I don't worry about the name of the grass,
Its grassiness is what I came searching for

Straw.

dead grass is all I saw.

Passed in the moment i meant to be alive
all life is just a patch of grassiness.

It's an obsession to pick apart the source of life
to make ourselves less remiss.


But even still... it hurts so bad.
I'm glad I have no guilt.
Cuz if I did, all what I'd feel, is every pound of what I built.

Like today.
I walk myself, in my footprints
tasting grassiness
sending the runners,
on the anniversary, of the brain's death,
when no deliverer was in sight.

The empty chairs in black rain
wait for the parted windows
to let in the screaming light
for a reunion, with the children
of tongue, who were lost
in wilderness of vows.

Looking at the world
from a keyhole, at an unearthly hour
you viusalize a miracle,
to heal the blood apart, wounded
grains of golden dawn, a mother
thrashing for charred hunger.

Pesdophilia is a wildly, beastish, zesty if you want to call it monstrous, widely given label to anyone and everything when a child gets ***** or goes missing. Favoritism in the house becomes suspect, and according to TV programmes if they don't go missing or are 'just' *****, the child isn't listened to either. Because chances are, they already had a Freudian complex in the first place.....which can't be downplayed.
And when in violent families, childrens social workers are usually all aliens walking around pretending to be a human.
And I should add there's a lot of conspiracy theories about children going missing as they've been abducted by aliens. And then keep them confused. Poonanny God. So I don't know what the **** that starmaker book by Olaf Stapleton is about. More controversy he was trying to invoke for the future I expect. So the very real aliens, who I'm trying to fully expose, can make a certain escape. Blade of grassiness God