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Misty mountain heights
too precipitous and craggy to tread.
We imagine infinite possibilities
and traverse the talus instead.
Wandering through frost bitten landscapes
the macabre gruesome of yore.
Sentience breeds visions of panacea
entreating us to ask for more.
But enigma is a treacherous tirade
and the berserker is at the door.
Revulsions list toward recompense
reality seems a *****
The wanton wayward gist of pith
is diabolical dementia.
How to accomplish bailiff’s rake
while preserving in-absentia.
There is no more impunity
for those who live with sooth.
And yet our souls would long for grace
and try to call it truth.
"If a man speaks in the wilderness and there's no woman there to hear him
is he still wrong?"
The empty silent house seems so devoid of scenery
Sullen shadows and somber echoes that bring no joy to me
Outside the door the meadow beckons springtime's greenery
On the shaded porch I stand in quiet revelry

The wind that whispers through the trees brings reminiscent dreams
And new thoughts born of yesterday's less vacant lonely scenes
Restless deep emotions that make my true life seem so lean
Mourning sunset's fading beauty , colder soon is all it means
Torridly allusive reveries eidetic's epigamic epiphanies!
The volcano blurted out it's existence,
as if in defiance of the air's superior mobility,
while the waters boiled in recognition.
Orthogenesis overtures!
I'll walk with you tomorrow along the endless shore, while the primal tides are beckoning what has never been before.
Preternatural's ostensibly immortal fecund!
A good place to start would be an introspective analysis of self, but what of the ramifications of objectified's manifest? If evil is incarnate then what is the nature of corporeally preternatural? Can we save each other from the truisms of self we all embody, or do we all wallow in the pandemic phatic of our own fatidic as we seek augur's tout. My imagination tells me I can create a personification that has mystical properties but can this be functional garb or is it basically illusion. Can we touch each other, or even ourselves with these extrapolations? So many of us live by this platonic proxy photic aimed humanitarian instinct, maybe the reason we don't seem to succeed is because we need to be bad to be good. Further some of us are so bad that we obviously don't deserve to live but are those of us so inclined doomed to die of the ramifications thereof? And will this malady be a contagious virulence for all? Were it not for the astonishingly astounding and incredible nature of life itself I would almost be forced to abjure the nature of metaphysics on a corporeal level. Fortunately for me the answer is much more simple, I need someone to make love to, or **** if you will. I believe in retrospect this is obviously clear! Forgive my blither.
We are all a product of making love.  Two halves that made a whole. This process is the heights of metaphysical mystique on the corporeally preternatural and the basis of our morphological construction's integrity anatomically.
Knowing makes me wonder
At evocative truths which abound
Salient sentience is a crucible
Where the enlightened meet
To sip ambrosia’s elixirs
Enrapturing mesmeric enchantments
Fecund grace ensues
Pervasions depths seem within reach
With treatises we expound
Lecherous libido’s pandemic liaisons
A chorus so unique
Each one a sentinel equation
In harmony replete
The decadent arrogant squirm
As rubato’s flair reveals
All the things that might have been
The love that they concealed
As they reach with grasping greedy hands
For things they can not steal
Intrepid autonomy existential exigence!
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