Sound the horns before the crash of the drums,
Reign forever the promise,
only as long as does not perturbe the ageless splendor of it's denial.
The angry man is vain in his resentment of luxury as he toils,
and so he proceeds in vain of his resentment.
The happy man is foolish in his love of life, forgotten to that horrible heaping part of himself,
sprawled with constricting joints and bleeding that blood,
Pay he luck not to remember.
Always eager was accepted by the Earth.

Always downward impress the power and cascading mountains of the horizon.
Ever so that the dwindling height impresses the speck at the edge of it's microscopic lense.
From what pestle were ground these grains of what the body shivers to behold?
From what tree was made sacrifice and ripped the shreds of this beautiful scenery?
From what point does the needle steer it's compass,
Pulsates the ebb of the magma of power.

The excretions of raw turmoil brews,
Below the vats of anamorphic hell was raised,
And up was risen low on high and behold that it was seen.
The slumber had encroached upon itself,
Flitting it's tail at the flies and leftovers of the night.
The spoils of day at hand make clear the path of the arm.
I am stretched about it's expanse and yearn the pangs of inward loss.
The melting hot aftermath boils my blood dark and red,
I am ready to sanctify these old bones with new fire.
I lurch my eyes upon the stocks and bundles,
I am in love.

Flesh loathes the indulgence of the mind,
masked in the light by its submission.
I have made acquaintance with the tonic of breath upon the bellows of breast,
I met the waves that mirror this and thine.
Well met are they, and I said that it was good!
To the heavens which impress me impress myself!
Know my mind you manifold of high towers!
Know me that lightning had stricken the chapels of your Kingdom, my name in blazing stars.
Know my name to the inextricable folds of your searching rebuttal.
And behold my pride,
erected there with bricks I would bet against mountains.
Was my blood so bold to creep back whence it came?
If not so, then was made slave to my own boldness.
So there it was,
and so wept the Earth for a thousand years.

Tears falter to the sun, and my cheek is dry.
You know me, but what are you hiding?
Amongst the flags of nations the sweat of day unfurled,
There in the depths must be hidden.
Feed me or be refused the exhilaration of my tongue.
Set loose the fruit into my view,
I will do the rest.
Having filled my bucket of what belongs to me, harken to my plea for more,
To the adoption of my whimsy,
flicking fast the worm of yesterday.
I had worms in my thin stomach.
Aside it, the froth of snails had savored,
molding the lowest of all my opinion.
Better is the least of my gripes,
entrust me this day or all days hence I will mock you.
The threat twas modest now cast into hard metal for the shackles of a generation of tender feet.
What had inspired now falters,
I can weep no more.

It began with absence,
It began with desire,
And all the things in between you could not acquire,

The eves of the trees were slick with dew,
Drops of water all over the leaves, spewed
My heart was young, light, propitious,
Everything around me kind, bright, almost ridiculous,
Perhaps then was when you surmised,
That I would prove an absolute delight

Did you wonder if it would be easy?
I feel like I was supposed to act ******
The veins you clogged and the bones you broke,
The fingers you bent and the heels that just won't
The hair that was shaven as it grew unheeded,
My nails were pulled, they were not needed.

Cast down all the hangings that I put on the wall,
Take a scythe to them as I watch, in thrall
I fell to my knees and you helped me to the ditch,
Disposed to push me in as they swang the pots out and hitched

Scrubbing as I reeled, I could not get clean
The filth was everywhere, I found it hard to deal.
In a state of numbness, I found some balance
So now I'm clinging to this graceful frame of nonchalance,

Pray not leave with distaste,
In your abiding, unreasonable hate,
You crash about furniture as you do,
And I no longer care to clean up after you.

There is something about the human condition
truths are popular philosophies
hate our realism; love an idealism
while forever living in the hope for an eccentric world,
we forget we are the revelation of tomorrow.
For in the human condition there are no facts, just trends;
wanting to be something we are not,
we became slaves to our autonomy.
What we seek to be is a reflection; a mirror of what others seek to be
in the end the void is never filled.
For about the human condition, there is something,
something ******* in thinking we are woke.

Birthday's.
They start out as a celebration,
'Congratulations!'

Parties and presents galore.

But as the years go by,
And time takes it's toil,
Age begins to coil,

And rear it's ugly head.

The death that follows,
Can come quietly, swiftly,
Or it can come cruelly, fiercely,

And ruin the lives around it.