#lonesome-poets-poetry
To stand apart, for our Lord, and King Savior.
Never letting go of his hand , no matter what.
For only he can rescue us, in our time of need.
Only he shall, bring us to a new place and world.
Only he guides us , through this wretched place.
Only he is the light, as tis the lightsource is him,
In him there is none dusk, nor the way's of sin;
Ourn Creator's not faraway, he's ourn everlasting friend, just aloft hell's grin, and Satan's lonesome wiles.
We deserveth not God's mercy, forgiveness; we art vile. Ourn righteousness is as filthy rag's to the almighty. Jehovah, Yahweh, elohim, three names for the true fount of life. Wherein cometh every man and wife from his spring that's right; and eternal home.
O' maker of mine flesh and bones, How blessed we art, we art thine own; and when the trumpet soon shalt sound, I'll awakest from mine sleep, rise from the ground. Whether dead, or walking, living, we shalt rise up-Angel's singing. Robes of white, illumined sight's, ani ohev otach, sais the great " I am"; the one who speak's the breath in man.
©Brandon Nagley & Eddie Starr poetry duo poem.
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Prophetic poetry
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
I traveled seeking otherworldly unknown spiritual erudition,
Twilight was approaching, the village was illuminated; by lit face's and fiery pit's.
Shamanic foot pounding dug into the ancient soil, visages were daubed by psychedelic mirages; as embers flew from the state of consciousness matched. As tis these wild child's wore feather's as celestial hat's.
Chant's of healing echoed the earth, an old man with a map drawn on his countenance, and in the palm of his hand's. Stood crooked, spine shifted; with a feather inked with wisdom as the quill's were year's of time's past.
His peeper's as Sunshined glass, aged and freed, he was around the birth age of at least eighty-three; he's lived many form's back before time, before me and thee, he told me " Brandon, I've been waiting for thyself to be seen.
As tis I kneweth a messenger hadst guided me there, I was standing in the shaman's presence, as the plume's covered his hair; he kneweth I needed soul-retrieval, his grin bounced the air.
He brought me into his Wigwam, as tis I felt the demon's inside me, his singing smoked under his breath; verily a man of astral tithing, I passed out from the beastly being's biting.
Mine apparition hadst left me, I was aloft weightless over mine body, I felt as if I died, none more pride or lifes prizing. The medicine man tranced, none need for him to digest any elixers, he's been doing this for centuries, he was a past angel and spirit mixture.
I hath seen mine life's picture, just up high in the cloud's, mine aura climbed atop the great mountain, I didst not want to cometh down; I was watching this tan-skinned tribal just below mine sight; he danced, tranced, danced throughout the night.
Then at the ending before I awoketh, I stared the demon's coming out of me, as tis their infectious breathing got me choking, I pushed out all the thing's trying to latch onto mine burning light inside me, the hellion loveth good soul's, to Satan that's control: anything good is open to their inviting.
I opened mine vision, when the death-bringers left, a holy Bible was placed upon mine chest; as tis the shaman told me his Secretive gift and holiness: he told me Christ he turned to many kingdom's ago, once back when, when he was working as God's angel.
As when I left that small earthly hut of his, he started singing Christian proverb's; reciting Christian hymn's, he wasn't thy average medicine man, he kneweth truth, not fable's nor myth's; before I left he painted mine head with a cross for protective bliss. As whilst at that moment in time, the devil stayed away from mine mind, Satan's chain's wouldst be waiting for him in the brimstone abyss.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
Just beyond the albatross
Skyloft the ghost's;
And mine woe's to dissapear
For one to be here for me, an angelic host.
She'll be a superlative dogma
Of man's fortune and fame;
Mobilizing me by her **** call
Again and again.
Cometh over here "boy"
She doth sayeth, as she doth none wrong;
Ill write all mine poems for her
And turneth them into song's.
And whilst I sing mine song's for her
She shalt savor ourn Shakespearian night;
Like two unruly children we'll becometh
Leaving this place all behind.
Being **** to ournselves
Open for all to believe;
That ourn amour' is true
As tis we'll dance on the sea's.
And whilst dancing the seaside
Losing ourn throat's;
From all the laughter we shalt haveth
Making love in front of the ghost's..
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
I follow her behind,
As a foshatique
Shadow; hiding,
In her meadows,
In the morn I slip
Into her pillow,
By the thoughts
She releases.
I want to be her
Blanket that warms
Her in the night, that
Creeps up on her
Tight; a slow warm
Release.
Im her heart, thought
She does not hear
Me beat, I am her
Blood that she
Leaks, verily
Im her soul.
Im her silver
And her gold,
In a furnace;
Being refined.
Im her footsteps,
Her sun, and moon,
Though she only
Hides me in her
Room; where
She can only
Find.
Im her pathway
And her sign;
And now the
Path is barren-
She let it go,
Though I do
Know, im
Her shadow
She left behind.
©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poet's poetry
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
If we forget the one's of whom we love
We forget ournselves...
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 1:16 PM UTC