~
Creatively I died inside a butterfly’s wing
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song

Sing…

Elevation
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Twisted, converted
Underneath a pyramid
Midriff monsoon
Against the red noon of the Moon’s
Lunar tunes

Nightmares growing from daydreams
Like weeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Broken seeds

The eyes of the Owl see
As wisdom he reads
Turn green with greed
No longer wise as pride
Glides and rides
Across the deceit of his landslide

Crashing like a crystal avalanche
Crushing lives and habitats
See one choice can lead back to the beginning
Of the first inning of a sliver lining
That has become dull

Losing its shine and luster
Like a haunted hall
In a old mansion cobwebbed with fluster
Skeletons and ghost threaded in walls
Shredded inside papery calls
Peeling from the owners fall

I’ve died inside the butterfly’s wing
The wing carved on a wedding ring
Its circle symbolizes my cycle
A tilted infinity inside the curve of clarity

Of my fall
That became a papery call
While threaded in a skeleton wall
Cobwebbed with fluster
Like a haunted hall
That has lost its shine and luster
Which became dull

Like the first inning of the silver lining
This choice has led back to the beginning
Crushing lives and habitats
Like a crystal avalanche
Crashing across the deceit of this landslide

Which glides and rides
No longer wise as pride
Turns green with greed
As wisdom he reads
The eyes of the Owl see
Broken seeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Like nightmare and weeds
Growing from daydreams

Lunar tunes of the Moon
Glowing against red noon midriff monsoon
Underneath a pyramid
Twisted, converted
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Elevation
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song

Sing…

For I’ve creatively died inside the ink of a butterfly’s wing
Dripping from an alien’s pen-well
Melting like clear gel
Faded and blurred
Secretly grew in between each verb
Hid myself in sentences
Like parables in genesis

With glee…

I impregnated the meaning inside me
Then birthed surrealism
In a chaotic schism
Between the fifth and second chord
Of a poetic discord
~

All around me people see the color of skin,
The gender: male or female,
Prejudging sin,
With neither background nor tale.

I see a person,
Who without taction,
Gets their judgement to worsen,
Only by their action.

Man or woman matters not,
But somehow us people are caught,
Trying to attach a label,
To one whose chaos of feeling hasn't been seen as stable

Why is race or color of skin,
Prevail the colors within,
For each mind is an ocean,
Withholding millions of colors of emotions.

Where do I keep my mind,
I mean that question isn't really defined,
Physically it's in my skull,
But the further that I mull,
I ask where do my thoughts spawn,
Where do I find the beauty in the breaking dawn,
What gives me the drive to strive above,
How am I so rebuffed from love,
Why can't I concentrate,
Except in the times when I truly contemplate?

I do not know if the length of a day is too short or too long.
Either way I feel the fragility of life itself
Sometimes feeling rushed
Other times like forever