Inspiring Needle, pierce his fresh Leather,
Inscribing Earth's Totem into his Birth
Mum was Happy; What else could be better
For such Achievement as well as your Worth
So what if you Ascend?! Can you improvise
Those Loyal Customers who bought your Face?
Good Lord! Just on the lower-arm-set's Tripe,
Crypted to prevent another Disgrace
Envy? Me? Please! Not on my Word's Best Site
Will I even Dare to take such Sour Note
As I once reminded myself in-spite
For every Storm there is a Shred of Hope.
Three Figures picturesqued on certain Price
That Midnomer then showed his Biggest Size.

White skin
Molded in black light
Crystal tears
Faded in dark wine -
Innocent fears
Crypted in a muddy dawn,
White, white veils
Of the black, black soul.

Soothing tired rays...
The ashes of canescent shadows
In black blankets
Of white memories, thoughtless days
Melodies, phantasms of whispers -
Too late, too soon...dispair.

They all appear in strange ways,
Mixed feelings in a maze
Drowned in a deep silence -
Deaf screams in a corner.
Transparence...
A black mind, the disorder.

A life between agony and death,
A death betweem sunrise and health,
Vision between a mirror and a trigger
Freedom between bars and linger
Dreams between blindfolds and handcuffs
Thirst hiding beneath a sea of cups
Hunger lieing in corners with bread bits
Perfect love dieing where it fits.

Black and white,
Silence and screams
Numbness, too many feelings...
Eyes wide open, but locked inside.
I've lost the key
To a true reality
Beyond these mesmerizing dawns
They're not true, they're not false...
There's no sun, there's no moon
Too late, then too soon
Trying to fake and not to see
There's no sunrise in the whole of me.

Autumn was an old Viennese street held up in sacrifice to the sky,
With burnt-song offerings that still see through the clouds, as they see through you.
His was cobbler craft of reed-winded flame for the foot in tune,
Amid the outsnuffed shopkeepers’ lights and the candlesmoke of midnight hours,  
Pulsing above the inner heart of the Ringstrasse
Of brass signs and paving stones, misted and mute.
His was the candelabra of wick-notes
Wanded through the windowed rooms of forested night.
His were those woods filled with doorways, bookcases, and stairs
And everything dim and warm with people, no longer there.

***

The winter sunlight played across the keyboard of crypted windows,
And in the muted under-roofs of ice and snow,
On one window, like a hand in whole rest,
The caramelized glass swallowed the flame-image of the stray redbird
And the black carriage wheels that passed.

In the long hallway of the Viennese flat,
One candle remained lit in the mouth of song.

I'm mused at how you cry for the Patriot
Thinking at your Age you know all-too-well
And some Crypted here think me an Idiot
Adjusting the Mirrors which you can sell
And sold you did to the Victim's Parade,
A Wheel teen-to-teenest endlessly turn
Or else compare to your Fertile Upgrade
May bid Salvation and your Students learn
There is such a Way, Sir, and can be done
If the Seed in your Chest you allow to Grow
And please don't speak of one betwixt your ***
Does not guarantee you can win the Show.
Perhaps, if may, feed your Hungry Owls first
It may keep in-check, for Better or Worst.

The Camargue River Delta does bleed
South of Libertie's Crimson Trident Tongue
Reaching out to all those Fishes in-need
Though absent they are as Toxined become
Maybe Moses his Conjured Plague forgot
This Harrowing Effect crept from the Nile
Much of Life's Salted Earth; And Reeds begot
Purchase those Benefits and heal the Bile
Yet many these avid Tourists attract
How their Lives by Essense would oxidise
Thus cause such Colour; And reveal the Fact
Their Crypted Emotions must Realise.
Still those Tiny Feet run; And cheer the Sea
Touch Sole-to-Sole; And dissolve their Plights be.

If i were a poet
I'd have eternity
Chained to my pen
Glued to ink spills
I'd make gibberish words
look beautiful

I'd script a poem
That would make you fall in love
I'd pick roses for words
And Fit infinity in a paper

I'd script
A highly crypted poem
I too wouldn't decipher
It's message
Only if, i were a poet

©hilla

The 11th of December 2013 that date is today,
Something about the sequence made me ponder away;
What could be the meaning of the numerical order?
So I seek answer read threads and find answers through google.

So it is the final sequential event for another 90 years...
So lets celebrate maybe get married and burst out with happy tears;
It's just numbers now really, in sequence every 90 years, what's the big deal?
It's just another event a human mind creates to talk and believe to offer life a thrill.

So whatever this day means we just live our life like we used to and forget all worries,
For hope never a day fades with faith and will like a fortress, life is a one big numerical series,
Every day is like a test, a survival, a wonder that everyone walks through since the day we born
That each day is crypted with trials ready to overcome and decode, a gift to be unwrap and to be torn...

My diary is in "crypted."
Every letter is a different sign.
I guess I don't want anyone to read my diary
I want to keep telling them I'm fine.

Where shadows are conceived
And these conflicts are released
All the old wounds
The underlying pain's runes
Are crypted in scars
That brought darkness to life's arcs

Under a moonlit sky
The illusions soar high
Above the vast cliffs of mind
Where twisted thoughts wind
In the echoes of a mistake
Identity denounced at the stake

mechanism
promotional sow of proceeding
boring out generations of teachers
we flutter out our lives
in a rainbow of seizures
withering off of this diet
we have crypted a pretty rot
a pattern of the dis-eased
hide our ill gotten health
with our nonsensical biography
the sooth-stones of our deceased
our distraction by wealth
and our vicing with biology
velocity increased
cowed in with our filth
model no apology  
wilt
and work on our space program