the air for a day, then
with no provocation,
stare through their ***** body whilst they Ly there in the night,
Scouting the world of your dreams in a panic because they cannot find you, not knowing that unlike them, you have to awaken;
for every night while you are asleep,
The poet searches the darkness in your dreams,
For vengeful demons,
of lingering thoughts
of false things that darker demons
sprinkle down to defile the free
water of truth God gives in the rain.
Do not forget that their god,
has been given the authority of the air,
for now, how that one's only wish
is to **** love,
be wary,
for although they
are empty,
as the air that owns them,
they are wearing human faces, in your dreams,
With eyes earth has never seen,
No mind has ever measured;
Only the poets can see through this painted reality.
Yes, that one who has loved you achingly,
through tides,
Of time, and tears, sprinkle of joy.
All of which you will take once you go,
yet his is the only soul
Who stands up to die for you,
every time
The silenced break the shield
from the moons light,
descending on love,
And dreams,
only the poet rides out to meet them
Standing in defence,
at the edge of mid-heaven
Behind the great nimbus gate;
across decades nights abound that you
have yet to sleep and dream...
So please, just stop!
And,  just wait a little while longer,
Soon the Bodies in the poet will come out once they have called down to The soul,
who is a ***** to the body,
and yet who is master of a universe,
they will call him back out from the abysmal cliffs
a day with death was named,
so he escaped,
down into endless mist,
in order that he may write his translation,
Of what he felt while imprisoned,
In the body between two heavens of water and wind.
When they see your eyes, they will be inspired;
Because a human being tore through their skin,
Even, if you did not love them.
Instead of just watching them
As they decipher time,
and die,
In love with you deeply.
Right now,
for just a few hours,
or days, months,
or more
Whatever your heart and mind can spare...
Wait with them there,
just for a little while,
And those last of days that you know
are coming, and yet
they do not...
Do not be so bothered with the weight of their days,
They did not ask, to be wind.
They are often forgotten
before they have gone.
A heart Unseen, and yet;
somehow strong enough
To wash the world away.
Did you not know that they hold the weight
Of questions,
no one else can imagine asking,
And every day,
of their lives, they will die for the answer.
only to die, as a child;
with all of the answers,
Yet, none of the high from raging days.
You must know that when you have left
Their heart, do not leave it in pieces; laughing
Hysterically knowing,
how they disappear,
without your eyes to find them
in the constant ebb of earthly mornings,
How they haven't slept anything, 
more than an hour
In the past year, without the scarf
of your gentle goodnight,
and still,
they will their souls,
pass speed of light and sound, through
aeons, ageless,
through worlds
without time,
with their poet ears and
lovers eyes they will their souls
Into your dreams each night, unseen;
For he is a watcher in the sky behind your eyes
The keeper of mid heavens 4th nimbus gate, do not crush his spirit unwittingly while carving away his heart,
I implore you, take heed.
If you do this, love will not find you;
And your screaming soul,
will die without comfort,
The winter of your heart will only
Bring you even colder winds,
and your old, cold heart will freeze;
Even if you walk across the sun itself,
As you walk across
the fire of that emptiness,
The winter stone below your swallowed chest,
will not come undone.
So listen and please; Take heed,
all you who love the poet,
Take heed please,
that you do not **** 
Your poets love,
For, if ever you love a poet
You must know,
how their soul wains away,
tired with doubt,
Scarcely surviving this reality,
That, they
Cannot believe,
no matter what;
Even as the hours,
subtly peel away
Strands of skin while in the pit
Of night they battle back the demons
Of the helpless lovers weeping,
while their beloveds
Leaving has left open all the gates and doors that
That once held back the godless demons,
Who wait outside the windows of every lover
Heart and mind,
to tear apart,
those left behind.
Pouring bitter flames down their open ears
While they dream,
Shifting dreams of their faithless beloved.
thus, the true poet's burden,
such noumenon occur,
deciphering the disappearing words wafting
Without time nor place
That only a few thousand others every 100 years
Have seen,
There is no glory in poetry.
One cannot pretend,
you will know when you can't escape.
Every poet dies from the weight
of their own words,
it is infinitely slow-slow murderous rain.
Ilion gray
Written by
Ilion gray  Brooklyn, new york city
(Brooklyn, new york city)   
     Jules, MJL, Crow and Perry
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