under the core of time, there's the beach of dreams bathed by the water of wishes, attachments and fear nothing can you bring to this place, it's all there guarded by ancient creatures, made of clay and stone
everything a being knows will be forgotten there all abilities and skills will be unlearned for good misunderstandings will be solved, time stops ticking the word "why" loses its function under the core of time
pearls of rain fall on the ground to stroke people to redeem them from the arrogance of living on earth and a mist of gold and light belts the sleeping ones under the core of time, space becomes infinite and clear
a kingdom, where love shall be king and law, peaceful
Some will sing of Scotland, its heather and its hills Some will sing of sunrise, the coming of new dawns Some will speak of hidden gems some of treasured pearls But I will sing of Alba Flower when kneeling in my prayers.
I will thank my Father God that she came before the dawn that in the deepest night Alba's bright new light was born I will thank him for the joy of finding this precious pearl and thank him for entrusting us with this wee bonnie girl.
Alba Maggie Flower bn 25 Nov in the early hours. Congrats to my friends Jon and Yvette.
With tweezers I relieve her of the pearls within her eyes / The experiment is finished: Experience and I have ****** her dry / Iris-less she cries, but her tears arise like incense to the skies / How sweet the fragrant plumes of her demise! / I ignore her cries; I have gained my prize / And soon her voice will wane / An infinity of ever-fading sighs | An affinity for exculpatory lies...
I foot the ladder I called upon the wheat I called upon the spaces where only an ibex can stand I called upon the swollen silence, the space between the keys I called upon the distended bulb of awkward air that is my usher unto the people of this world. I called upon God to change my purpose for me but all I saw were white shapes in the darkness. he had sent his heralds with the long horns and bugles the thrones and cherubim suspended like a women’s pearls about the neck but i was too deaf and hard of seeing on what was happening in my day to day in my aloneness in my facebook messages in my bank account. I thought the die was cast and so I rode their mercy like an uncut Arabian steed. I was young and my shadow was a bad foretelling - like worms drowning on the pavement- like an empty soul factory in the bathroom stall. but I’m on borrowed time like a black cat dream on the narrows and the cobblestones. like how a broken broom breaks all gypsy curses, black cat dreams are never wrong, and in the deep statecraft of my undoing I’m almost sorry for what I asked for. See, there are two of me and they are crowing I know not which one bodes the ill intent and which one wields the cyanide. but both are mostly indolent in their listening to the building of the gallows. Every breath is a fatality Every hand full of dirt is a genesis and I can hear the hangman at the gallows. Let Justice Be Done, Though The Heavens Fall and i’ll go see my brother on the water. halfway up the sky he’ll build eternity outside of time, and I will foot the ladder. birds of hollow bone they herald my undoing, planting white lilies in my heart. by the building of the gallows I will foot the ladder sometimes there are only hammers sometimes all I see are nails. where is the healing balm in this dreamscape that I invented? he’s holding sulfur in his death hand. I looked up and asked him for a bright lantern I asked him to keep this pen alive and to fix me to his liking I asked him for a bamboo raft worthy of the rapids. I told him that when I was in California I was so sad I couldn't see the ocean. I asked him that if I were to give penance could he take these tumors in his hands. all i saw were reflections of him smiling like long eclipses on comanche moons. I heard the gears of the clock all grinding but the hands were spinning loose. I wanted to be home then, but he said I already was. And then he told me: You are the gallows and the hammers You are the black cat and broken brooms You are the pavement and the worms and the drowning and the nails You are the lilies and the wheat You are your brother and his dreaming You are the cyanide and the birds. but i’ve so much invested already in the crawling in and out of beds that all there is left to do is foot the ladder till I'm no longer deaf to the horse's mouth, to the screaming of the diad in their forgetting of their Oneness Of their Atonement Of their dreaming of the dream.
What is the value in fame? What is the ranking on the spectrum of good better best?
No losers, doerdiedoerdiedoerdie try umph, po-et-tu-try a ah ahhh 'istory shew, a reeely big shewbread sword of Goliath, by golly, weapons for pullin' down strong holds, hordes of dragon lies, and deadly fears
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Attention paid appreciates as an asset on the spectrum. Thank you for what you do, no poet forms where no readers pay attention to free treasures once fed swine.