Every dream held dear by man resides in the library near the river.

Brick on brick the tower rises; stoically majestic as it’s great stone parapets greet the silver-blue clouds on high.

Under its bold, weather-beaten folds lie books, shelf-over-shelf  
- each housing a single human dream.

Dreams of success, gratitude, solace, whimsicality; carefully sorted between the pages of every book.

Outside, the river holds fast; it’s current strong and swift beside the great library.

Bright blue and yellow flecks glisten in its silver waters, as it reflects the fruitful warm sun above.

Go ahead Mr. Vale, find your dreams Mr. Vale, go into the tower Mr. Vale, this is your dream Mr. Vale.

You can’t find the door Mr. Vale? There is no door Mr. Vale. You can’t get in Mr. Vale.

What’s that on your hands Mr. Vale? Make haste Mr. Vale! Wash your hands in the river’s waters.

Do you feel it Mr. Vale? Everything slowly slipping away, do you feel as if you’ve lost something Mr. Vale?

You should. You should know that the river has no water, it flows time, slowly slipping away.

The door Mr. Vale. You cannot open it, it isn’t that easy.

Sink Mr. Vale. sink into the deep and churning waters in the river of time. Soon this dream will be over and you will
discover the truth. The only way to chase your dreams is to wake up.

The forest is a
battlefield,
Division goes beyond
the investigative eye.

The innocent flower is
adulterous.
Cutthroat and jagged -
hard and bedraggled -

She is a seductive pandora's box.

A killed and killed killer,
     no mercy,
          no thought.
She is selfish and cruel.
A player and pawn in the game of natural selection.

And then she blooms.

To my backstabbing family,
     It's me, your prodigal son.
Do you remember me?
     Do you remember thine own?

An outcast among a sea of Hazy grey,
You threw me out upon the preamble
to my solitary foe -

Wasn't it you, Father who told me that
"alcohol would never bear true happiness".

Well, I hope you're happy.
You used me. Now, look at yourself.
A monster: sour, sickly, lackadaisical.
An Orange Monster in the moonlight.

I still remember the day you
gave me my things and told me to

Go -

A nation here at civil bay
But something is amiss.
The power of these tondi poles
Provoke's the mind's surmise.

For hark the Fair, Clandestine king
whose Brutal tenure holds
the throne - Illustrious - and seeking
to Attend the foot of gold.

One after one the children - Blue -
Fly to the King's pyrite promise.
The capital is empty!
Positively patient for the return of its
Begotten - but not forgotten - young.

The Lord God then raised his mighty hand.
And in his name...

The King had left. The children with him.

Alas, Alas! The cities  - parched themselves
as larks upon a warzone fly to provide
for the calcified soldiers as temporary relief.
A stronghold has been broken, a moment of weakness before -

Attack. The manic blueberry soldier rides on
Towards the weakened capital through a sunny winter's air.
Upon approach, the nation cries and moans
Wails of the eternal slumber to come!

Soon. the imposter had arrived
as one of the people.
He gave the nation children,
He gave the nation wine,
He provided them aphelion.

While the king watched from afar and
thought ill of his rebellion.

The last time there was time there was none.
Pushed and pulled I am the ameliorating clay
I am the Sun, I am the Stars, I am Solar System Glue.
It's I for all and none for me.

If the scariest beast,
- from the perch of distance -
Is but a speck. -
Then the epiphany is an ellipse:
It thrusts t’wards the future...
and signifies...what’s missed

So follows that a star -
Allumed -
Is not a void but sun.
Orange in the afternoon:
oblivion overcomes
The obscene Phoebus

And yet, the Sun’s enemy
Evil as it be,
Still eats the fruit made in Eden’s garden.
What is the truth, I ask thee?
For language masks the meaning,
That you intend to see.


But you do not...


Or do You?

I find that love, when never marked,
is happier than we,
with all the kings around us join -
in fake philanthropy.

Though It cannot be weighed or judged,
Intention is the Eye.
To spawn, to yearn, to want, to lust
is blackest of black tea.

And yet - when Painful Willow fell,
and after decomposed.
- With bread and fish - the promised land
would soon become exposed.

Perhaps it is the flight or path,
which regulates the sty.
For after all we walk the path,
With no goal but to die.

An otherwise stoic summer breeze,
Wavers in the frost.
It makes the wandering soul confer
The size of what is lost.

Though the sky is still everywhere and --
Column on column - the larks fly,
The invisible stays visible
If we would “try” -

This love contrasts a measured grief,
But the rub remains reluctant to let go,
Writhing and tithing it’s a ways
For us to truly know -

Could it be us - would it be all -
For the rust on the razor becomes the will -
To live or not live,
A sweet ventilation Afterall --