What if logic isn't the most logical after all?
What if it could trap us into a way of thinking that ruled over the sub-conscious, and the conscious mind?
What if the laws of nature were broken? How would we know?
What if the laws of man were broken? How could we tell?
What if the most illogical thing could change logic, as a thing?
Is logic just an idea, to rule over all ideas?

Blue your mind, in the skies before your eyes

Plenitude
in the heptagon
of gratitude
natural pride
the abominable defied.

I took advice from a fox
about survival and natural law
It spoke to me about cunningness
and how to trap birds within your jaw

I took advice from that bird
laying stiff in its mouth and still
about the ways one catches worms
and the early rise for their meal

I took advice from the worm
squirming in it’s beak from a brook
about all the fish it once had caught
and how in everything theres a hidden hook

I took advice from life itself
searching for secrets to survive
the difference between good and bad
and how Karma is killing us alive

He's tending the garden.
Earth on his hands
Sweat on his neck.
Sprinkling seeds
From freshly spent flowers.
I can't see his eyes behind his Ray Bans
But I know they're focused, delighted
Observing the occupants and visitors
In his cultivated oasis.
To keep the garden nurtured,
protected,
is critical.
He worries when the storms roll in.
How will they fare?
But he does what he can.
He rids the area of weeds
And cares for slender stems.
It's a promise kept
To tend and till.

In the garden he's a father too.

She speaks in cherry red
Prunus cerasifera
He whispers falling leaves
Amongst the diving wrens.
Happy tears shed every morning
Before the Lyrebird sire
Starts his lone choir

Ashen pine blue, flame trees
Quiet illumination
Sensual body of Autumn

I hate the winter
not a single bone unchilled
trapped in my blanket
warm but lonely
the outside veiled in white,
reminds me of death
white with mist, not with snow

I hate the spring
it is far too cheerful
like a façade, or a satire
luckily it's quiet short
even God wants it to go away
because joy never stays

I hate the summer
it feels long and distant
it is loud and real, cold and brutal
The noisy cicadas hollering in the hazy air
and asphyxiating youth out there
and no blanket to trap myself in
I just hate how alive it is

Though I do enjoy myself in the company of Autumn
The carcasses of fallen leaves
And skeleton of the trees
It is pretty
It is silent
and the occasional rains
to put out the fire in me
Everything resembles the colour of my skin
I don’t get to see that often
I wish the cycle of seasons ceased at this point
Early Autumn
Brown Forever

If only I could stay
In labyrinths green
Ever wandering
In hallways of sunlight
Nothing more than
A lingering thought
Left floating through
Wooden minds and
Mossy corridors

KNL

he cuts the grass into stripes
annoyed that the fence
doesn't run parallel

he will sit with a beer
after a long day
watching the sunset
his OCD screaming
it's not symmetrical

it's all he will see
amidst this natural
beauty