Solace subsides when this
               day gains ground.

But like storms passing
        a new day ebbs closer,

                           to the weekend.

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Endearment of meaningful
                               coalescing,
static in the embraces
               like stars observed.

But sincerity wonders like
                         binary stars,
closely coalescing in embrace.

We are in a abundance of  fluidic obscurity.
    Tidal forces collect the stones of creation
                     weaving them upon the shores
                                             of static boulders.

Melodic in there rhythmic causality.
        Caught in the gravitational flow
     within the onyx oceans of forever.
There are ripples in the static, migrating.

Luminous moments breath below
               the murkiness stirring life.
                   Where a crest of nihility
washes many away, but life lingers.

Like fireflies they perforate the tides
of eternity, breathing for moments
               before expelling there beauty,
to once again create elegance in a sea of darkness.

Secluded from sight, in a veil of emptiness even
starlight is destitute. Lingering no breath upon its
scared visage, a masquerade of untruths to believe in.
showered with afflictions of a system that never quits.

But obscurity hides wonders, gazing into the ether
beyond the veil is sight beheld. Its the unblemished
beauty of a universe. Elegance, pain beneath her.
beyond an exhumed silence, scared misery perishes.

For though never observed, secluded in taking the pains
forever, would scar with lamination beneath a blue
floating pearl. But tears scar the surface, all do remain
fractured reminders, a sacrifice that's never in view.

We blindly never gaze beyond the brightened side gleaming,
weathering our salvation, the dark side of the moon redeeming.

Paper scenery's hang
                             in the background,
          reproductions brought to life.
The sun casting shadows,
                        before bulbs expire.
But when the wind falls,
                  plugs pulled, the set vacant.

Well where would I pertain to start...
         it wasn't at the beginning rather the end.
For we were going out, I put on my already
     ironed jeans, ironed jeans? yes I do that.

But moving on from my habits, we move on
to another of her perception of time.
                                      those fateful words of;

                            "I'll be ready in five minutes"

What isn't told, what hides beneath these words
                                                           are as follows!

1. Five minutes to find a pair of shoes!
           the minutes start again with each disposed off
as what is time without the right footwear...

2.  Five minutes to pick a dress to try it on,
if it doesn't match ^No1!!^ then as before
             five minutes graces her thoughts again.

3. Hair she has so much,
               but if it doesn't match the occasion,
I had to buy a break proof mirror, she said the
             brush slipped, but I have other thoughts.

4. Make up? why she is beautiful without this on.
                  But for some a cover from insecurities.
each layer having to match the above and so on.

Well, I had waited patiently?
                    but five minutes collected into infinity.
I cracked open a beer, had one or two.
               then fell asleep on the sofa even the dog
looked at the clock and muffled into slumber.

She came down, looking like I had seen her
on our first date. The time wasted wasn't at all,
those moments now melted away. She has no
construct of time, but when I see her like this,
it doesn't matter how much time she takes.

Tempo of rhyme that has a distinct
             taste of perpetual numbness.
Where the rhythm of our moments
 counted down in  numeric breathes.

Antiquated concepts as in the fluidic
                         verses of where we are,
                                      Where we were,
                              and our culmination.
Momentary between noise and silence.

We are all constructs of visible passing,
within all are finite chimes
                     in the existence in eternity.
The chimes of passing never really ring,
        But shatter within, ending our time.

If he knew are ever move
            from breath to the grave,
he knows which paths will impend us
                                          to that fiery end.

If he knew it was coming,
and planned it himself.
         Then he is not omnipotent
                   but the devil himself.

Two sides of a coin,
                    that only fall on one side,
for if he was the father he has already cast us out.

My verses are sorrows
       of what I collect
       within my refection's.

But I will only tell the truth
                  of what is sunken
                  in the sockets of my sight.

"We only haunt ourselves with what we see"

**** all who wonder
             on my words.
Simplistic verbs & syllables simplicity
      attune to understanding.

Then I verbalize with intellectual
             poesy,
achieving acute constructs.

But whether I'm simplistic
        or vocalized in contorted
utterance, no one understands,
                                       me completely.

She was fruity,
     subtle aromas
fermented from her.

Watering her own garden.
                 but never letting
other taste her fruits.

Even though she was seeded
           with much delicate tastes
no other would pick upon them.

She wasn't *****,
        wanting the right person
to pick her seed and let it blossom.

Entangled thoughts hang him
                   between the realms
                   of reality.

                  The fine thread
                  that he hangs between,
the themes of life and imagination.

Soon to cocooned within comfort
                 of there reflections.
                 life or death between stands.

We are only woven as strong
       as the silk that binds us.

It may fray,
            it may discolour,
    but never will it break.

For it has a beauty that
            will still hold beauty,
    will be cleansed of any impurity.

We collect our weaves of silken humility,
                  for our humanity is soft and pliable.

It may fray, be discoloured,
            but It will always be strong.
Humanity is beauty beneath the dirt.

Hearts are broken
            with crumbled regret.

Words are neglected
             without our thoughts.

Were discarded, and our feelings crumpled.

Some of us are just carbon copies
of others wanting
              to be other than ourselves.

We should embrace our individuality,
or become stale,
                   weaker copies of another.

Impressions of self,
        show us the depth
        of our inner strength.

And no matter how
          faded we may be,  
          we'll never forget ourselves.

We need to sober up
             from the liquor
                               of lies.

And see that which was regarded,
               was through
               pain tainted glasses
               now broken.

We are woeful of echoes
           that seem to come
                             from us.

As when we hear ourselves,
                      its only silence.

Mascara smudges
                dripping,
as snowmen
              evaporate.

He loved the texture beneath his fingers, contorting folding
it into intricate forms. What was singular undefined,
now had purpose other than what it was before.
He would tear it clean, not displaying its violation that
its purity had been contaminated.
Weaving imagery into a form from what was a newly
developing formation. His thoughts were now as seen
before the eyes, yet when he was finished the beauty before
his eyes lingered for minuscule moments.

Then with the lighter fluid he would caress its form subtly
with this liquid, where once ridged edges they now wept in
collapsing embodiment of the features that defined its complexity.
And with but a finger and thumb, what could have been,
what was before him. But now struck igniting like
a momentary sun, a match lingered as if he was teasing this
inanimate object that feared neither its creation nor its demise.

He waited till it descended like a coffin knowing it was
about to be snuffed out from existence feeding on the
nourishment of this splinter until he felt it crave the flesh
which held upon it. Casting it on his creation,
it was dominated instantly in a flame that gorged
on its new found nourishment. Within moments his creation
and light were expended from this moment and all that
lingered in its place was a pile of grimy ash.

Where beauty had stemmed into creation, now there was
nothing but scarring of what was once adorned in this place.
He looked upon the world as unconditioned edges that
needed smoothing out in his own ideological view of the world.
To his eyes all was rough thoughts, and even more evading
unsymmetrical reflections of what needed straightening out.
Utilising his passion for formation he delved into the creation
of humanity, and with his still hand he decided to appreciate the
human form.

How with subtle tweaks it could be contorted in too a formation
of intricate beauty, not the stale silhouettes that graded his
sight, every motion like drones of imperfection.
He had to see what a rough endeavour would bear.
Either fruit, or a piece of artistic endeavour that would lie
crumpled disowned on the floor below.
It wasn't as easy as he had anticipated the cuts sublime but
flesh tethered to oblivion is nothing, and with each laceration
it became more of a farce than of creation.

He In frustration even though they had whimpered out there
last plea hours before he lunched at this vacant tapestry
ripping into it with the frustration, expelled source material
all over his being. He knew that this was collateral damage,
and for beauty to be formed there were going to be some
cuts that were to deep to mend. So with a sullen heart,
he cradled this fallen realization,that he needed to heed his own thoughts.

He put it in an old shopping trolley and ignited this fallen work, 
standing there feeding the congregation of two opposites.
What once was, now soot on charred grass below.
And to grade himself in books on contorting flesh and anatomy.

Needing ways that he could numb and silence flesh,without losing
the spark that wielded such beauty as it still breathed,
helping him with his creational form.
Time was evident on his further attributions, he had learnt as
one should in future accomplishments. One should learn from
past errors (mistakes) and the first was an abortion of realization.
He needed to find the inclination point where it would be how
his vision needed to be climaxed into form.

With this he had constructed a square metal frame with
segmented stages. Where he could divert this form from
humanity to his desired form.
He could not have just anyone, types or stereotypes.
One may ponder where his persuasion. Not overly skinny
or bigger proportions. For they would either tear from
the strain, or unable to contort to the desired and needed
formation of his vision that needed form.

But patience is a virtue and though it took time, he was able
to attain the needed instruments of creation.
Time was the essence he pondered, and it worked.
The frame was adjustable to expand or decrease the needed
distance and form. Now ready, so much time had passed,
but perfection isn't a clock that stays still, perfection is a movement
of time gradually showing us the motion of before now and after.

His untorn pieces, needing those of no tattoos, of no piercings.
As this would blemish his art, and either contort of split in a
time utter most delicate movements. His fingers were static
his mind as sharp as his tools to motivate this intricate
melody. He wore a ceremonial mask, as this wasn't something
to be taken lightly respect for the form and that of who
was being given this opportunity. In the background soft
instrumental music to expand his muse.

Knowing now where cuts would not induce the death of
this piece. Realizing a wrong furrow could just subjugate
this to a crumbled mess, no longer useful to him or life.
Bones were bent over time so not to break, but to contort
to his new form. Drips hung like tears, feeding the will
to live, even though they wanted to die. He furthered this
creative moment, finding himself smiling underneath
his mask.

Feeling alive again, this was his moment of creative mastery.
He started to peel flesh, this had to be in one sitting due to
the delicate time frame. What was pliable would become brittle
in form. ruining what had taken months to achieve.
The system he had set for this moment, a fine spray of
antibacterial moisturizing seeds of mist. Tt just the right level
so not to make the flesh tear or dry out and break.

It was finished, his art was realized. Now he had to display it.
But as with all creations an audience was needed.
So he cradled it gently, knowing this location would be vacant.
Calling the press on a throw away phone.
He called it, "Human Evolution" even thought it was
anything of the sort. And as cameras flashed, the world saw
his creation. And the horror of his mind contorted from reality.
On what fulfilment was contorted from perfection to this
origami muse of humankind.

Tears of Joy littered his hands, his fingers now shaking with
the anticipation that what was now done, could be done again.
When the news faded and where skin was folded,now there
was just a person. A contorted remembrance of what
humanity can achieve. Tears flow like floating paper boat
on a stream, this one hasn't sunk yet. But this was one of
many creations to come, for what is the body if not art
to be gazed upon.

Last time I was hung over,
     I was wearing
               the wrong face.

Having a headache,
                  blurs perception,
     I picked the wrong me
                                 to display.

Obscurity is woven
           on our soles.
But when we
                    sleep,  
darkness's entombment
             enshrouds us all.

Showing him the  
            up and over
             maneuver.

He tries, succeeding.
            I'm a big boy,
                      smiling.

Woven with secretions of midnights veil,
Its fur absorbs full moons light now stale.
Through its piercing eyes that follow shifting
shades, daring to attain its glare precariously drifting.

Abiding its time as night decays, fractured sights
let in the breath of inclement silence, coldness bites.
whispering through halls, but shuddering when
this onyx mystery speaks, winds shudder becoming thin.

This place is a citadel of muteness, where one
voice to be only spoken, it never gestures than
with some intent, but wears many facades
changing its outfits, ever enjoying its odds.

For what is life without a challenge, its master
returns, those whose thought he was the caster
when spoken through a ventriloquist of self
as who holds the blame not her, but himself.

My veil was
               inconspicuous,
       never showing
that behind each drape of lies,
                                holds a truth.

They shone in the obscurity
                      of every sunset.
Eyes absorbed  every teardrop
        that welled in there vacant
                           tombstone eyes.

But they were more than
                                    obscuration,
       within the stages of radiant demise.
They collected the bounty of those that
      versed from the sacred paths of hues.

There were those that had feel between
          optic blades and the indistinct gleams
that were contentious wounds that were
                                       underhanded shades.

                 The tinges, neither pure of light.
And those that feel in the eclipse of darkness.
        But it was a secret conclave of those
                 who were fractured between both.

But within the collective of shade
                                            and illumination.
Where those that versed the combination
as a sacrilege to the foundations
                                   of eternities motion.

Everyone but a few colluded to  constant versions,
             qualified  hues had to change,
                             or the universe would grow stagnant.
And so began the feud between the shades
         of perpetual opacity.

As the evanescence shimmers
                     where all where falling
                     like dead stars
cleaving within the benighted landscape.
We all glared like life was burying its self.


But they walked between us,
           shimmers of what was wanted.
           And the reputations of our reflections.
Everything must evolve, even the reflections
that fall between the cracks of life's obscurities.

Tranquillity, the sea
                     I drown within.

Though no waves,
                I'm immersed
                          beneath.

Stillness withdraws,
                 breathless.

We are all stepping stones of
                  conscious emotion.
Never realising where our
                    footprint may reside.


Every smile collects on another's
                            unique harmony.
We collect coins to throw in each
                       hearts pooling ecstasy.


Never do we ponder which foot may
                                   take the first step.
Even though all ripples are distinct,
          our heart is the stone dropping.


"We fall for those who catch us,
          "No matter who's smiles catch us,

I'm  just a page of lingering
          smiles, static in the eyes
of those that gaze
                           upon my memory.

Collections of stories of what made
           me, me. We are only paragraphs
or just words in the history
                           of tomorrows thoughts.

Create what makes us a reflection of
             what was, and now has been seen.
We create our future in our living moments.

Woeful are the tears
           that a word was not
                 pondered upon.

Just neglected,
          or ignored in haste.
Words just painted over.

Never seen in true virtue,
         just sentenced to ignorance,
         due to inattentive readers.

A fluency within a displacement
                                 of symmetry.
      Empathy lingers after factual
      embers leave charcoal stains.

                 The nib static,
                                          so much
                          without a gesture
                                  of movement.

God is like hide and seek ,
           but you're the only one
           trying to find someone
                       who isn't really there...

Colonial buildings litter the sidewalk,
derelict and rundown. A past that
is fading into the bustle of the street.
Casts mingle, but prejudice lingers.

Tuk-tuks weave through out streets,
collecting tired feet that need a rest.
collecting lunch off street venders,
who greet with smiles, as aromas linger.

Street children, parentless masses sit
on the steps, hands wondering for rupee's.
The taxi doesn't stop, so they shower the path
with change, and they think of their baby at home.

As the old world fades, heritage still lingers.
but contradictions of what was and is contest.
Old ways grasp at the change, but our streets
will soon be a metropolis of fading faces.

"Is this a good thing? or are we moving to fast.

Abandonment lingers deeply
                     scaring my heart.
                     as I breath my last smile.

I look at the stars knowing that just
              like me, they will fade in pain.

She was woven within the clouds
but never really settled on cushions of
                pearls that never rained down truth.

Her inclination tainted her wings of
        subjectivity, and she washed her
past off her, feathers descended in sorrow.

Tears crumbled as the truth that all wasn't
                    as was shown stripped her of virtue.
She never flew again, to show her solidarity for truth.


Her wings did open, but to show the strength
                   of even though she didn't soar
                   she was of the air of truth, faithful.

Soiled streams, that never
           find a mouth to taste
upon the nectar of life's nourishment.

Seeping like pure tears of loss,
             but life doesn't drink only.
             Neglected and stale stains linger.

Nourishment of a soul only
                          echoes the loss,
   never needing life's bounty.

Some like to daydream through life.

          I like to open my eyes and see
                  the negative & positive.

                          "We learn when we look"

But you keep daydreaming your rose-tinted reality.

Moments
        elongate
to forever,
            without you.

Emotion is
    the fibre
      loves
               weaved within.

We're  not
cleansed until  
               we've been *****.

Our environment
                     writes
our
      words for us.

You thought I was your dog,
bound by a leash, but even
though it was tight, I knew,
that time is an eventual release.

Pulling on me, etching of
fingerprints collect on a throat,
A painting of painful worded hued
like the leash was cutting deeper.

But even though I never bit back,
I was blighting that which kept us close.
Every time you pulled that leash,
always a moment further away released.

Your love wasn't what it pertained to be,
I was leached from our first kiss.
But now I bark louder as our vows are
scratched out as I walk out unleashed.

I wear the scars of your keeping,
but I don't hide them, I wear them
in pride of never been restrained by
another's  need to control my life again

I was richer on the street than
any riche who swung his wrist
like a pendulum swaying like
others owed them respect.

Throwing leaves of wealth at
us thinking we were migrant
gardeners picking, cleaning up
there garden of smirking pity.

But while they slumber in sheets
of old slave mills. I have gratitude
that my sheets are full of my pain.
Full of tears, on cold woeful nights.

I collect myself in dignity of living
below others feet, but my riches are
what I've learnt, that put me higher
than any would be kings or thieves.

Words are that which  empower me
as I slumber on clean sheets of syllables,
weaving into my dreams. Then woken
by a librarian letting me humble my mind.

This place is my castle that never falls,
where I have risen higher than there feet.
But still I gaze from below, as I do not need
a castle, the streets are my pages this I speak.

All that oppose your thoughts
      are not always the enemy.
      But rather a point of learning
      that can open pages of
                                     deliberation.

For if we do not attain every corner,
       and only look within one
       then we will never grow.
       but always be truthful to your own  
                                                subjectivity.

I am a handful of sorrow,
            & a tear full of joy.

I am a heartbeat of anguish,
       & a singular beat of happiness.

We are all a reflections of opposites,
        & yet a representation of neither.