oh river take me far
i'm as pure as you are
and once the trees have cleansed my soul
i'll turn your crooked teeth
intil gold

you tried to drown your fears in sunshine but the red thread in the corner of your oversized sweater caught on the moon's crescent instead and the rose petals that you were keeping up your sleeves fell out and onto the garden of peonies your best friend was growing on her front lawn, its not nice to constantly be running from forest green comfort but the only other option is staying where the gold is and thats something you never learned to do, yet
maps have followed you recklessly
on the roads that you've ripped through and eventually you'll find yourself climbing taller fences to be back where the purple of the last February evening wrapped your impulsive body tight, though you'll never be found how you were last left

Cracked and broken,
Pieces scattered,
From a dream awoken,
To being shattered,
Broken from what I lack,
I can feel every crack.

Each piece has a story,
Of life, in of itself,
Some times of glory,
Others of poor health,
All these memories on my back,
It's no wonder I crack.

So instead I pull together,
And fill in what's missing,
With gold and put pressure,
Until all the cracks glisten,
Now I stand up, broken,
But within gold is woven.

There's a lady in the morning fog
who feeds on porcelain thoughts,
And she haunts the edges March.
There are no five point dancers
With their evening red and gold.
Ready and willing to tumble and fall.
Just her, alone; In the bog
listening to us all.

The beasts only swim, crawl, and fly
By the Sycamore, rotten and petrified.
In Death there is life
And all ears are amplified.

     "Testify."

"Are you the soul that brings fear?
The Specter of my own Heresy?
Get off the wind and answer me.
Will you light the wild and chant the Lord's Prayer?"
    
    "Through all my inequities I'll never
      know sin like you.
      Whip the poor and condemn the youth.
      Blame the ******!!!
      Clergymen tend to always do.

"We are justified!

To do what we do
Is the work of the lord!
Truth will always bend
To the ambassadors' works."

The feast is for the thin, chalked with divine
And those on shore: honest and rectified.
Breath is man's plight,
And all eyes lie.

There's a man waiting at the edge of dawn
Who purges a man of his own thoughts
He owns his defiled marsh.
There are no five point answers
Without their threaded holes
Steadily fulfilling to us all.
Just him, enthroned; on a rock
Judging us as we fall.

that good fight hurt
only one
for which I longed too...
the sun,
who pulled its golden bow
where I could replace
the salt of the winters bone
with every new day, till spring.

The process seems long
and feels like the worst pain ever
but then comes gold
and that last forever

Oy! My poor heart!

It's expanding just as

the sun is setting

a golden glow awash

capturing light as

it brushes each object

reminding me of golden green

fields alight!

Oy! My poor heart

expands as the sun sets

becoming a whoopee cushion

in which to sit on after it's

blown way out of proportion.

Ah! how the memory of

those pretty green eyes

enlighten my senses

making them parallel to

round ***** of safety.



Ah! how those eyes

regurgitate and bounce

pupils widening whenever

my eyes meet their gaze

wavering and moving from

person to person in an intimate crowded group setting.



Ah! how those eyes

which resemble soft moss

or the slick flesh of kiwis

stare at mine catching like how

flypaper catches mosquitoes

accidentally but intentionally

awkwardly but inventively

and ultimately intentionally.



Ah! how the memory of

those pretty green eyes

throw me off balance

when they lock into mine

and for a good ten seconds

merging a little too long

unnoticed by the crowd.


Ah! how those eyes

are like ghosts in my

memories so valid and

plausible they seem to

drift yet knowing they

will be seen tonight

creates a fidgety hope

splintered and shaking

within this hubris heart.



Ah! how those eyes

are framed by the

curliest of lashes

so cute they bloom

ripe smiles within this

here empty chest cavity

which seems to be defeated

at the moment but somehow

waiting to witness

orbs of stegosaurus skin

shelled and shellacked and unbuckled am i

at just a smack.



Ah! how those eyes

are like a slap

to my psyche.

Every part a swirling mass

of unabridged uncertainty.

And no matter how it seems

those irises of gold and green

will always be downright dainty.