The only argument one does well,
it’s with one’s other identities. Fighting
for different causes, it’s all apart of
one giant  fellowship. Maybe by
accident that reality is only inside one’s
mind. I just wanted to go into romance
and nothing else. I’m a poetic peasant.
My inner-world worth more to me,
than another would know, romance
should not be in the realm of any poem
or spilling out of a poet’s tears. All
romance, beauty and love should live
only in the realm of experience.
(knowledge variable)

And perhaps to confuse the Angels, is to
let them know how long people stay in churches.
With the amount that derives from it. Without
a sound, they slide down and it’s so easy, to
forget, that any Angel could provide more than
being an awakening of knowing to be good
enough in the scene of romance. It’s been
one of a kind ride, along the bladed knife.
Where else could I see God, outside stained
images along the walls and in a magnitude
of collected books and dogma. A character
so stretched, it spawns different religious
fountains, that can encourage people, not only
to die, but to ****, or in simple tragic hands,
look what I got, could birth the most tear
dropping acts of humanity. (Cut those ivory
into skinny pieces and feed the poor. They’re
left questioning and saying: ‘I should of run
that way, or maybe this way.’ Those *******
will never know, cause I got away. I guess it’s
close to armageddon, more ******, harming
and joy, don’t you know, you can meet the devil
before death? It’s behind the curtains in plain
sight, the best kept secrets are well protected
and never to be proven. From the land that
never rains, everything they seem to do, cause
drama and you’ll never be right as you’re left
dead wrong, even when you’re long gone.
Dear Lord, bless my mystics in the in penitentiary,
Soldiers of the century.)

So, I’ve stepped beyond the curtains,
seeing blood and wrath, now it’s time
to change my soul, transcendent
features, illumination. Wishing death
upon me, I stared at destiny and now
they wish to take my life away

.
In the butterfly I see,
The soft seeding of mystery,
In the buzz of bees,
There are immortal histories,
As the wild geese fly,
I hear monks chanting on high,
In crow of craven rook,
There is wisdom more than book,
By heron there is knowing,
Cycles of life in still waters flowing,
In sky for all to witness,
Clouds shaping our dreams, limitless,
In symmetries of snowflake,
Are whispers louder than any thunderclap,
Swans in sky, if we would look,
Hum their wings as babble from brook,
In a blade of green grass,
Their are running grains of hourglass,
In temple of solitary pine,
There is a scent intoxicating as wine,
At the ponds edge are fables,
Deep as the sun sparkling on its tables,
In dear wood there are fires bright,
In the eyes that hear and see at night,
On the great oceans are crests,
More shining, noble than any kings breast,
In the grey, lowly moth I see,
A wondrous butterfly wanting to be.
.

Like others, in the speeching tone, melancholy, that
trembles throughout lands. Moon glow and Sun’s
rays. As masterpieces of any art, were not intended
for this age, period, any culture or the whole spectrum
of civilizations. They had landed here on earth, mere
mistakes. But the imprisonment of thy mind, worse
than living in bitterness, it’s the blasphemy of this life
constantly slapping you. Where you’re never ending
in clarity of mind and conscious, nowhere you go, the
world would an environment equal or greater than
your inner-world. Rise up above art and life. And
commit oneself to death.

The conversation I only want to witness, is not
between the Devil and God. It’s one between
Van Gogh and Mozart. When I meet my own
creator, I know better than most, I’ll keep my
petty complaints for myself and I shall listen
only. Poet, a fragile creature, yearning love and
actual wisdom, that surpasses them to be a mere
Human. Clumsy hands, that always write the
wrong words, to the wrong poems, forming them
all wrong, where humanity is willing to devote
themselves, to such great works of art. I’ll never
be Rumi. Oh thy Muse, how peaceful would life
be without love. There would be no wars to fight
within myself. Let all poetry be contradiction
within themselves, like all poets inside their
inner-world to their exterior.  
(Knowledge Variable)

A Smart romantic knows, that the heart hardens
when it’s being fed off from fantasies. And the
void isn’t punishment of sins, perhaps it’s directed
to the ignorance of man. It’s agony to feel defective
at all times. In trickling and laughing dust, is where
our measure is, a thousand years to live, when one
meets their lover and immortality is blessed upon
when the two go on, deeper and become illuminated
by their own love. (Who's the killer, me or you?)

.
Nature cut her ties,
The stem wanders,
Petals splay in wind,
Woman spreads open,
Man needles so within,
Fruit will come, to drop,
After loves have spoken
And the new walking limbs
Of ripeness that leaves out,
Shall branch into us, light,
Under a sun which seethes,
In the salt of the scorn flesh,
The petals of woman alive,
Such nectar that man must
Halve of himself into world
And kind release, breakings
With water unto high earthly
Being and lands unknown,
Like a Phoenix after ashes,
In a shower of clay, dried
Yet bountiful with bloods
Streaming to the afterdays
Of progeny and old hatch,
To hold with stars as chaos
Falls, seeding casted comes,
Liquids into spinning births.
.