From out of the smoke,
And impromptu silences,
A lone piper plays at reels,
Beyond the borders, his knees
In a trinity of keys, breaching
Low dun black ****** hearts,
The public house is enclosed
Out in the open, under a plow
Of mossy stars, peat and bog,
Wrapped, within chanters throat.

The last poem written by William Carlos Williams
must linger in the room
where he died
in his sleep.

Words float like atoms of dust
visible only in the light
of the afternoon sun.

There is comfort here
in this quiet room;
the unmade bed,
an empty glass,
the dog-eared pages of books
carefully stacked on the nightstand
waiting to be reread.

His last poem
does not slice the air like the jagged edge of cut metal;
rather, it succumbs to the
inevitable forces of entropy
tearing apart its metaphors
until they no longer resemble verse.

The last poem written by William Carlos Williams
falls to the shadowy corners
of the small room
unseen,
undisturbed,
at rest.

She severed the head of love's complacency
covering all I thought I'd discovered with a vice
like grip on a puzzling figuring out of normalcy
refusing any defining by turning pose in a trice

into fusions of fiery burns of my assumptions
until she was nowhere but there at every turn
churning the pressure with neat beats of passions
with valves registering a blistering alarm

a companion unhinged by dimensions dark tinged
not a snake charming woman nor a venomous fang
yet poison was taken with a cringe and a change
into a Hyde or a Jekyll I cannot decide things

When my grasps fall between all her parts half revealed
I gasp out of hunger pang eagerness to feel
slender slinking through fingers and thumbs unsolved
as a friend or a foe I can't know if she's real

Beyond physical perception I cannot be certain
because of fantastical attractions in legion
gone viral in tongues insubstantial past vision
yet assembled in ways which portend a contagion

At night I sleep,
my mind travels to distant universes,
my mind expands, my body shudders,
like flying while laying down or crying while laughing.

Thoughts so profound and mysterious invade my mind,
echoed words I never spoke.

my soul yearns to be free,
bound in this wretched vessel,
like sunlight seen but not felt.

my wings cut off from those foreign strings of reality called dreams,
the night laughs, in the morning I cry.

The question regarding the question relies on what the question really is.

If the question implied is a question directed outwardly, then it may be misinterpreted as a question to oneself internally.

Otherwise, a question explicitly directed inwardly is critical to deciphering the question that one will address outwardly.  

If an indirect question is questioned through the user, then the question itself becomes a metaphysical question to choose from.

In the event a question is said through alternate means, consider the quantitative/qualitative state of the question at the time being; as it may be resolved by asking the question in a subconscious level indeed.  

Superficial means tends to seek fundamental questions to the reality of the state one naturally possesses.  

In the case where the unconscious decides the opportune event to question the conscious reality, one must interpret the means in examination of the intrapersonal mentality.  

If the question is imposed through correlative thought and subliminal expression, then the question itself is related to a parallel conscious state intertwined with the unconscious state of mind of progression.

If the question is relative in combination to the solutions mentioned above becoming apparent, then one has means to ask the question without questioning the question itself in disparate.

Otherwise, the question continues to perplex the question through the continuation of irrelevant questions that one will have thought; creating a treacherous belief so concurrent one could not have fought.

Therefore, is the reality of the question portrayed to the reality you live in or the reality of others? As this poem was conclusive to subtly evoke thought in the questions we construct.

By: Michael M. De La Fuente

In mute fields of sun  .  .  .
Angels' wings hum from heaven,
  .  .  .  Flock of swans fly by.

Inside of me It's empty

Inside of me It's verve

Up and down

A heart ******
Rises me in a metaphysical experience,
Oh, excitement!

Layman's troubles, you fickle bode,
Who picks apart my breaths incentives,
And hastens my growing old.
Oh why can not you find
But one excuse to leave me,
For if the move was partnered
I'd grin and jump across the sea,
To find a locked up place to hide
Til' you decide to change your mind,
And sure you will,
You have before,
Then came with troubles new;
Searched, and found me hidden beneath the floor.

I hope some day you'll understand
My eyes of darkened shades,
And why they churn a fire burning,
Wishing you would end these days.
Only then will I choose to leap
Across the sea once more.
For a chance to walk on ground not burdened
By my troubles
That burn all open doors.

Have we yet captured the schemes of our misfortune
A solace granted to us, picketed by our tedious hangups
Oh lost have we been
Wondering the labyrinths halls

Each time we find our steps take us no further
Our stagger is broken
By a light projecting life outside the hallways walls
While envy flaunts it's final solutions
In loo of a future we are attempting to grasp
Our steps move us further once again

Now, just as forgotten times before
Do I see that the peaces of our scheme
Are collected gradually over time
and my mind is the cage for their housing

The fragments are fluid and known
To our past selves on a distant day
But now I live life again from a stance of their recall
While at the same time tempted
To step back to the labyrinths halls