Facades gather in pools of envy,
             disguising ones intentions,

We all wear this strangers face sometimes...

Holding the deliberation of
                those before me in my palms.

Empty memorises lingering on my thighs,
            vacant vessels,
                         numb recollections...

Fragrant eventides weave upon the crest of
what befalls the sight, as a kaleidoscope
of emotions weave tearing upon the horizon.

Crests illuminating the throws of daylights
bereavement but in the fall of all luminosity
bleeds brightest at its eventual ending.

Woven emotions coalesce into momentary collages
of suspended imagery, suffocating the senses of this
beauty now decomposing to darkness.....

Never masking emotions
            Only sweeping them inwards

Collecting verses of unspoken regrets,  
                              like autumn falls...

Weeping her crimson mourning,
                      collecting moments  in a corner.

Emotions given form,
                 To heavy to brush under the carpet..

I felt the edge of my nightmare, grasping to the subconscious
worries that were clinging like venomous fangs delving inwards.
Dreams were a potato peeler on the different skins that
were pealed from my normality to what turned metaphorical
hairs white, I screamed in high definition of speechlessness.

Have you ever woken to find that the reflection of what was
coherent within your diluted dreams had clung to your eyelids?
Escaping the dreamscape of illusion and collecting into the
tear ducts of deliberations connecting eclipses of reality
that was a mirage of what I conceived in both verses.  

I had awoken in momentary seclusion, short lived like a
verse of a haiku that versed much but bleed more than it
had versed. I was a paradox of complexity, my tribulations
were collecting in lagoons of reality about to burst.
I was immersed in a mirage of impulses and needed to visualize.

I felt the edge of my nightmare, and it penetrated like
satin fissures on my delicately woven reflections.
Those that stared back upon me, expressing their intentions.
We are a motion of luminosity and twilight and our
dreams weave a thin line that lingers in our dreams..

Misery is a verse of my reflections,
still lacerating
         beneath caustic stanzas.

Words wound, fragments fermenting
              within me, and I chalk them in joyful remorse...

Goodness me I'm saturated in
Over exposure on the mind,
Drowning in illicit contradictions.

I'm asphyxiated by inclinations,
       that say I'm not allowed to
              verse that it doesn't exist...

Primordial verse
             cleaved from my mind,
tasted on the page...

                    
Turbulent syllables cut feelings
                     of others, I don't really care...

My words are petals that were
      blackened silk...

But when they feel they were diluted
     white illusions

                                      of nothingness.....

But while the rose has a scent of imagery it
        will have an aroma of creation...

Though all conception is birthed, we all die..
             and with it no words escape only breath....

You wept, in solitude of my voice
thinking that you had a choice.
Did I call out under a white cloud
seemingly thoughtless only proud.

Appreciative of the seclusion that
stung upon my flesh like bee stings
that never penetrated upon my flesh.
My mind is a fever of knife stitches.

But I will never let you rhyme upon
my mind, it is  levelled on the bygone
motion of what you versed on my reflection
and I grew stronger in this misdirection.

I was a star that shone beyond your torment
rising above you shooting star of your descent.
You feel while I rose. You were extinguished in
parting but I lived on I was a star that burned bright within.

I watched as those that reflected on the
darkness, thinking I was about to be
obscured within oblivion, but can you
keep a secret that no one knows?

"I was on the dark side of your dream,

Oblivion is a black hole within me...
I absorbed the light, not only that
but the obscurity of light is alive!
Within me... see my shadow in the dark places...

They thought that it was shade,
but shadows move? Have you ever noticed that?
I weave within luminosity but feed upon you
when it lingers in hibernation.

Radiance is a puppet of oblivion, we let it linger,
have its say, make it feel that there is nothing
without darkness. But have you ever suffocated
light? It’s simple, turn it off and what, oblivion.

I let it have its motions, thinking it takes a stand.
But all light fades, and then there is only me.
I'm not inanimate, I'm consciousness and I'm
looking at you in the light, oblivion smiles.....

Clinging upon a fevered momentum of reality
I was conversed into vomiting the graves of others
wishes. I buried them in silence but they vocalized
every shovel of my buring empathy, I didn't care!

I crawled on emotion but mine never decomposed on
the reflections that faded with there's. I hit the hilt
of my constitution and obscured their voice on mine.
I was an illusion of there creation, illusion of verse.

*"Less creation of verse is a motion of my creation,

A river may be shallow
     but still holds more t
                                            e
                ­                              a
                                 ­               r
                                                ­ s than the sky falls upon it,

Never collecting more than
                    what washes on the shores of
                                                       reflection.

We are motions upon a finite whisper
            that drowns out if not listened to...

I was a collage of pain,
    weathered in pool of convulsions.

Doused into my subconscious
     then riveted to my frame of thought.

Contradicted ink was versed on my being,
      watered down to the image you see now.

*"We are all a collection of paper cuttings,
                           woven in a mask of smiles.

Well I was perturbed by the falseness of what I
lingered in,
             I was shunned,
                        labelled the banshee of life.
The stench blistering their motions of existence.
I was life where the afterlife lingered perpetually.  

My name was lunar regent, and I was alive in
the abyss of deaths veil, all that were around me
were but e
                   c
                     h
                        o
                          e
         ­                   s of what clung to this plain
of existence, but echoes can scream in silence.

I was more than this once, once seems so long ago.
Dying of memories degradation, I wasn't giving up.
I sold my home, I'm only in my 40's. To young to be
food of the earth, breath needed to be tasted in my mind.

They explained that I had to die to live? cryogenic dreams,
subtle name I reflected on. It had come a long way since those
days freeze dried people, oxygenated gel, you had to breath it
in drowning but living, a droplet of death descended then......

Awoken by voices or what I conceived as such?
I was in street??
           was this, no it couldn't be!
This was the street outside of where I just was.
The affliction in my chest was killing me,
glancing at my hands I was existent, I pinched, it hurt?

Looking around I say or thought I saw people, but they
weren't corporeal, they were faded. I could see their
features but when they shifted it was like stone thrown in
a  puddle and I think I'm the stone rippling on there shores.

The atmosphere became static, agitation voiced in their
stance. Some tethered to the crest of my existence were
pulled towards me like a black hole exerting its force,
I just stood static as they were extinguished within me.

Like snow flakes falling around me, I could feel the pain of
there departing, as each flake became cinders of reality.
Eroded memories versed in my mind as each ember
relinquished its torment within me, I was a collage of pain.

**To Be Continued.....

One is a poet of verse,
                    no longer entangled
         by past misconceptions.

I'm a man of fluidic verse,
                            I weave the mentions
          of my reflections on reflective verse.

Hairy volumes of what was needed
to velcro on the surface of my soft skin,
gentle quiffs of what massaged the
                                stress of my moments away.

A cushion of relaxation never fallen
upon the floor. I weave my dreams upon the
                                          softness of there clouds.

Sweet dreams upon the flurry of hair
that slumbers me to dreams
                                                of hairy kisses

I've never  met you even though eyes have never collected
on the pools of reflection,

we are wondering echoes
                       never to witness the shodows of another.

But when I look in to a pool.
                      All I ever see is the impression of you.

Eyes weave tears on paper of blank verses,
                     but speak in silent whispers.

A word is a reflection given volume,
                     that echoes through every motion,

But when they fall all are silent,
                       Vacant images of children static..

The sting of my verses will sew the woeful indiscretions
of what got curb bounced on the beat or the worst vocals
that you rhymed incoherently that were
                                                     collected in lyrical a doggy bag.

I will not fall on a sword of those that ignore my verse
that fall on the page, do you know why I write in diverse
motions? Do you know my demons the voices that verse
inwards on the white of my skull? my reflections reverse.

The sting of my verses will sew the woeful indiscretions
of what got curb bounced on the beat or the worst vocals
that you rhymed incoherently that were
                                                     collected in lyrical a doggy bag.

But excrement can be rhymed in free verse, I'm doing this
for me but I don't linger to impress! I word for my emotions
are a hurricane and I'm the eye calm but I swim in the abyss.

The sting of my verses will sew the woeful indiscretions
of what got curb bounced on the beat or the worst vocals
that you rhymed incoherently that were
                                                     collected in lyrical a doggy bag.

I'm vocalized to those that don't sniff the arses of poor vocals
linger on excellence not the excrement of poorly woven yokels.
Lyrics of verse are meant to move not stagnate silently,
they are meant to be lyrics that move the emotion violently.

*"Weave the best version of you, not the diluted verse,

I collected the currency of my failings inserting voices  
into the deluge of my figurine dancing on the precipice
of my tainted visage.

But I was short of necessitates, fraudulent reimbursement
was reincorporated, and I was woven unwept as the distresses
of what I had done wove upon my silhouette.

Blank verses were woven on my pools of sky blue, now vacant
only snow flakes of nothingness fell on my perception.
I was not as before I was whole but concussed in creation.

Interwoven, incomplete essences of me. I wasn't that which
was reflected outwards, all that was now interlaced in an
abomination of false reflections and I paid the ultimate price.

Barred behind bars of moisture that versed
the sullen motions of what was flowing like
a musing of tides.

Evaporating from the verses luminous pages
were painting the heavens with droplets of
conciseness that barred radiant stanzas.

For when heavy dew does descend it will
collect on the page, cresting on the shores.
Again wiping the reflection clean for a new verse.

If I gave you a flower for every time
you made me smile in happiness.
A garden would blossom in the
corners of my heart, as psychedelic
aromas of loves essence danced in the air.

You are a thousand butterflies released
in my mind every time you smile.
I would catch everyone in a jar, a thousand
colours that would paint a rainbow on my mind.
Woven imagery of you blossoming in my heart.

My mind is constipated, I try to force
upon the bowels of my mind but nothing
is versed, only flatulence of syllables
that linger in the air.

Gagging on the stench was released outwards,
others cringe at what was versed in
needing of a release. I look upon the laxative
of imagery and I feel my mind soften up.

My pen sits on the white waiting for a release,
without warning a vocalization is forced slowly.
I spray my syllables on to the white, relaxed that
the congestion is released, words flow eagerly out.

Winters tide was regressing lingering
in moments of perpetual imbalance.
For the sight of seasons changing
was becoming benumbed in reflection.

Tears were woefully descending as
sentiment was clinging to branches.
An interval of passing was imminent
and one was fleeting in bleak breath.

As one was entombed in slumbering
hibernation, never quite departing.
Petals awoke to the kiss of a thousand
sunbeams, basking in seasons embrace.

Do you take thee with this pen
             to forever weave the musing words.

Binding both of you in the blank pages
                        that will be versed upon joining syllables.

Never fading
only getting deeper in meaning

                      with each verse read.

life is a busy street,
             that some times

                                            takes longer to cross.

Idyllic oceans of reflection, procreating a line of musing contemplation.

The seed was barren upon the
      creation of breath.

Exhalation of inception voided
      when tears of conception fell crimson.

Soil desolate upon the grain planted deep,
        fields of love parched upon there creations.

I'm in a coffin of thoughts,
          entombed within my plot.

I scream in loneliness,
           but the soil of confinement buries me.

A head stone reads my reflections,
           *"Here lies my voice, buried in torment,

What I am when I write,  
            
My mind is paper,
             My hand the pen,

The reader is my many reflections.

Intertwined prisms of my reflections
                                        staining white,

  
                             I'm a kaleidoscope of images to be seen....

It was a cradle of innocence
          defiled by your presence.

E
  m
     o
       t
         I
          o
            n

Became a web on my soul,
             The cradle of virtue a tattered
remnant of what was visited upon.

My heart was a silken gullibility, sewn into you.
               And you tied it to a block of distaste,
sinking below the waterline of my heart I drowned silently

Demise my heart with sullen
             tears that you forced inwards.

Extinction of my clock,sombre as its
                              motions are nullified.

It died in a metaphor of emotions
            mauled by those syllables

                        *"I don't love you anymore,

I touched upon her, piercing sorrows
                 wept upon my memories.

She said nothing but her silence
                           spoke volumes..  


*Here Lies.....

I'm a breath of those before me,
for I taste in life's cushions that
expel memories of what was
moments before and I taste the
pains in the fibres within me.

My footsteps are echoes that were
visited before my seed was sewn
on the fabric of thoughts. But now I
tread upon those before me and ponder.

I'm a vessel on a journey that hasn't
been mapped out, a focus of reflection
that mine isn't the only one seen.
A memory was here before and after I leave.

Stems of life lifted on gravities listening,
but ill sown seeds had saddened the soil.
and regrets of decay wove upon the tears that
drank beneath the flesh of the earth.

Remains haunt, an epilogue of memories
now linger in limbo. For all will cease,
Fading into a memory of oblivion.

I'm depleted on the effect of excursions
that free me from the bondages of what
clings to my thoughts. Like fly paper full
of efforts, to escape the scent that I linger
on, never to escape that awaking frailty.

Concussed on the fusion of time lingering
on my efforts to be woeful of what I must
function on. I stagger on the motions of
my birth, into reproductions of what I was
motioned into, an echo of repetitive actions.

I'm losing my reality to a ceaseless apparitions
that follow the conceding days. Hanging up
my reflection, I don't conceive that moments
have past. A paradox of eulogies. Every 120
versions I linger on freedoms charade.

Hostages in a room of freedom, ill-conceived
that we earned this occasion. When we were
always free, but kept in maze of needing.
We are the donkey, and life is a carrot that is
diluted on our conciseness, the carrot is rotten.

Before slumber bleed the demon,  
                                 so he doesn't exhale on
            the reflection of my dreams.

Cherished thoughts
                              fly on unicorn kisses

Vocals bungee jump from my inhalation  to
the repercussions of my exhalation.

What was perceived on the decent never the image
that was observed on the culmination
                                            of its falling from my lips.

What we say isn't always what we vocalize,
expelling our thoughts
                       changing with every exhale of emotion.

Well here I am, milestones had passed
yet not a granite one had levelled my
field of recognition. When I was just
moments into digits doubled, a mind
was vacant of contentment.

Was I motionless yet progressing to
nowhere, my emotions were alike to
a  cadaver rotting me on the inside.
Putrid anxiety chained with solitude,
voices of others, shadows clinging inwards.

A tomb of negativity had obscured my
needing of others. I was deaf in a room
of many whispers, mine screaming out
the loudest in need to be heard.
I was a ventriloquist scattering my voice away.

But even though in contained emotions,
I woefully expelled my moments on tiny
little pebbles, swallowing them to drown
out the living cradle of my imprisonment.
And I slept like death for an eternity.

Awoken by the morning verses of birds
rising to a new day, for me two had past.
A lifetime of slumber and I pondered my
reflection in the glass, twice was not the
charm, and pebbles dissolved into regrets.

Lingering in the empty shell of what drowned
within me. I looked in the mirror and saw
something strange? Myself, and I looked rough.
I took the blade to flesh and removed the
memory of the last static months stained on me.

Well that was vacant times and now my life is
fulfilled with the motions of love compassion,
A wife and children that expel any darkness
lingering beneath. And I smile, my granite footnote
is a while a way, today i just smile out the window..

No longer do I walk to the shops I voyage on
the motions of the wind and fire...

For lame understanding I cant be bothered to expel
breath in motions of the foot....

I envelope my surroundings in a cage of movement,
Caveman inventions lunge me forward.

Attaining my desired destination, the hunter
gatherer in me finds its prey in the frozen section...

I am man and I bring the bounty back to the hoard,
pleasant smiles, as flesh is devoured on soft rye bread.

Velcro lungs exhale on festering images
that breath in photocopied negatives.

Am I emitting life's expelling repercussions
that were vacant in there image of reality.

Could I be, but a depthless shade of what
lingered, vaporizing images on to nothingness.

Bleached refection's wash up on the shores of my mind.
Blanched images washed of the static impressions that
were hung upon the inside of my thoughts.

Now unused frames of vacant outlines are looked upon
with confused recollection? knowing something was
memorized but is footstep washed away in tides of thought.

I unearthed the reminisce of what I had cleansed,
seeing myself lingering on a rope of guilt. and when
I opened it, my subconscious swayed in the wind of regret.