Between the fissures of our existence,
there is a moment where we must all
decay into a garden of eternal beauty.

But for us to collect on the petals of
our demise, we must surrender.
Yielding to our fears of eternal silence.

We are all but a breath from our inevitable
decay, but we still try to water dead roots
that'll never grow again, dead flowers to ash.

Were prettier when were still, vacant allotments
of thought that'll never regrow. Where just a
moment of death consumed to never live again.

Woven in time, kept as a  keeper of that most sacred.
            Becoming the symbol of devotion,  
though not moving always kept in the relative
surrounding. Arms woven tightly as rings of
ages are kept in the ever changing surroundings.

This is a collection of reflective knowledge,
ever growing as comprehension
            divides into fruits of a labours growth.
We are guided to grow, to flourish beyond the
speculation that makes are growth.

But  we must realize that with every fruit
that flourishes, that some will wilt and fall.
       But with each one nurtured by what we
collect from beneath our gaze,  we eventually grow.

A web of contusions that collect
               in strands of consciousness,
bruised sometimes but always intact.

Collecting every moment and delicately
dissecting every word as if though
                 removing a tumour of ill refection.

Showing the strength of one empowered
                 by her surroundings,
       But consumed but her twilight memories..

Sod the fumigated thoughts
that were meant to be
                           reflected upon.

My original attention couldn't
be spayed upon, like it was
              cockroaches of originality.

I'll crawl upon every blank lyric,
that seeds every page with my
                         worded heart beat.

Never can my words be confided
to the delusions of others
                      repetitive replications.

We mourn our final expiration
                         never realizing,

That we were decaying from
                       our very first..

Dilapidation upon a
                         very first breath..

Dying from the moment we were born.

Sheep, the lambs to the slaughter of false words,
that were breathed by the misgiving of
                                our forefathers weaknesses..

But what is a word, it is power, and spoken in
repetitive whistles the sheep follow.
                                  stripped of there freedom
for they follow a shepherd of false promises.

Sheep are for meant for
                                   two things
to put the wool over others eyes
and to feed the hunger of another...

We weep as if were angels,
          but we just change our
                          reflections,
to a different shade.
Because angels aren't  real,
               and were only mortal
                 So look away, its not ok..

Glaciers withered within me, evaporating
into clouds of despair. I collect within a dispersal
of all that was cloudless, but now I'm slowly
reseeding within a squall of sorrows,
              withered emotions now on the cusp
of what is darkening the skies of my fortitude.

But they say every cloud has that glimmer of hope,
                        a silver lining of reflection within.
That discoloured allure faded before it began.
And now all that I'm consumed by,
              is shades of ashen contemplations.

Static discharges of emotions collide in
turbulent clashes, as words shatter
pine trees of fortitudes, splintering hearts.
Echoing from within,
                         glancing the air in discord.
Precipitation finally collapsing below.

After every storm there is a moment clarity,
where tears fell and emotions disfigured
                                another's calm ground.
Remember that when the clouds are gone
that the illumination of emotions will
shine though, and once again there is calm.

Within a casket of echoes
does the mirage of
      truth become stained
into a conciseness of delusions.
                 But still they are slaves..

Altercations of past inclinations
that merit, reflection of
                          misguided minds.
But with no morals they digress,
      standing on illusions of nothingness.

Where another doesn't tread,
                      fed to others delusions
of negativities prompting lies upon
lie with no merit only golden goblets
drinking upon the weakness of others.

We are but lines drawn
in symbolic
           echoes..
Our life is but a few lines
         that fill a book of memories
that are still empty.

But echoes call from the pages,
       and we read unto ourselves...

The days repeat,
for a lifetime of groundhog days.
that evade the conciseness.
As if hiding in plain sight
                   yet were echoes of before.

Our lives are woven in to
                     twenty three hours,
fifty nine minutes,
                  sixty seconds of rinse & repeats.

Where caged in our meaningless
             eventuality.
A mind numbed,
    by the sanitation of our existence,
                 a reiteration of life's decay.

Where does the throws of
                        me start,
I'm an integrated silhouette
among the many shades
that walk in the light.

I'm not a vertical
                        abomination,
standing on my own two legs
before I began the humiliation
of crawling in this life...

I gaze upon the  gritty
                                reflections
of what is dead but lights up
the darkness above my eyelids..

Where does the throws of
                        me start,
Is there a purpose to my
existence am I just a flicker..

Waiting to eventually dim out..

The weeds must be
                         purged,
for they smother the
                        potential
to let  flowers grow.

For without it,
        the earth suffocates,
And eventually even flowers
              will lose their petals.

We each have found
                     that hole,
that keeps us under our own
           perspective of life.

Till that one who grabs
            that handle,
and digs for you.
    digging deeper, wider.


On the precipice of falling
into this void of there making,
              they stare deeply.
Looking at him asking.  
                                
          "Why,

"What is a hole, if its sides
                         are not vertical.

Looking perplexed at the words
                of this stranger...

"Not every hole has to be yours,
            "But when we work together,
"We create the steps to walk upon.

"You have to dig deep to find the way out,

Were all have our own holes,
               sometimes burying us deep.
But when a voice of another speaks of
                                         there moments,
and how they fell deeper.
It only takes those steps of thought
               to eventually realize
that not ever hole buries us.

But we can eventually step out.

I saw eternity for that
                           moment
A singularity of reflection.

Hearing the breeze,
                I heard there voices
whispering,
       don't let go daddy...

But they were a mirage
               of my subconscious.
I was a bird with no wing
                          for which to fly.

But in that moment I wanted
                        to live, to breath
A step had been taken
         regret solidified on my features

Sometimes we wish to take that
                                  faithful step.
But sometime we need to
                                  step back..

Realize that even though now
                               is anguish,
that another day dawns
                   and life's petals fall.

We need not take that moment
                             into the breeze.
Let our contemplations
             mould our reflection,.

And realize that step isn't worth it.

Collect me in moments,
          and then play a slide show  
on tattered white sheets.

Within the creases you'll find
          all that was hidden,
collected out of perceptions view.

I'm more that what is seen,
      in the ruffles you'll
                                  see the true me...

Frozen baubles before first frost
only spring can thaw
                              these out..


What its cold outside....

Interlaced within the legitimacy
of a vessel whispering
                        logical truths.

For knowledge of fatalism
        shows me that false words
collected ignorance.
            Where open eyes see the
  truths hidden before our eyes.

Feed my uprooted soul,
                            please,
I implore of you.
Don't let me wither and die;
water me generously
               and most graciously,
let me breathe
                        again;
else I die before I blossom.

For without petals to show
the allure
                   of my meaning,
I lived for less than
                                nothing.
but when you discovered my
enchantment lingering within
petals you unconditionally
                  fell within my scent..

For I'm within a garden
that sees me as a ****,
yet upon my blossoming
I have more beauty than thee.

But just because I'm not in
the same hybrid pollination
as you, petals see me as a
pest upon this garden of
there tainted illicit beauty.

When you wilt and are in
decline, I am a stem still
standing, still feeding the
nectar of others hunger.
you've all faded but I'm still here.

Where one could only place a thought on  rest,
but for a moment, reflections that are addressed  
on eyelids needing the collection of bedtime unrest.

My blankets are woven in comas of oppression
as when my eyes are entombed and depressed.
No one realizes that when they pass this dispossessed
huddle, lives life never given a moment as were oppressed.

For below this perceived cluster of a homeless man dressed,
is the dignity of man once upon a time blessed.
But I fell or stumbled, now my body slumbers on a headrest.
All that others see is a robin who lost his dignified vest.

My life is stained
       with red wine spills

Even though I've wiped
       up most...

There will always be a silhouette
                   there to remind me

That no stain ever truly fades completely..

We chase sunsets
                 not
                   realizing
that they never really fade.


It is us that sets,
             as it moves on.

I was an empty glass till
you filled me half way.

"I was never greedy"

But as I saw it
             I was a short shot
So who needs a full glass
            to get tipsy..

You were the soft wax
           I the wick...

And we burned all night

Moulding ourselves
         never drowning
the evanescence
   as we evaporated into each other.

As I bit my nails
                  wanting to taste you
beneath my fingertips

I knew then that I loved you....

Claustrophobic meetings of
                   myself in the mirror.

I'm shut in this refection,
               when I know this
          isn't me..

Pain attacks of a realization,
                       I'm stuck in this
         obituary of looks..
                        I scream only seeing within..

I stare at empty picture frames...

         Vacant memories never filled..
That moment I regret was never saying..
                                                    *"I do,

Where goldfish's  in
                   a bowl of air

Forgetting to breath...

Neglecting the beauty we see
           memories are fickle things

We swim in circles, expecting to
             noticed, but all we need to do
is realize the bowl isn't real....

I was a flower with no petals
           but still you saw deeper.

Knowing one day I would blossom.

You were every drop that watered me,
      every ray of luminosity
                            that gazed upon me.

You saw the potential of a flower
                           with no petals..
And knew that given time everything
                                                  blossoms...

Even though I walk in life,
                 in death I wonder
                                 aimlessly.

Realizing I travel more now
                  than with any breath..

For within seconds I have
                 travelled my entire life
                                 without a footstep..

And now my footprint is no more,
           but others walk over what
                              I had done before.

My reflection is here
               but my thoughts
           are dissipating..

Like an hourglass broken
                my conceptions
                       are dust...

And yet I still try to
                         remember
             every grain that fell...

Look at your hands,
          now touch your face..

Is this us, our impressions
       collected by our grasp..

Now walk bare foot in the
           garden, street..

Are these our footsteps naked under us?
                            Or repetitions of before,
that feeling that were breadcrumbs on a path.

Were not sure of ourselves
                                             we use our senses
     collectively to exist in our surroundings..

But if we had none would we be alive at all??

Are we
       grains
of sand floating

Or are we
       stones
sinking into life...

People never realize
that we were all
                mountains
once...  

But time has a way of
eroding us...
      we all become grains
on a shoreline of our existence...

She was a landmark of
            many journeys

The only quandary
            at this moment
is others had travelled
her more than self..

She was a
               penny machine
letting others deposit in her.

But she had left this emotion
                     long ago...

She collected her pennies,
         throwing them angrily
into a wishing well of despair..

I was a clock always on time,
          but under the surface
     I was winding down.

Till that finite cog cracked
      And my face became static.

I was now just an empty shell
                    with no time to tell.

My mother told me the other day
                             she had ****!!
And that she couldn't walk straight.

"I'm a cow girl,

She giggled as she told me this!!
I'm an adult, but hearing it off
your mother is quite a little bit of
                                                    cringe.

"Ok a lot of cringe worthy glances"

She laughed as she walked off asking
if we had a soft pillow..

        *"I was never using that pillow again..

Some can not shed a
             thought
                    reflecting
in the pools of there
            subconscious

What seemed
                   fluidic
                        malleable
neither applied to this
it was a skin of
                      rigid refection.

If one does not open the regressive
estuaries of the
                             cognitive
reality they wonder in,
needing to shed the epidermis
of retired outdated reflections.

Like a tainted mirror they will
slowly fade from the fluid of
mankind's endless potential.

Love is a suicide note
                        to the heart,
Paper cutting your emotions
                      till blood writes on it
           "I'm sorry but thoughts are cheap"

Love is a suicide note
                        to the mind
whispering sweet lullabies to sanity
                       till unthoughtful truths word
            "I'm sorry its not you, it's me,

Love is a suicide note,
and my love
          just hung itself on a tree of
reflection, static and lifeless..

A heart  plays charades
        with a
                   m
                  i
              n
          d
Guessing the possible out comes
of that moment where glances
collapse on floor of another's.

Sm
      ile broken in two,
not fully gathering the
                              words
that were played between
          A heart and mind.  

A breath is inhaled slowly so
not to look like a puffer fish.
And then words, syllables entwined
breath out slowly...

"Hi how are you,

Then a smile by both ensue,
the charades of the
                            heart
                      &
            mind
get it right on this occasion
and both are pleasantly relieved.

My musing is a scratchboard of
             inner turmoil and sometimes

                It cuts a little to deep,
       and my nose bleeds..

                              And in that moment
                                         this was written.

When the vicious breath of light
           devours the twilight
its screams into the eroding
                       collapse of its beauty.

The luminosity never shows you,
            never sinks you into it breath..
we only gaze at its refection's.

But when the candle fades and the
             wax becomes grim,
      then the pillow once again suffocates.

Within the place of onyx moments,
             beauty envelopes everything.
And above what was veiled shimmers
       beyond our comprehension and we gaze...

"Have you ever heard of a monster
                   that wasn't scary!!

Well our story or rather a memory of
a time way back when.
I was such a worrisome little girl.

"Daddy if the world stops will I fall off,
        
                             "Daddy if I pick my nose
                                        will my nostrils
                                     look like an elephants nose?

               "Daddy are monsters real,
                          "I heard one sneeze under my bed??

"My Daddy always looked at me with a smile,

You worry too much for one so young...
Let me tell you things of the world around.
If the world stopped, we'd be like balloons swimming
in the air flapping our arms,
                while the birds giggle at us for looking like clowns.

Our noses, fingers like to fill holes,
                        that's why thumbs fill that gap in your mouth,
wrinkly thumbs, with happy eyes.
So where else would wondering fingers go??
        But if you find sticky treasure, wipe it on a tissue
because even though appetizing, it'll taste totally gross...

There are monsters but not the ones you think,
           under your bed there is one who was
under daddies when he was younger.
Its name is Pickle.

                 "Pickle, daddy is he a boy or girl?

"I don't know my petal, I never asked,
                         "I think he is a little boy monster"

He is always there, you see when you sleep
there are bubbles floating around your room,
there invisible to me and you.
But pickle sees them, especially the worry bubbles,
for he doesn't want them popping on you.

So he collects them o' so gently so that you
have no worries hanging around you.
Then he uses his paws to shrink it to the
size of a ball and

"POP,
                  "daddy you made me jump,

"Well that's what they go, but only quietly,
      
As he eats with his mouth closed,
             even monsters have manners you know.
So if you ever go to bed worrying my baby,
don't ever think you need to keep it in,
speak to mummy or daddy.
But if you still are worried Pickle will be
there for you to watch those bubbles and
he'll always take them away..
And what noises do they make when he
chews them with mouth closed?
                                      
           "Pop,
                        "Pop,
                             ­        "Pop,

Now close your eyes my petal and don't
worry monsters are real,
but there only there to look after you and me.

Once upon a time I climbed
a tree, up here I was carefree.
But as I reached the top, an invite
of views now gifted upon me.

Could I breath in these views of
grandeur, as I leaned on a sore knee.
I'll never give up majestic illustrations,
this sight I gaze upon beyond expectations.

Words fly from my reflection
          the pendulum of my mind
                     slowing exponentially.

When the last feather falls
             will I keep in time.


                                                    I'm forever fading....

I never drank out of my
                        empty vessels..

They were expendable
                              holders.

Instead I put Ketchup in them,
            my chips diving deeply.

Every so often a chip would sink
       into this cup sinking slowly...


Only to be found once the potato morsels
                had clung to every tomato..

Syllables collect like vacant shells
           on a shore of nonconformity.

Willing the thoughts now washing up
             to be converged vividly.


     We gaze at many horizons,
collecting upon us, are we to be
                               washed away...

Or will our reflections be that
       which we swim within,
               be that which we heed in word..

Polyanthus sunsets greet
the hollow days, where the
sun is sheathed behind a
cauldron of dormant pillows.

Where hibernation closes
eyes of many a beast, and
man wished he could slumber
through rigid months breath.

Though we plough upon the
white flurries settling new each
day. We gaze upon the frozen
stars lingering aloft on cold nights.