Summer In Gaza.

It's summer time
And where watching the
Beautiful sunrise and where
Having so much fun in the
Warm glorious sun
And where watching the
Sun shining so bright
And the kids having fun
In the warm summer sunlight
And Gaza is just a
Beautiful sunny place
And the breeze is full
Of sweet scented flowers
And the wine is so tasty
And the little birds singing so softly
And the tree's blowing in the
Gentle wind and Gaza
Is just a beautiful sunny
Place oh how I love
Summer day's in Gaza
And all of the songs we
Sung singing we love Gaza
All night long in the warm
Summer sun.

I wasn't on earth, not anymore
I wend one's way to a tranquil ambience whilst transcending my divine self
to a higher Cosmic Celestial being
at the time of eternal halcyon...
the Lacuna,that's what they called it in this time (Space was highly praised)

Suddenly life was unending
I guess that's why they use
light years here
it's counter intuitive

A cosmic pilgrim,
in a buoyantly state..
I peregrinated my way to the place in space
I seeked to fill my existence or of it to fill its existence the aftermath resulted twins

My burning hanker being doused with every feeling of passing an atom, I began to feel more drawned to my destination

From a distance, a visual perception of my terminus appeared before me

Jupiter

The third realm to the
East of my origin with
the four daemons seated in
an aligned parallel order manifesting themselves before my eyes..

Ganymede the colossal daemon
The ancient of them all

Callisto the Cherry blossom
the most alluring, artistic and gratifying in sight of all daemons.

Io the Sun's sister

The last daemon, Europa
the soft Pearl

The sight juxtaposed one's eyes for God's
I never felt so alive before
this was the cream of the crop
of the peacefull atmosphere in space..
sending an aesthetic tsunami tide to my soul's core

I belonged

He turns the page
Of old age
For what was once the rage
Now sits in his cage
It's been a war to wage
This, life's final stage
The pressure gauge
Ticking on so outrage
Ticking by in ménage
For his book's cleavage
Untouched and derange
Year's wasted and disengaged
If only there was no leakage
Or ever such seepage
Life on his barren range
With no panacea to assuage
No wife ever, no cat, no life to engage
Nothing but red read rage
Now in his final chapter, this cage
This cage, death does he part this rampage
A life perched without marriage
For he married to himself backstage
Where his curtain veiled fruitage
In lieu of looking at the skies for dosage
He fell hostage to his hermitage
Yet this, his bottled pilgrimage
Sinking now in raging montage
He does sit beseeched in his passage
And hopes someday to bid bon voyage
With direr hopes of  turning a better page

Logan Robertson

9/27/2018

Art is a hell of a *******
drug, I tell you
it surreptitiously creeps
into you in a way that is
utterly indecipherable,

and lures you deep;
deep into it as the void above...

For the eye loves
what it sees,
and what's been seen
by the eye
is rather fascinating to the soul,

Amidst all these
Overwhelming emotions,
a harmonic converge
between the eye and the soul
is created,

Fostering a sui generis ecstatic rhapsody!