Space is that between here from there.
I am here and you are there.
Time is that between now from then.
I am here and you're dead or yet to be.

My soul cries within
and says this cannot be.
We are one, not apart,
but always one.

Why do we see, here and there, now and then?
Why do my eyes betray me with distance and change?
Why am I an exile in a strange land,
of blind people speaking a strange tongue?
And all I hear is, "Take my hand, Follow me."

The captain will have been informed
because he says nothing about the situation
and that can mean anything

There are reports of peace
and cleared blockades
I must make choices

while I have a good life here
with my family that arose by itself
in the house that was assigned to me

So I just go to bed now
and before I sleep I travel
beyond the known

Left alone, I move on
...accompanied by echoes of familiar laughing voices
...that conceal the truth from me

...the voice of the guide who prefers to stay at home
...of the soldier in his worn-out uniform
...one of the three of the garrison

...who could be on duty
...who fills the cups and drinks on me
...on the health of all people

...around the tower of Belém and everyone
...at the long table with the empty seats
...from the time they were here with many

Along on foot, over a mountain
path, through a dense forest
I'm running out of food

I'm going to meet with the yesteryear woman,
to give her a sweet, scented lily kind of smile.
I'm going to give her a hug and tell her it'll be okay,
in the yesterday's threshold, in her merciless exile.

There have been many tears and sighs in vain,
in the deserted wilderness, no one to comfort her.
With a ruthless heart, now full of bitterness,
the mistrust in love made her see everything in blur.

She always questioned her own beauty and worth,
but she does not bend in front of the kicks of the fate.
She keeps silence thinking that it does not hurt anymore,
her cheeks swallowed the tears running in torrents of hate.

Her gentle heart was pounding from fear in her chest,
the burden was too hard to bear, so she's leaving.
She braids now enigmas with determined words,
but the river fountains were lamenting and grieving.

I will tell her that tomorrow will be a brand new day,
the stars and the moon will always be there to guide her.
That in this life nothing is what it seems to be,
the sun one day will rise in her way. Yes, my dear Mother!

Muses converse with Mystics, deciding not only art and poetry, but the value of morals and ethics. Therefore, completely dependable. The Muse lives on the other side, while Mystics as gatekeepers here on earth. If an artist cannot publish in secret-anonymous, do not value their art. There is price to pay to think for yourself. Anyone separate themselves from society and if you’re going to be an original, society will lose their value. Listen to the voices from the other side, it’s not as evil as the religious and the conspirators  yell about. Those who smile most in your eyesight, generally frown the most behind your back.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Inherent-Sin-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07FR5FW42/ref=sr13?ie=UTF8&qid=1532992472&sr=8-3&keywords=darcy+prince

Emotions made tender, but fair, fearing not the outside,
to what is felt inside, to play in eternity, to think in infinity,
be only that a paradox is, nothing else, nothing more, nothing
less, attempt to avoid despair and crying mood. As for you,
Bill, if the world is a stage, than the death penalty only applies
to the casting director. There is greatness outside poems,
romance too, sunburnt smiles and laughing memories.
Though for now, I shall write only about my death, fear, insecurity,
fault and flaws in written poetry. Not for comfort in. Just glittering
drops of silver stars, as for others to benefit from. It is worrying
only to be a paradox, living within immortality.

Delicate poems, flattery in times, the process of forever, devour my soul, the center of my inner-world. Flexible and strengthen in smiles. My love for you, no longer a spectre eyes, imagining ourselves, enticing the romance of poetry, into our breathing actions. Tending to our hearts.
In the yonder future, vast terrains of blank and nothing. Where we’ll absolutely nothing else to do, beside creating love in eternity. And time itself, everything that a memory is. Holy beauty shall know us. Marble statues and songs by tenors, other poems, homage only, echoing around as a famous shadow in any world we leave behind. In truth be told, only each we have only to truly find.
Temper never. Tempt me now lover. I will cave in and be enslaved by volunteer joy. I’m not burnt out. But will become of what you make of me. As now, you conquered immortality. Turning into illumination in the silhouette.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Killing-Philosophy-Reflection-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07F9QVCW4/ref=sr12?ie=UTF8&qid=1531092503&sr=8-2&keywords=darcy+prince

As not in poetry, for when a romantic falls in love and it’s given back, all those wishes in yearning dreams explode at once, fallen over in dripping embers, matching beauty fireflies, symbols in poems. Romantic gestures in labouring hands, repertoires and addiction is apparent. No muse could ever possibly help detox the romantic.
Despite the cliche of meeting in
glances in the eyes and that smile
that doesn’t restrain itself. Not even a supernova could come between, no conversation of a tempting Demon could distract, not even the promise of Heaven by any Angel could tear down their connection.
Changing the ways their pray along with their very essence of existence.
Call it blasphemy if you want, not knowing God’s opinion. Exalting feelings in poetic sentiments. Marble statues raised in homage.
Romantics turned lovers.
Fate is here and never meet until now. Revelation inside and a revolution in a quiet mood. A paradox in this world. Lovers living their destiny as the rest of humanity whimper in conforming ways.

Love, romance, cliches, eye glancing, smiles and giggles. They live outside poetry and romance novels. Lovers exist. Hand holding, moonlight silver glow, that glitters off from objects on earth. Sensations in moods from the emotions hiding in essence. Forming itself in personal illumination.
Tingling from taking notice,
sacred to poets, altered hearts,
going beyond material success,
disregarding a world and it’s
self-made reality, forming a new.
Not sparked from philosophers. No symbols. No global revolution. But a conviction that a soulmate does not belong in poem, nor any other romantic art. Neither in the cosmos or some sort of parallel world. Forgetting dreams. Murdering fears and insecurities.  
Perhaps in embellishing in the romantic arts,
I had snorted magic, rather than man made narcotics.
Salt on rebirth, willing not to give up, on my personal
belief that love exist within this world.
(knowledge variable)

Dreams, the friendly version of the ghosts in unfinished business. Constructing ****** minds and arguing morals, while privately respecting the Devil. Shaping poems, turning ethics to ashes. Sweeping fashions over this world.
Well done. Life given freely to living souls. Death is owed. We’re all in debt. The forbidden fruit always tastes better and generally more successful.
It’s too bad.
Dissent friction. Sparking life. Duality of individuals. I’ll keep going back. I’ve looked behind the curtain and saw everything evangelical. Faith not required. Dogma becomes an addiction. Conformity in actions of order-impressions. Laughs and hugs.
And if a philosopher is asked, reality is depending on perceptions.
Power and freedom are this world's best lovers. Enticed drawn in by people.
For some, the difference between God and the Devil. One can be meet before the act of dying as the other is waiting for you to cross over to be judged. Following one will provide freedom here on earth as the rest compensate to be completely corrupted. Don’t sin in my steps. I’m going to be punished by hard-living. Best kept secrets are told in tender moments after ******* sessions. I’ve got nothing but love for the mystics in penitentiaries, soldiers of the century. I’m directly organized and their husbands will never, because I got away. When I die, teardrops will soak into earth, I’ve got meaning in exile. I’m long gone.