What fresh invention,
Breaking with convention;
To press down with anger,
And drive firm with depression.
Comfort in the arms, of a
Thorny ex. Bathed in attention.
A hopeless obsession- the silenced
Tongue wags,
In this quiet procession.

"The most exquisite face wrinkles and droops with age
Roses too must wither, mocking man's desire for any eternal beauty in materiality
Death will destroy the buds of youth, Cataclysms will demolish the grandeurs of this earth
But nothing can destroy the splendor of the astral cosmos"

Many forms, but crystalline perfection;
Mystics pine, on the meaning of raging storms;
In lieu of real connection. We can
Appreciate the beauty that is laid before.
Before our time, and we veer
Without axis, & detached from direction.

Quiet attrition.
Unavoidable, sadness and contrition.
But for the end of the numb,
Who does not feel the same.
Where we go under, and succumb.
When at wit's end, and we are done.
The game grown stale, the race run.
One last fling, before we finish;
I hope this was fun.

I don't want you have no difficulty,
With the things you're still in motion for.
Likewise those you have emotion for,
Physical love. Those who came before,
Those you still adore, and new flames
You think offer more.

Poison in my heart, I'm sorry that
You chose to drink down.
And when you depart,
I will be unwound

She comes in waves.
In vibration, pulsating;
In a silken grave.
Writhing, in pain and in pleasure;
Gyrations, a grind of leisure.
Bucking in the saddle;
Riding hard, and giving pressure.
On the range, right at home;
One who meets the measure