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Sunlight, sunlight, you are my eternal sunlight,
whilst all but tender and benign is the night.
And you shine on me like the collapsing moon
but lurk away as morn greets our humanity too soon.
You can sometimes be obscure but real;
and your soul is the ring my poet's heart wants to steal.
Your love is too frequently demanded
Yet as you gaze into me it might just be finally authenticated.
Run, run, as I did once from your thin figure
with flashes of anger and loath but unsure.
How when you are mad you look but tiresome and timid
Odd as it is, as to your very liveliness and inborn wit.
But you are simply too genuine and weak and true
and with your smile you often touch my heart
just like our nature's undying morning dew.

Oh, my secret love-just as it is now and again,
tell me now how to cure this deafening pain.
I might have never told you I love you,
but inside am sure that you love me too.
Probably it is just my longing that is too shy
but how it can ever be please never ask me why.
For in your name I wish never to tell a lie
But whenever dusk comes my secret will be gone
as to truly embrace only the meaning of your sun.
In my dear heart you are somehow mine,
just like I might already be within thine
But how the world will blacken and wrong us
if we give way and surrender to this lust.
Look, my love, at how the trees and birds sing!
With peace at heart they form one loyal lavish string
On this country's honest farms and soil
So that their own joy they shall never spoil.
Hark, darling, hark how they dance throughout the foliage!
Ah! Just like the melodies buried far down in your cleavage
You are now and again my very own vivid shadow,
that trusts my poems and be with me
as I overcome the bleeding tomorrow.

And be with me and the chorus in my dear heart
Although this world seems cruel and is but to tear us apart
As at only your breath my womanhood raves;
and for only your veins my delight and soliloquy craves.
In your manliness my whole solitude shall rejoice
meanwhile my dimmed heart brightens at your grand voice.
Oh! How I want to leave you not-to my destined sphere!
How my blood is stained by and reeks of fear,
and as mischievous like springs are towards bitter snow,
whenst they are to warm off its whining skin
and so scornfully send away whose glow.

O my love, my love! Then tell me just fervently once more
before I needst to leave and walk outside the door.
Release me from this sinister unloved hell
and free me from my single nutshell.
Tell me how you love me, and long to age with me
within the rustic village behind the maple tree.
Amongst the loveliness of the old church and parish
Next to the brown grass and green pond of fish.
And at night, how shall we sit amidst those witty bushes
with two cups of tea and due pairs of romantic torches.
But please, please be with me, and be mine-mine, only-
o my love, thus leave me not within this dire uncertainty
as long as I breathe still and my heart beats within me
but make me stay here and forever crave for thee,
as far as love can go, and as deep as eyes can see.
Smoke Scribe Mar 2018
all poems write themselves, following plans that are drawn only
as the poem goes along, neither leading or following, but
carrying the writer along as first violin, a VIP passenger,
the first viewer, a consultant but not a conductor

a poem is written based on what has happened
a poem is written based on what was hoped to happen
a poem was written based on what could never happen
but is so well imagined that it is more real than if it happened


I willingly tell you I will not tell you which is what, for there is no difference between them for the writer, the first passenger,
though undeniably fully aware of the quality of the ware
that is proffered, plottered or just perchanced

perhaps you are thinking, but of course,
this is the way,
the way of all of us,
the way it has and will be and no
disclaimer needed for no believable claims are made

perhaps
for the weave is oft tight, tight as near-truth, and so well imagined, it wraps the first passenger in a cloak of skin
that actually feels, though cloaks cannot feel,
but belief is easily eased

there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth


Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum
but authenticated by me as
first viewer,

3/13/18
1:09am
Richard B Shick Sep 2018
HERE GOSE NOTHING  HOPE YOU LIKE I WORKED ALL DAY ON IT....im sure there will be changes....LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK



Class is in session.
Time to grab your
NoteBooks.
And get,
educated.

Think My words
May Have been forgotten.
Or have they,
just  been
miscommunicated

Can you hear what I'm  saying.
Probably not,
 I'm  Too sophisticated.

Don’t take words I say
And twist them and around.
Til They become
exaggerated.

Or I’ll grab my strap
And ****  it back
take aim
Clack clack
Assassinated.

Watch what you saying,
I don't think your  listening.
Better get to running
Or end up,,,,,,
annihilated.

My mouth has no Limit,
It's automated.
I don't have a filter
To keep me,
regulated.

As you get incarcerated,
I get celebrated
For  every thing I've done.
This I created

So Say Good Bye
to what you
Thought were friends,
We're way gone,
Alienated.

Your Words will get you
Eliminated,
Like a effin cockroach
Just Call me
Mrrrr Orrrrrkin,
Exterminated.


Better watch your back.
I can get real spinal,
Don't get,
  disintegrated.

My words  are truthful
Just like the
Guinness Book of records.
Im authenticated.

I write my own words
Im Never collaborated,
Unless it’s me myself and
I.

Will never be manipulated.
By your abbreviated
Stories,
They're fabricated.

Don’t make me
Hunt you
  I will effin ****** you
Its all ready planned out,
Premeditated.

So Let me make things simple
For you,
Like you are  a caveman.
Uncomplicated.

My  moves they seem so cat like,
Very Quick and nimble.
Im Articulated.

I’ll will destroy you
Don’t get blown away
Like a hurricane,
Decimated.

Can't you see me frozen
I’m cold as ice,
And need.
refrigerated.

Do you see my spot lights
Can you see me
glowing,
While up on stage.
I'm Illuminated.

As you sit here
With an old pass,
Done  expired and no where to go,
invalidated.

You can’t even do math,
Always 3 steps behind,
You know what i Call that.
miscalculated.

Me as being stupid.
Don't try be sneaky
I know Your  every move,
I Anticipated.

Don’t  choke on your words
To where you can’t breath,
With A rope around your neck,
Asphyxiated.

Why must  you be so
opinionated
Are you **** hurt.
Or is your mouth
just.
constipated.

Quick,
give him a trophy
Cause He thinks he won.
But you never,
participated.

How’s it feel to be
Hated,irritated
And,  outdated.
Cause you have no *****.
You've  been Castrated,
Dominated
And, infiltrated
Just Like a waterfall
You've been.

Liquidated.

I Think  you over medicated
Here  come the white coats,
Eyes are dialated
Cause your brain
Has become
Contaminated
Intoxicated and,
Deteriorated.


Think you daddy
Should have just
Masturbated
Then
*******
On
The bed sheets

As he Put a pillow on
Your mom’s face
and she,
Suffocated.

Cause she never
Reciprocated
Or consummated.
Was so stupid and didn't
Swallow.
Got inseminated.

Now
Its time that we end
This.
What I initiated,
Hopefully
I communicated
All these words
That
Have  accumulated.

I tried to be illustrated
And innovated.
Just like
A bomb
That had to be detonated.
I’m out
And cool like a fan
I’m  so oscillated.

To be continued
.........

WRITTEN BY
Richard Shick
Attributed To Concerned parents
of Traumatized Refugee
Dear Fred and Mary Anne MacLeod Trump...

Posthumous belated tattered letter fragment
recently discovered (liberally sprinkled with
hyperbole (presumed for greater audacious
zealousness), sans accidentally acquired
by yours truly.

Miscellaneous personal item highly valued
when thwarted from auctioneer, whose gently
persuasion collectible merchandise requisitioned,
thence keepsake property perfunctory mandatorily forfeited.

Due compensation from sole male heir (me),
whose long since (resting in eternal
peace) papa suffered degradation,
humiliation and understandable lamentation
as a kid living in Flatbush.

Authorities and expert legal scholars
pieced together what probably comprised
a lengthy epistle rivaling the Epic of
Gilgamesh).

Recollection recounted torturous,
malicious, and flagitious mean spiritedness
visited upon the ambitious, cadaverous, and
timorous body electric high-jinxed introverted male,
whose abstemious, conscientious, and nutritious
dietary regime, could not forestall rigor mortis.

A postscript (purportedly penned prior to
once philosophical pensive poet's papa's passing)
stated that said personage felt bitterness,
disharmonious envious self loathing.

That grownup man known as mine father,
though once upon a time, said recently
anonymous deceased old fogey ironically
registered as an atrocious, cantankerous,
and egregious deplorable high school student.

Also, the author of what constitutes partial
opprobrious litany attests during his
idolatrous, notorious, and semiconscious
Arab zombie school daze.

He ranked as de facto semiprecious,
tremulous and unanimous scapegoat
bullied by a bumptious, callous,
disputatious hippopotamus of a brat
infamous bruiser later in his life to become
forty fifth president of UnIted States.

Though documentation incomplete, the un
named subject referred within torn shred
recovered included signatory couching
ambiguous references to a tenebrous,
unscrupulous, and vicious ******* initials.

Dee Tee quickly intuitively assessed
as one inhumane specimen, whose pugnacious,
pretentious, and pestiferous, persona characterized
impetuous, adulterous apprenticeship appetite
for erecting ******* skyscrapers.

This once pacific pilloried pupil, whose grown
son (myself), now recalls father's misty eyed
anecdotes dripping with acrimonious, curmudgeonly
grouchy, grizzly and crotchety old sorries,
viz refashioned abominable kamikaze
psychological sorties.

I can vividly recall (how painful unto his old age)
oft daddy's repeated quotidian taunts, whereby
that bad ***, acidulous, avaricious, contemptuous,
enormous, and grievous big boy trumpeting
bruiser exuded devious, heinous, libelous, and
parsimonious tightwad, though born into wealth.
It is a fallacy we all believe.
As we vehemently exclaim six words
to prove the chastity of our thoughts,
to fill our pride with self-validation,
to ratify our existence with falsehoods.
"The Devil made me do it!"

"The Devil made me do it!"
I bitterly laugh at your blundering gaucherie,
as you lay blame on an eons old transgression,
as you smote the sinnerman flying with flames,
as you called him out for your own actions
impassioned by heresy.

Impassioned by heresy
You sought to relieve yourself from perdition;
brought upon by perjury declared,
brought upon by authenticated truths,
brought upon by the duplicity,
of your favored reverent ideologies.

Of your favored reverent ideologies
which is to laud your skirmish against evil
in order to remove yourself from auburn eternity,
in order to induct you as a citizen of argent fields,
in order to orchestrate contempt towards another?
Is there no truth to you?

Is there no truth to you
now that perfidy imputes your entirety?
as you declaim in front of paradise lost,
as you coerce to regain what is rightfully deprived,
as you throng duress by intoning your delusion:
"The Devil made me do it!"

"The Devil made me do it!"
Its recurrence is maddening to Him
while you, in all your sentience, chose to act unbecoming,
while the celestials perched on your shoulder bawl,
while He that you blame does absolutely nothing.
It is a fallacy we all believe.
Why do we blame the Devil for our own mistakes?

Read more of my works on brixartanart.tumblr.com
Arcassin B Jun 2015
By Arcassin Burnham

Scowl up my face for the moves you make,
You Are the definition to finding a word in the Webster's dictionary,
I'm so Appalled!!!!!
No better way to punish someone you want to destroy in an office full of documents and papers for charitable organizations,
That can be dealt with later,
He enjoys the oral way too often,
And shes never been penetrated,
masterful until he's in his coffin,
Virginity will get authenticated,
Escalated,
Elevated,
Rejuvenated,
Just be glad that your face is straightened.
Lol I like the title
Arcassin B Mar 2017
by Arcassin Burnham


I feel like..i feel like,
i feel like being close to you is not gonna hurt...
if i run..if i run,
if i run out of time,this won't be good to you...
bet you noticed..bet you noticed,
bet you noticed all the times i was there for you...
i was saddened..i was saddened,
I was saddened by how you would react..
The miles of love we've ran for days has never came to pass and,
And each time we sacrifice something that never caved in,
Too many feelings we embark,
I've only loved you from the start , then it faded away in the dark.

/

Swearing this piece of cloth on this floor would remind me of all the playful times,
there is no secret that i use to love you more than you assumed i did when i was out of line,

And saying things i didn't mean,
it did not seem like it was a dream,
from kissing you in all the various forms in your possession when i bleed,
new blood,
of forgotten love making we created ,
i was thinking maybe it would be something more authenticated,
you mistake it,
for an open relation,
that wasn't so,
but you moved on like a central station,
and i..
Started from the bottom,
just add some rocks in..
Dealing with my problems,
containing my sins..

/

Mysterious Girl,
you don't have to owe the world a proven doubt at all,
when the only thing you do is fall,

like the leaves that posses gravity like we all do,
its not your fault but we all deserve to have a helping when
we have no way out of this hell we call a world in its weakened state as
when they relate to a common goal and a familiar phase,

Mysterious Girl,
Don't cry,
please dry those eyes cause the man himself will join us shortly.
©abpoetry2017
http://arcassin.blogspot.com/2017/03/connection-just-as-playful-mysterious.html
Martin Narrod Nov 2017
Take my fetus and go
Through and through the mighty seas,
Cleft of stubborn knocks and the bayonets
Rocking through and through the eves. Whose pirouettes and epilepsy crooked, Asunder, blessing the attenuated biology of Say, a field mouse or the hummingbird. What nuisance it transcends itself into. How It has marred even the plight to lock oneself In that windowless box of time. The Atemporal box featuring those curious amaranthine engravings about its sides, upon its top. Though the blood may not spill from side to side, and while the nellypot may collywaddle, there is an immense sincerity akin, fused afore to the intimacy of an authenticated orphic boketto.
Nica Monet Mar 2018
I am the moon one side’s shown, the other hidden
I am the stars, scattered decisions with a vision
I am a rollercoaster, unexpectedly spontaneous
I am the rain I fall, hard unconscious
I am the storm, I come back strong and ambitious
I am the sweet song of acoustic, a spectrum of quality
I am the sweet love song, cliche with a personality
I am the sea calm never steady
I am a hummingbird flying here to there
I am the trees that sway, I am a leaf in the air
Yet I am a wolf leader of its pack, never rests
I am the train that leaves and comes back
I am the dedicated worker, never stop till a heart attack
I am a child who passionately believe
I am an old soul, authenticated and wise
I am your hair, unique and stubborn
I am a judge willing to listen and compromise
I am a trampoline once you fall, I bounce you back up
I am a slime molded into anything, still the same
I am a human being, complex and alive
I am a living thing, I break, I live, I matter, I thrive
This poem has many metaphors and each one describes me as a person:)
TOD HOWARD HAWKS May 2020
Kristallnacht in now every day in America.

**** Trump is now America's full blown ******.

Goebbles was ******'s minister of propaganda. Goebbles said if you tell the people a lie big enough and often enough, they will begin to believe it.

The Washington Post has authenticated over 15,000 **** Trump lies in the past 3 1/2 years.

**** Trump's evil, egregious acts of irresponsibility, his gross incompetence, his de facto criminal decisions not to act at all to protect his 350,000,000 fellow citizens from the death-dealing coronavirus is akin to ******'s hatred of Jews and other groups he also detested and killed.

At the end of WW II, there were estimated to be 15,000 death camps across Europe.

Now **** Trump has his own death camps in America: nursing homes, huge meat-packing plants, prisons and jails, VA hospitals, the homeless, the poor, and especially the Blacks.

Among **** Trump's first statements about the pandemic reaching America included that all this was a "Democratic hoax," that there were only 15 cases in America, and by the end of that week, there would be zero, and so on.

And like the vast majority of the German people under ******, way too many Americans are afraid, I think, to speak out against **** Trump who wants to be, and is becoming, America's dictartor.

Those Americans who still remain rabid supporters of **** Trump are at best simply deluded, and what is even worse, those who support **** Trump, but choose to remain silent, wear cowards' clothes.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks.
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet, anovelist, and a human-rights advocate his entire adult life.
A rhetorical question finds me ask
king (to no one in particular) why I bask
with recollection the names of blank
exclamatory staid grade school crank

key teachers approximately
     42,0480,000 breaths aye drank
fifty years ago (most whose names frank
lee listed below),

     when the need to access
and retrieve
     immediate necessary information
     analogously interleaved

     among coaxial bracts
during examinations relegated
     as hopelessly lost
     into interstitial invisible cranial cracks

irretrievably buried
     during examinations, which age
(feels like a million years ago)
     often found me seized and caged
with sudden inability to remember

     any vital answers as gauged
evidenced by nothing writ
ten on paper (even including my name),
     thus loosely similar as aye sit
to compose poetry,
     and/or prose tempted to quit

asper defeated by resignation,
     and sinking sensation in the pit
of my stomach (more so regarding orbit
ting like an unsound garden  

     black hole son around cold (mit
ten necessary) awful days grudgingly
     handing over like a lit
till insignificant being,
     a test paper devoid of academic grit

analogously surrendering
     (while feeling fit
tubby tied, sense internally emit
ting abnegation sans chafing at the bit,

yet no sooner did buzzer indicated test
time over, then (of course),
     an instantaneous pest
that blocked chunk dramatically
     flowered gloriously invoking nest

head treasured mother lode
     of learned information invest
ment accounting for principle ball lanced
     formerly figuratively barricaded facts
     suddenly at my behest

ironically retaining to this day
dogged details amazingly,
     now gracing lix spittle fist size gray
dictating academic failure

     forcing laying down pen hay
for ma forgotten requisite thoughts may
king skepticism about self thrive, ray
zing mailer demons impossible to slay,

when into scaly claws, sans first
to sixth grade Precambrian relic
(Missus Batson, Missus Rittenhouse,
Missus Wells, Mister Stout, Missus Shaner,
or Miss Rinderle).

Invariably the majority
     of elementary grades didst accord
accredited ancient authenticated creatures bored
(with exception of sixth)

     freely exercised diabolical chord
churlish ******* animalistic
     zealous yakking, wickedly,
     aye (a basket case) deplored

unprintable (epithets) this then
     (unprincipled urchin) puny pupil felt lord
did over whacked, sans receiving end,
     viz fiendishly gruesome
     hellish instructions mean teacher scored.

Assignments buttressed with ultimatums
harkening back to Jurassic period earlier
in the dawning primate consciousness.

Lesson material kindled justifiable license
in league garnered insignia heft brought pupils
to heal predicated, via warped weft woven
wonderfully wrought writs welcomed whips
with warranty whenever recalcitrant ruffian
refused respecting reptilian rubric representative
saber rattling, where...

(The Idler Wheel Is Wiser Than the Driver
of the ***** and Whipping Cords Will
Serve You More Than Ropes Will Ever Do),
which loosely rendered regularly warbled

wishy washy verse curmudgeons freedom
granted to interpret as one decrepit, hawkish
insignia certified one beaming Eve and/or
stud deed brute soffit.

Education often relied on the weekly reader,
and letters to or from Aunt Emma to this Jack,
oh napeswho never wrote back
sheesh, alas and alack.

Nefarious mean linkedin kickstarter jawboning
torturous treatment tolerated, asper imps
of pervert, mutant Ninja Turtles duty bound
antsy youthful yokel yodelers weathering ululating
sing-song quintessential precepts.

adieu:
math a hew
scott harris a gentile Jew
all ways felt like new
kid on the block isolated

     in his hermetically sealed queue
pay perm ash shay watched per view
whew
at last in conk clew shun to you
from one primate within the human zoo.
Carson Jul 2020
Sahara Dust
Ally & Foe
By
Carson OTP Alexander
Potassium, Calcium, Iron,
Nitrogen, Phosphorus
Are food for Phytoplanktons n Amazon Trees,
Still loads of it is a Blanket that makes me sneeze ,
Hurt you n me medically,
Via its nourishments n Blows,
Is D Sahara Dust
Ally & Foe,
Transported By Easternly Trade Winds,
Depositing tons
On The Atlantic Ocean n various land falls,
Decreasing Strength of Hurricanes,
Unknown to us all?
Authenticated By Various Scientists,
A food source chain & Mental Bliss,
Similar in Color to Clouds Of Rain,
Viewed from my Naked eye,
Upon The coastal turrain,
Natures Happiness & Pain,
Via Its Nourishments & Blows,
The Sahara Dust
Ally & Foe!
Seher Seven Dec 2015
circumstances, misunderstandings
its these delicacies I mishandle.
not much space to be my self.
the water rushes in, my lungs fill.
these pesky circumstances,
wishing telepathics was our shared interest
knowing the path of least reistance.
it is clear and known.
the ram within,
her courage pulls to charge,
born again, shifting of the stars.
where these **** circumstances start.
cause I know what they are,
the objective sensed. senses need fine tunning.
nervous system, tunning. feeling tuned in.
the wind brings the faintest of messages,
listening closely.
zipping out Zs and As, connecting strings
centuries in length.
worlds deep, together receiving the sweetest melody.
in that breeze, where the circumstances pause, briefly, as they sometimes do.
sometimes you just misunderstand me.
a lot of people do.
and I know I just dont get you, either.
circumstamces of the stars, the dance
of the ages. minds infinite expansion.
I just want to span it, crack my set of code.
pay forward, encourage growth.

so much to know, well for the moment you know it.
after that its history, past, authenticated through
your mind, your slice.
oh what it is to be alive! to survive these
circumstances
Lucanna Apr 2016
It didn't happen all at once
But it was an immediate awareness
A feeling rather
Is it an ending of something?
Or a beginning?
Or the sudden drop of the ******
Within my story
Just trembling and ready to head uphill again
Because my novel knows me too well
And so do the stars
A pro climactic rising
Is always around the corner
No it was more like an opening and closing
Or a cutting off of rotted midnight limb
And in its place a blossoming rainforest full of the woodland emotions that look a lot like
Furry clashing forces
I'm not quite sure how to describe it but
All I know is that I rescued myself
From me
And here I am
A floating thriving body on glass water
An ebb that quenches my pores Tiger fish that offer their scales for comfort
And algae that looks a little like sparkly mold from the moon
And the air I breath as I float is crystalline
salty renewal
And that saltwater taffy smirk of mine
Is real
Chew it between perspectives
The diamonds in my eyes
Have been authenticated
Go ahead and sell them at full price
A rhetorical question finds me asking
(to no one in particular) why I recall
the names of grade school teachers
approximately fifty years ago (whose
names listed below), when the need

to retrieve necessary information due
ring examinations (less time ago)
often found me seized with sudden
inability to remember any vital ants
sirs (even including my name), thus

grudgingly handing over blank test paper
analogously surrendering a vital
document gracing terms of defeat
into the scaly claws (zen nay), sans

first to sixth grade Precambrian relic
(Missus Batson, Missus Rittenhouse,
Missus Wells, Mister Stout,
Missus Shaner, or Miss Rinderle).

Invariably majority of first thru
sixth grade accorded accredited
ancient authenticated creatures.
They freely exercised diabolical

churlish ******* animalistic zeal
us yakking, wickedly unprintable
upon (unprincipled urchin) at
receiving end of fiendishly grue
some hellish instructions. Assign
ments buttressed with ultimatums

harkening back to Jurassic period
earlier in dawning primate con
sciousness. Lesson material kindled
with justifiable license in league
with garnered insignia. Heft

to bring pupils to heal predicated
via warp and weft woven wonder
fully. Wrought writs welcomed
whips with warranty whenever
recalcitrant ruffian refused

respecting reptilian rubric repre
sentative rattling (The Idler Wheel
Is Wiser Than the Driver of
the ***** and Whipping Cords

Will Serve You More Than Ropes
Will Ever Do), which loosely
rendered regularly warbled
wishy washy verse curmudgeons
freedom granted to interpret

as one decrepit, hawkish insignia
certified one beaming Eve and/
or stud deed brute soffit. Education
often relied on the weekly reader,

and letters to and/or from Aunt
Emma. Nefarious mean linkedin
kickstarter jawboning torturous
treatment tolerated, asper imps

of the pervert, mutant Ninja
Turtles duty bound antsy
youthful yokel yodelers
weathering ululating sing-song
and quintessential precepts.
In the vicinity of Skalá the miscellaneous image of the Nashema or consciousness of the soul of the Mashiach was discovered that undertook to summarize this Byzantine fight, which had no hold on the detriment of all those children of Adam that was translated by distorted copulations of infamy and psychic morbidities of Judas Iscariot, who was abstracted from his evil infernality by the Fifth Hell of Iblis, god of harmful subtraction as plagiarism of a deteriorated being from his consigned load from the uprooting caves of Iblis, appearing tacitly in the tetragram indicating alef or tav, being a wayward son of David who knows well about caves that sponsored him from the Philistines and those who had the power of Allah, as biblical sovereigns who unloaded the sum of the ego that was transferred on flaming elytra of Cherubim under the edict of a champion and close teacher in the armchair of the bewilderment of other celestial spirits that dozed off from their reveries, until e revealed himself and defended himself from the stews of heaven where he claimed for another equal to him, which was Judas Iscariot.

The secret task was that nothing will stop the Apokálypsis, because the second essay where the manuscripts denoted a real area of eschatological mythology contained manuscripts where the Iblis was already authenticated as being equidistant from Judas, but its magnetization fascinated him, even wanting to obtain it to be the devout image of the first century, where everything was Bereshit from the Beni Masar region of Egypt. Thus doing this genealogy of guideline that documented being created in the salvific parabens of the Kassotide or orifice that had been confined from the concave pectoral relief of the Colosso de Apsila; being this same Vernarth who would expiate himself in absolute solitude, only executing by dump trucks of oxen to feel the centuries that went by over the through of the first century pass slower. The Subtraigo was the standard of the unborn from the womb of the mother of Judas, Cyborea Iscariot. Exorcising what has appeared after thousands of years and from this the instant filled with centuries that will make the apostle the failure of his solar macula, or the paradigmatic mole in ******'s hair, judging immolators who would be indicted in the nihilism of ego that underlies the unity of the capacity of the neat body, whom no one has inter judged in the culmination of a divine plan, which will just begin with the investiture of Himation. The personifications of the Iblis are profuse since the fluctuation is appreciated in the analysis of the ink of the papyri, which are the range of the Nefesh or divine blood that he writes and no other. The perceptible time washer takes us back to Mariah, escorting her son in Nazareth in which time is not time, it is only consciousness of endless enhancement on the ends that press Gethsemani to the opposite degree of lack of gradation or renewable oil in the sublime beatitude with which it was to be mentioned at Easter, where the menorahs were to radiate in the portraits of worlds that follow one another from the septenary that covers his robe. The years oppress the equinox when the Sun presses olive trees that turn their carmine green leaves to brown leaves, for those who let out of the concrete body what makes blessings of the kiss itself to an Iblis god who also abandoned his entity, to reside in the essence that hides the black olive tree. The celestial deprivation of the seawater of Skalá asked the day that the ashes of Cyborea Iscariot will float on his body; whose matriarchal physical body would spread the disconcerting manias when expressing that nothing affects, it is only a slight sting in the entrails of Apollo that has spread the upheavals that are lost so far from him, as well as they have deprived him of wills that speak where his wasteland will be the only conjuncture of a widespread assumption of mythology, as if it were an axiom that would be within a consecrated category of submitting logs, being the gnosis of a quick thought that shelters aphonia and mutes of the gospel that awaits who would really give a kiss without felony.

The Battle of Patmia presided over external wills towards an extroverted theology in all the Matakis or sacred canvases, inserted in the dispossessed who in their last struggle would no longer be worthy beings to mention combatants, neither the Hoplites nor the Achaemenids. They were already the last death throes of the first century, and what the hand writes is first forged by the ink that is the section devoid of the primary ego, with the piety of Wonthelimar that extended in its bilocation towards the northeastern region of El Minya, after the Judas world map. Here the Iblis or archangel agreed to lead the Speleothemes of El Minya with what a right-hander makes relativity of the throne at the edge of the universe, where the affliction faces fought before them, being automatons that will be commanded by their friezes of geniuses, as defective ****** dawn in the creation mud of the adventurous human. From this slime the Iblis arises in Skalá when the fourth day of vertebral battle began, while the hell in the den was subordinated to the will of the congener of the Judas curse in El Minya, concretizing the utensil that let everything run over matter, until the moraines with black rain and volcano lava would make the previous temptation of a false edge return that made the world vary in degrees, which make clairvoyance very higher than the nose of a penitent Judas. Making the critical hell the reintegration of the being that inflicted fervor from head to toe due to the collapsed preconceiving of who does more damage with the claims, than with the head of a Cherub in discredit of a headache. The fifth hell of the Iblís would go on to engender extensive speeches and speeches in idleness where the shadows of their doubts would respond to the obstinate ones that were really intended, even when they flowered in the calender that flew over the shadows of pain, after the winch of conscience would debate the shady intentions in the anger of a god who was confused with himself, making them believe that their laudable salvation would be left by a two-person demonic locution that perceives evil with good and vice versa, that is why the albuminoid of quantum salvation transgressed from serum, speaks in this work of Vernarth as the clister of the Iblis, accusing having to do ablutions to later be admitted for his altruism in the impressionism background in who lives in delight in the high sphere of lust, alter ego of the fallen but grace of neutrality of a seraphim, who became a libertarian in the gift of free will, willingly experiencing the fifth hell of l Iblis, to turn him into the fifth dimension of the tree of life that flourished as an underhanded host, if he is a Madhi Chiita who wants to revile him in his lust.

******* innovated by giving food and drink to the limbo that was an eternal dimension, where specimens of piety spoke with languages of the seven heavens and the seven nights, where the nuances lag behind in an indoctrinated Islamic being, and who testified for a single voice the reincarnation of all the faiths that awaken from conscience, and that does not shy away from the technical risk that precedes the first gradation or the alpha grade of olive oil, on apocalyptic statements even the Lepidoptera that have supplemented the external pouch to carry pollen for the child in the manger. This equivalent pollen will ****** the mystery phraseology of diseases, making the urgent reason and belated conspiracy presented by its antitoxin, which can be hinted aloud, but it gets lost in the Vas Auric that made formulas in the children of indulgence from where it is now tinned. the groin of the Iblís, for the defense of those who destroy sufficiently in those who build in their acoustics in the Speleothemes of El Minya.
The Subtraigo Hell of the Iblis
TOD HOWARD HAWKS May 2020
The following is not a paid advertisement. It is the truth. It is arguably plausible for me to state that I received the best secondary and higher education in the world.

I graduated from Phillips Academy (more commonly referred to as Andover now), the oldest boarding school in America founded in 1778, two years after our nation was founded. Andover and its sequel, Exeter, it seems, now take turns being voted the best high school in the United States.

Though I received an essentially unequalled secondary education at Andover, I paid an exorbitant social and emotional cost to receive it. The years I spent at Andover were the worst of my life.

I chose to matriculate to Columbia College, the tradional undergraduate liberal arts school of Columbia University, over Yale
for principally two main reasons:  the Core Curriculum and New York City. More years at Yale would be like returning to Andover, anathema to me.

The Core Curriculum, now over 100 years old, is a rigorous, two-year course of studies that include philosophy, literature. art, music, language, frontiers of science, and writing. All College students, regardless of her or his majors, must take all the Core courses, which, in turn, make them learned for life. Columbia College is the only Ivy school to have anything like the Core. Living in and exploring New York City, the veritable capital of the world, for four years makes one a Citizen of the World for life, even if one decides to reside elsewhere after graduating, as I did. I now live in Boulder, CO. Columbia College's 2019 admit rate was 5.1%. Columbia College admitted a few over 2,000 applicants out of slightly over 42,000 applicants worldwide, making Columbia College the second most selective school in the Ivy League. 5.1 % admit rate:  that's about 1 out of 20.

But even Columbia has its "bad apples:"  Roy Cohn comes to mind readily. So does William Barr. But it also has Barach Obama. 84 students who studied or professors who taught there won the Nobel Prize.

So what to do with this piece CAN WE PROFIT OFF IT?

It sees to me that the maxim  DO UNTO OTHERS...is rapidly being supplanted by CAN WE PROFIT OFF IT? Our political leaders, who have never been paragons of virtue, have for 3 1/2 years have become, in a word, corrupt. The Washington Post has authenticated more than 15,000 lies emanating from the Oval Office, not to mention the cheating, the racism, and the ******.

CAN WE PROFIT OFF IT? is the new adage these days.

I say "Make America A Democracy Again!" should be.
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet and a human-rights advocate his entire adult life.
Stephen Leacock Aug 2019
One
Numbers played
Lost and have none
Tears falls into the lake and becomes one
Thunder strikes
Lessons learned
The well of intentions of none
Souls and dreams harvested into the tent of the one
Spined into gold balanced as one
The sliver lining with the wheel from everyone
Activated Authenticated And Run
Manifestation squared of the 3 numbers from the intention of one.
The man teashirt saying like father like son
Lost objects found with the woman like a nun
The message that follows the "home run"  
This read backwards
The sun with eye that brings fortune with the page you have won!
Laura Mar 2018
He outgrew me like a pair of jeans. Spun too long in the wash on high, left running hot and sunken in. I am loud and my jeans a gentle blue. Vibrant orange t-shirts don't go with dull blue jeans. My lips are blue too, thanks to ignoring my mom's eager growl to wear more layers on Toronto's lasting cold advisory days.
"Laura you better be wearing that scarf I bought you", she says sternly shaking a grey wool scarf in my face. A toddler to a raddle. I never liked the itch of wool scarves anyways, they always make my hair turn up and out of my head. Waving hello to passing strangers untamed.
He took his time that day to notice each and every hair, as we walked along the quiet Trinity Bellwoods area. Pristine and clean red-brick townhomes guide the sharp sidewalk, keeping you on Queen St. for hours, whether you liked it or not. The whole morning, he kept reaching out to pull my tall hairs and inspect its frilled mechanics with close sharp eyes. Feet pushing wildly into the ground, pulling my head to his forearm on the street side, "Your hair looks like it's trying to escape". He says while stepping across the moldy Toronto ***** cracks. I retort away, my hair snapping back up and out, "Yeah, I know my hair's prone to static, it's this ******* scarf, just don't be a **** about it". He pushes me away and adjusts his new black leather boots. Some pre-authenticated Doc's bought at Eatons.
I never seem to listen to the washing labels on things. They say, "wash with like-colours in cold", but I don't own a **** like-colour. I admire a hot wash that makes denim skin-tight like a millennial scuba suit. Britney and Justin's denim-on-denim-on denim power move from 2001 reincarnated - I just don't have that kinda confidence.
The grass today seems confident. Luscious and green, a Pleasantville with White Teeth Teens. That's a good Lorde song. If he heard it today he'd remember the line, "Their studying business, I study the floor", because it's authentic and mundane, like most conversations go.
I've stared at a few floors. One word too many escaping in process, running from my thick lips that tear around corners and cliché's like a marathon. My jeans too, with one stitch too many, now past a recovery point. I kept kneeling down on the wet pavement trying to gather myself and always tear a new one.
One time I took him to the Port Credit Busker fest in 2012 and him and I listened to Vampire Weekend on the paved stone walls that guide the walkways off Lake Ontario. "I like them their cool", his voice affirming into the moist summer winds. We continue on watching the street magicians yelling from afar with tall black caps disappearing behind fixed red velvet curtains that pull apart in good beats. We finally find a place to sit and relax, I lean back to hear the ****** of Obvious Bicycle as the magician finally pulls his curtain.  Grabs my **** firmly. His thick jeans dragging against the rigid pavement to catch his prey. It left a mark.
I stand the next morning on the same shore but with new jeans, before my early soccer classes I teach. Just kneeling to allow the waves to break apart in my hands and push away, my cleats stinging my cuts and molding over. I wait as if I expect some varied response in this set.
But here it is, plain water. Nothing extraordinary. Here I am with plain jeans and another grass stain. Or maybe, another layer of lint in his pocket. Lost from a tissue forgotten in the wash when your too busy enjoying the better parts of life. The velvet curtains, the climactic choruses. I stare at the floor.
Stephen Leacock Jul 2019
Chaos of thee
3 6 9 that replicates into G
8 Arrows in a spheres that makes a.b.c
Things to be taken with uncertainty
The middle pillar that becomes a beauty
The sun of Heaven is apart of the lines of three
Scalar forces that bends time and adjusts at the third degree
The wind circles the mountain tree
The red tower that holds "we"
Fire risen from the red bird of l.s.d
The Lake that captures the water from the coconut tree
Intentions of thoughts to earth squared into  skeleton keys.
The keys of possibilities  
1 2 3 seen by arrows of a cup tea
Gambled numbers consumed into mustard tree
Synchronic fashion of the tripple three
Thirteen Thirty One authenticated, generated into me.
The master G
Michael Burgess Mar 2019
Discreet painful cries
Authenticated false grin
The tears of a clown...
5-7-5
Justicedepablo May 2020
💔🔥❤️ (Broken hearts do mend)
To the lovely ladies I have dated
You remained in there, never deleted
Those who took my love for granted
Relax for that love was inflated
Don’t get frustrated
The queen of my heart has been located
Her arrival has been long awaited
To every man there is a woman
I now believe ,well stated

I just don’t understand these feelings I have cultivated
The love is thick, highly concentrated
From single life ,I’ve been liberated
Days and night been isolated
Those deceptive relationships fabricated
We’ve learnt our lessons,we’ve been educated

The heart is the most sophisticated ***** so complicated
Hard to find it keys but when found ,plays sounds appreciated
I’m the last Romeo, Romeo reincarnated
I show you true love, love authenticated
You can count on me , I’m precise ,well calculated

The word love, one highly contemplated
Let me explain
Love is that feeling activated
One you can’t control, it’s automated
Directed to who it’s designated
To powerful to contain, you can get dominated
When love is given to the wrong one
You become irritated
Heart broken , devastated

Love they say it’s poison
You can’t count the lives it has contaminated
But it is the pushing force that gets us motivated
Motivated to do the things we never anticipated
Those things may leave you celebrated or humiliated
Those moments we hold on to, not always like the happy endings we see in movies
That **** that gets us fascinated

Love I think is highly overrated
But it is sure needed
It can’t be eliminated
It’s divinely orchestrated
Look at Jesus die on the cross
An example well illustrated
Love hurts though
Sometimes at the end you are being repudiated
Instead of being venerated
This alone can make you feel annihilated

But love still don’t leave me intimidated
I did love ,I love ,I am loving and would always do
Yes love well communicated
©️JDP
Written in honor of all broken hearts who bounced back to find love.
Travis Green Aug 2021
It’s so hard to see straight
When you are in my way
Such star quality
Authenticated greatness
That extremely enters my heart
And sparks my world
With your most cherishable words
the natural dichotomy of composing
in silence:
with the aid of alcohol and marijuana
and any other truth serum...
then there's composing of words
the anti-arithmetic Aramaic not:
when under the influence of music:
which is the sonic white ingredient
that competes with big pharma...

i have a story to tell:
philosophy truly begins with
the tide of death...
if life is earth
then death is water...
it begins here:
it doesn't begin with get behind me
demon:
in old age with the answer:
if you will find a good woman:
you will be happy and not crave the intellect:
but if you find a bad woman:
you will not be content
and you will become a philosopher:
but i am mortal and before being
wedded to a woman
i am bespoke of death...

          now for the music...
i have three dimensions of German high thought:
my thought agitate me...

there's the categorical imperative of Kant
there's Nietzsche: the solipsist
rather than the nihilist
Kant with the categorical imperative
Heidegger with question-worthiness...
guides:
read philosophy in your 20s
then watch your 30s and 40s...
map out a plan of understanding
then you will have knowledge:

YD OA...
  of yod off DOA...

modus operandus: modus operandii in
the plural...
operandus: mode of operating
under a strict dictum: vox se: per
to think that there was no noble ****
intellectual project is
heart-warming and heart-breaking
the Nazis
the Nazis the Nazis
oh the Nazis
came and left so quickly:
but we're talking: we're not talking
Egyptology and pyramids
but instead chimneys and grey snow
and Mozart...

an anti-German seeps in:
Heidegger's question-worthiness
is matches in ancient thought
by the Greek Archimedes
and eureka!
i found what? these days?
the question-vector the worthiness off: to be
asking...
exclamation-worthiness:
eureka, the song: by Abba:
no new Stockholm just the Helsinki Syndrome
in a world of phenomena...
to me Kant's noumenon
is the equivalent of the Q and Anon
and ? in what is:
question-worthiness...

beside the hammer?
i don't need what could possibly look best
yellow on red
if the Mongolian tribalism
the Holden Horde:
like the colors of Ukraine:
blue above
sky blue Autumnal vagary...
then the yellow of the fertile fields...
the wheat for the bread and
beer...
Dolcce und Gabbana Lombardy...

my teeth are not artifact...
i smoke a little try to drink so little
but then the serpent comes and slithers
into my throat with so much fire
that i start to grow wings
and breathe fire:
cousin serpent: why have you come into
my mouth? slithered there by MY apple:
by my apple of the throat
who says I: you? or me?!

Matt is the Devil:
i should know: i scheme all kinds of goodies
for the children
who are yet to be Auschwitz factioned
told to be humans
segregated by ego mother
brother archetype
annoying sister insect...
i'm become poly-schizomatic:
i have turned individualism
into a persona generating machine:
i am PROTO-OEDIPUS...

i am already gearing up for the future:
my pornographic habits involve
GILFS: grandma's i wanna ****:
her previous husband was into bisexuality
and schoolgirl ****:
i'm into ******* women in her 70s:
i want to **** the GRAEAE sisters
to have a third eye:
i will **** my way into the
demands to be met to gain this mythological
dimension!

i will be the father of those ugliest of all
horrors of Heaven:
that Medusa was spawn of heaven
that Polyphemus Outis!
the gravity of the grotesque shifts
from Hell and a democracy arrives:
since what is timing when killing
a child?
the abortion, Lucy Letby's cases...
Bebe King, six; Elsie Dot Stancombe,
seven; and Alice Dasilva Aguiar

a heaven is a place where they went:
you want to go there
and... ahem: ex-plain?!
in Catholic school the pope played
bingo and golf:
had no concept of chess or cards
or backgammaon:
but somehow he knew a Kennedy... which i thought
was: a tad: bit... weird'oh...
so heaven is a place you go to
to become surrogate:
freaks... all those abortions...
what's three names to the list of the unlisted?
what is ****** what is abortion
i don't know: let's **** some six year olds
to quicken the debate...
killing 6 year olds is not killing foetuses is
not killing ***** is not be squandering
by asking ***** to be manna:
i just don't know...

        good philosophy comes:
not because you grandfather died...
or your mother:
you're grey on grey:
your coworker died...
well **** forget that i forgive
you not apologizing...
where's this night guard:
i want to meet this
werewolf zombified-vampire:
mind you...
this the fetish for vampirism die off
into the Zombie Apocalypse
when the AIDS epidemic died down:
to be less and less culturally relevant:
Bruce "the Boss" didn't sing:
the streets of Philadelphia...
so that's the one angle of ****
we covered?
besides the ******* rainbow: in rainbow....

so no cheese?
no drag queen traumatizing children...
maybe we should stabbing them...
rather than exposing them
to this **** virus of bad grammar ideas...
**** it! hey guys!
we're going for a biological impasse:
we're going to just ******* LAUNCH!
against everything!
just, *******: LAUNCH!
we're going to hijack:
**** it: hack:
the ingredients list of Gweneth Paltrous...
health-stance milkshake...
we go you us RIOT!

just checking: so when is killing a killing
and not a lifestyle coach typo
"choice"...
just let me know:

i need vitamins: i need muscle:
i need brain de facto: defects...
i need Frankenstein:
traumatized...
i need to know the cut in point
\and cut off point of meaning:
so stabbing them while they're 6
is bad: because they know Taylor Swift
is not going to capture the dragon...
so...
it's o.k. with serial killer promises
killing infants:
no riot there...
and no riot over the guillotine of white, pill...
good to know...
at least now i know
how to best behave in a crowd....

the Germanic overlord to the beacon
of usage of the English tongue...
just need to find the right sort of meassurements
to know my way around.
but i came to these lands without so much
as a tongue of my own:
so why have i integrated to deposit anonymity personas
while these ******* end up stabbing little girls?!
a bit like the story of the Polish-Linthuanian
Commonwealth:

a foreign ruler would come in:
if only once the Commonwealth gave powers
to a Russian of Origin:
what a Marcus Aurelius a quote
that would have made!
should a foreigner come to the shores of England
and still find the Welsh speaking Welsh
and the dynamic of the crows
flying at lengths: ******* apart:
huginn and muninn...

if i were to sacrifice the eye i ****** off and out of
the possession of Polythemus and the GRAEAE...
GRA-E
or... GRE-A...

           and combine thinking with memorizing...
i thought therefore i remember...
i tihnk: therefore...

therefore: not logic: i have to to...
if i think then, i have to remember...
remembering is a faking of cognitive storage:
thoughts can't be stored:
shackled: enslaved:
thoughts are reincarnations...
for individualistic purposes:
thought sometimes need to be written down:
authenticated: given person...
require signatures:
given the disparity of one individual having them:
burdened with writing them down:
and another: oblivious, individual:
not: individuated enough:
making the same claim of:
these exact thoughts passed through his brain: freeze:
freeze brain!

Kant's categorical imperative...
Heidegger's question-worthiness...
Nietzsche's solipsism=nihilism
Archimedes': eureka!
there was a third dimension i was thinking of:
it must have arrived in my son of con:
the science of -ness affix...

just think:
how poorly most people cipher the Cartesian
doubt:
so blinded by faith...
they ask so many impertinent questions
to guide them:
they have no quill to stomach:
not as guide but as tourist...
they ask so many questions that are not
question-worthy...
this is not acting immorally:
but then again: goodness is allowed to lapse
into sleep:
evil is insomniac...
and when goodness becomes complacent...
evil strikes...
and to me: that's perfectly understandable:
since then chaos ensues
and there is no madness of crowds:
just the chaos of simplicity
having to have to return to the basics of order
that is 1 + 1 = 2
vowels, consonants... an article, the article:
pronouns...
or are we going to have any more arguments
while i gag death and keep her hostage
to her finalizing her postal duties, or what?!
people not understand people being angry
who they think they can control by the summons
to the t.v. glazing neon
that is Plato's cave:
care to watch the horror of a newsreel
in the graveyard shift of life answering?
even to me:
getting a cold in the height of summertime
is weird
as is the fact that Beelzebub's emissary was
buzzing in the night...
but not that green bottle bottom maggot frenzy...
the black fly...
the wholesome miniature of a horse...
jarzębina: mountain ash...
Rowan Tree eyes are poison pebbles...
so dill...
the Egyptian with the dung beetle
the Europeans with their flies... what desert
under these unearthed roots of trees: these crowns?!
Alternately titled -
dear readers ye each saddled as exegete
to make sense little known excerpt
referencing obscure passage printed
calligraphy style groovy and neat

found scrawled in book of Matthew
which Biblical passage also replete
with date of last family outing
~mid January 2020 birthday treat
at Collegeville Diner.

Countless reported instances occurred
well... honestly maybe at least once or twice
(oh and of course preposterous claims
abounded made by men
and even cheesy mice),

where public television viewers
like you dearly paid ultimate price
by merely stealing quick (hesitant) glance,
or if feeling brave
a prolonged stare would suffice

nevertheless, (whether former or latter case)
their fate sealed, especially viewing
against heeding sagacious advice
daring themself just sneak peak
of mid abdomen (mine)

of course including ridiculously
absurd looking headshot
(none other than mine) -
jarring funny bone enough to suffice.

An instantaneous propensity would elicit
heard all around world wide web,
particularly along rolling green acres
of Highland Manor) many a hee haw
(mostly strangers no less) burst out laughing

by ghost of George (Bernard) faux Shaw
vocalizations, viz uproarious thunderous guffaw
(think trademark utterance linkedin with hyena)
out the mouths of babes,
plus purple people eaters,

and many an in and out law
even envision token blushing zebra
as authenticated constituting last straw
that broke camel's back,
who also fell over convulsing

with belly aching jaw
breaking, teeth clattering writhing cackle
and impersonating chickens squawk
king, the feeble and lame metaphors I draw
though the aforementioned raw

bits of good humor
spurred courtesy eldest sister
(she decreed exempt, and not held accountable)
while celebrating recent birthday (mine)
(as iterated earlier)
at Collegeville Diner ~mid January 2020.

Hence... unlawful and
overly dangerous to affix
boot impossible mission to squelch
totally tubular poetic antics
whereby sharing photographic likeness

(mine), lest picture unleash battery of bricks
getting hurled toward me
at light speed, where clicks
of handcuffs and leg irons
would immediately shackle

purportedly once worn by Jimi Hendrix,
thus I felt gently brushed with Woodstock fame
subsequently tolerated
and welcomed skin lacerated
with deep purple chafing and nicks.
Travis Green Sep 2021
I need healing love
The kind that can make me
Uncrazy, sagacious
Coordinated, authenticated
Engaging, playful
Awakened, venerated
Take me on a driving vacation
Play laid back jams
On the radio
Make me feel nonchalance
Norbert Tasev Dec 11
While life and level differences are already layered on the human soul; conscious construction also has its drawbacks. The verdict of an authenticated, deliberately falsified reality is almost unappealable. It is now less and less possible to extort the maintenance livelihood, as some stupid, forbidden-taboo hunger pang. Because the light of reason and free-thought quickly boils away even in meat pots; it burns, or, as they say, it sticks to it, like mud-jam.

The Present Time - if it exists at all - is certainly not an encouraging promise. Because it can never hurt if the little man builds his castles of cards with internal motives. Inner, instinctual movements shrink into walls by themselves, and because it's as if the person already feels it; with its individuality, almost an entire changing era appears. The cat-and-mouse game of Time - in many cases - is exposed, as it is so obvious. As if Life no longer wants to record itself on canvas, so that Apokfrif's encrypted coordinate codes can be deciphered, more and more hairline cracks squirm in front of the uncertain Future.

Before Doom, he will warm up again, maybe even turn his face back, the wanderer who has been consciously running away all his life. Because what happens when there are no more memories, thoughts, or ideas after the Man?! Is the metamorphosis of the Beginning and the End slipping away? Because the seeds of reason should blossom in the conscience, even if there were anything left here that was still human. - Because he knows it well! A tiny speck of dust, you can only be a sign that you were here alive alone!

— The End —