I built it with wisdom
So that it may survive criticism
I built it with caution
So that it may retain perfection

My love saturated in every action
Every pain , impending completion, erased
Due to this fatal attraction
Every piece Harmoniously placed

And finally I rest
Seeing your immaculate function
Shall I run a test?
To temper your reactions

the generation of knowledge
a task an event a time period
birthed in ignorance
no future thought just now
over and over creation here
the window of memory closed
on the thousands who first
built fire understanding nothing
except burnt fingers smokey eyes

Places of virtue, with no elaboration?
Found timely, after a version of sincerer orders...
Sweet to the eye, but lead to forever for a sin?
We remember you, when the world has obscured...

A rainbow from the stead we favor
Sat in the curiosity of a judged silence
We know you, as if fascination has a flavor
Spare and tiding a gentler eye, we dote is again...

The good nature of promises made, promises ought
The tows of sharing, the shadow of worth, with one more wish
For an illuminated smile, you offered for first and not
The second silence of the future, where an awoken friend is...

Smile for me, one more, time...
If senses approve, senses know a season
With a realm to its shall, a host of sincerity trying
The about you show, waiting on a house of forces, and legend...

Habit, does a crying home have the sense to know you?
Welcome to a door, that changed the rage of avarice, into a blue sky
Does liberty's accuse, compare me to a wizening pace to view
The reasons of worth, made grandiose or aled to when life is why?

Your affront, the taste of a hand of love
Set to rights, or making the times known, by the sides of renown
Rest and see, a lover make you the qualm, if not a history with a covenant
Sickened eyes with a role vain enough to pray for your dream to be found...

There must be
a hell where
forgotten
words and lines
dwell.
Similes scamper,
lost like beetles.
Bat winged metaphors
fly to that dark
hell of forgotten
poems.
If those wandering
words escape, they are
gone forever.

When I swim in
the ink, and the
writing streak starts,
the prose comes to
me while I try to nap.
Now, I sleep with
pen and paper,
to put the words in
that white paper
prison where they
belong.

The breeze stretches and cools the season
along the country road
variegated light, leaf-filtered
from trees that lean
in rivalry for my eager eyes.

Their foliaged arms dangle, then drop
an amber snowfall all around
as if to awaken me
to the autumn creep
into my bones that click and tick
with each tottery step.

Earth awakens me to the beauty
in this splendorous season
of the gliding swaying passage
of life in alteration
and spiritual invitation
to bathe in the slow current of creation
along this road
and its cool and bright possibilities.