bright burgeoning
blossoms sprout
beautifully into
flummoxed
flowers
with maws
ushering manic
avarice greedily

flummoxed
flowers feast on
fields feverishly
voracious
verdant
vines
that travel
vehemently

soaring sun of
speaking seeds
singing songs of
springtime sempiternal
softly, sharply, savagely . . .

Run... run while you can
before the envelopment entraps you
encapsulating escape with leaden clouds
skies darkened by searing missiles
unburdening caches waiting
for the stirring of conflict
so easy to hijack
as hatred
screams
loudest
drowning
out the pleas
of nursing mothers
as children's faces fend off
old feuds and avarice of arms dealers

Maybe it's all the avarice
The commonplace detachment,
Of trodden-life, taken as a game.
It is what it is,
The way things go,
A billion different ways
To say the same thing.

The sweetness of dismal forth?
Space and a tapping heavy will of the wish
Greeting the dread, a host of silence, music for worth...
Naked real enough, naked felt to mention

Raises an eyebrow, raises a hunger
To the table of vestige, the tone of mystique
For a doting hope, dancing in the arms of thunder
Reach and purpose, in the shielded eyes of a lead...

Curious rhymes and times with a patronage's bag
Hurt feelings for a lore, in the needs of more
Had like a thought, in toil we save the cursory to add...
A callous few, the society of timid eyes, knows you somehow stranger

Lights that remind, you...
Three pigs and a wolf to tell the time
Have a mirror in mind, one for alienation
Two for a side of salt, and three wishes that should, a crying...

And a wolf in the first place...
Space for happening homes, the tale of synergy in grasp
That has the continue if not the view, of when a soon is sate
Is a requite of voice and its taste in joy, a new past to ask?

Exorcism of a priest, and a tale of youths?
Without the kindness of privilege, or the epistolary of count
The wailing and the stolen tryst, of powers that be our couth's?
In the dim and violent, misery we will note, is but a secret's pout

Passionate days, with a reason to be here
Aching eyes on the verge of unity, if not use for a cross
That has said, in a treatise of vice and quiet offering, of fear...
The none, the fulfilled song, and ourselves in an eye to toss...

Lucious
Simple cares, simpler fires
Finally a call to his
Where the living is only higher...

Real, the truth though
Sight and smell, makes baby's
Hearing and taste, makes daughter's
Skin and well... psychic is a boy's seems

Careful beginnings
Would a sharing land agree?
Peace was but beauty, curious and cunning
The dote of avarice, does it silent thee?

Long decision's to find fun
Fun, for a solitary reason
Fresh is an art, to these wonder
Mercy is a power, to these a season...

With the voice of a calmer world
Silent was the choice, a chance's cause
Caring for nothing, but greater courage
Than all of a wish made, by what was living with the odd's...

Nine angels
Care and naked simplicity
Future weal, to remind in open quarrel
Speed is a having guest, to avarice when implicitly...

A heart of darkness
And the cares of calling a friend to the table
Rued gestures of candor, a candle of secrets
And the stir of something greater, than a justifiable...

Looking hard, for a salient generosity of ply and can
Will a shared eye, begin here, or in the meet
Of promises told to take their time, a stodgy plan?
Letting boding become a shame? taking a seat...

Ten angels
And the blindness of voices attuned to a pitch
Vice and curiosity to tender a vantage, well
Who is the other side of privilege in the dark, so rich?

I am, says one, the truth in terrified gifts...
Is a language we can afford; a hatred of hearts, and nix?
With a nobility of silence, we have adjusted might's to is...
A hearkening joke, the only way to survive the day, ad sic.?

All flee, but the one, and the need of cause serious
To remember the taste of couth, complimenting the hour with aim
Did, says the one to remain, the word of composure is ours furious
Adding, says the rest to a whole comfort, I knew by the very name...

The book of works
Spare me the details?
Suffice, in a general task, irked
That said the comments of Israel...

Polite shoes, on the anniversary of reign
To share an eye full, the truth in a hidden
Taste, for ancientness in the silence, of when
A philosophy comes, is a paradise for the asking?

Oft a share's heed, silent until a kiss never's...?
The haste of poise, the turn of this into something greater...
Welcome home, avarice, the total of courage has a lover
That fated justice in a pale memory for you, the fates of tomorrow?

Wishes in cold conveyance, the times to remember the heat?
Torrid as we are, a taste for houses of promises
Are we the reality to beat, come hell or high water to eat?
A grape, the pretense of mercy - in an accord we due, to vices...

A house of which and worlds of worth
That has none, a squalor that completes the circle...
Of space for a yearning soul, semblance in a call heard
By any who would, a cause curious enough to hope, miracles...

Have a shadow of youth, to a gesture of time, to a coarse song
Winking and preaching a salty tune, that is to come...
A livid appearance of kind, if not kings of journey and wealth, long
To the tooth and made from frank controversary, we dumb...

Salt and honey, the truer passage of uniqueness
Honey and rice, the presence of love, with a cordial ordeal
Rice and vinegar, known to take the time at life's crossroads, to bless
Vinegar and myrrh, with a personal observation, the very winds of healing...

Add milk?
So do we, the irony of prayers that substitute a focusing heart
To wisdom and undue hate, the pyres and frustration's of ilk
To see you in a holiness's robe, the voice we keep, sincere Jerusalem's?

Stones of health, or the knife of war...
Poignant to a fall, the season we chose for a character to blow
The untoward, the cares of simplicity to kingdom come, for out
A rallying heat's rage, that has become a future we know...

With another's heart, the total of cherubs and heaven
Look fast and hard, the haste we further, is a nerve
That has chosen you, for a chance of life in the giving
Where no one, more special than a kite, is a tree to serve?

It’s one of those days where we’re polite
but we want to gather handfuls of ****
and **** it at the faces
of those who’ve known no sadness,
other than the dappy misery they’ve caused
to those, potential relations,
they told they loved.

I try to deny a bitterness
when I check every lock each night
including on my bins,
that each of us is the same
from birth
but the score of this whole game
starts on different tees.

See, we know.