In reading past philosopher's, a concerto conversation
in historic fashion and expressed in poetry. A soul
trembling, mystic produced, words to murmur all through
a moon-lit, silver night and see the sun rise again.
Descent from the mundane, where void is birthed,
watch life expressed in mystical beauty.
(Knowledge Variable)

Lover, while intertwined, breathing mingling,
body to body, stomach touching, naked. We’re
a vaster blaze to the night sky, than any
constellation the cosmos performs for humanity.
Secrets shared in poetry and they forget about
the sun rising everyday. To every moment
we share, the Muses to this world forgets a little
more to complete it. As we awaken a littler
larger, growing towards holy enlightenment
as our love is grand and true. (No-longer afraid
to die - lover, I belong to you. I’ll wait for you,
at that other place, just smile for me now. We’re
exploding into a million stars and poems, just
by breathing as we kiss. Arch of eternity,
humanity remembers us, in mythological fame,
no offence to any lovers, but this world belong
to us. Untouchable.)

A poet becomes, when a poet finds the world
outside, unsatisfactory. Not to inspire that world,
be drawing attention to themselves, to be inspired
or proven wrong. Not admitting it’s true love that
they all want. Children to life. Slaves to reality.
Caged in desirous love. Limited in art creation.
Do not render to poets for anything. Live life.
There is only one of those. (When my face got
cut up, I got told that God don’t like ugly. So
every night, I go to sleep with a pistol in my hand.
And one open, just like the Masons. Don't feed into
the world.)

To my muse, that pulled me out of
a still place, where I was a offspring
of my past, placing me here, as a
parent to my future. Where this
present, converts itself into loving
memories, content at the same time,
anticipate the future, working towards
overloading love to live the experience

There are poets, who sink into
themselves, deep into the infinite,
where their soul once melted over
and emptied. A poet to be kissed,
hugged and gestured to. Blossomed,
intertwined, like tangled vines.
In person, they have nothing to say
but spark so much, in their loud poetry.

Her torch reflecting and piercing eyes, wise
and watching-over forever. From my
vanishing smoky glare, pine, eyes. Do I
dare to go closer? Her beauty scares me,
Aura, dipped, angel-like and majestic.
My soul pushes for a spontaneous
outburst of a romantic daring. Her wisdom,
something admire, even outside poetry.
Thoughts scattered and departed from me,
and it’s too late, she’s burnt in my memory.
I contemplate the future, will it bring me to
tears, to write with my tragic hands poetry
of regret? I spoke up. She moved closer

A self induced hardship - desiring without action,
dreaming ruthless castle-like magnificence. Aiming
towards Heaven.

She wanted a prince charming
but she was looking in the wrong place
because
Who knew a prince charming
could be dressed in a worn beanie and tattoos
Who knew a prince charming
could keep he head down
and be from the other side of town
Who knew a prince charming
could understand every corner
of his princess' soul, so well
Who knew a prince charming
and a lost princess
could love each other
so much

Serpent in poet’s garden, her in my mind,
demons and angels, wrestle, all wanted
is rebirth in poetry. Still sinful as I write
in graceful poetry. When I romance, I
do it right. Though when I sin in lust,
to spills over onto the Earth’s soil.

Duration of life, metaphors in actions,
linger thought for memory, paradox.
Profusely in search of defined meaning
to one’s own being, refined. Fireflies
and moths. Deepening dejection, truth.
To eat the apple or not, instead of to be.
Changing owls. Awaken in constant
thread in meditation and conscious.
Death is one final act. Take me to that
other place. I’ll only wait for my lover.