there would be blank canvasses
empty words
silently echoing the pages of poems not written
of narrative never revealed
from muses overwhelming
spirits overflowing
onto sugar coated melodies
woven into lyrics that
pester and harass and permeate the sacred space of minds

there would be blank canvasses
empty words
of delicate curves or hips, wide like sandy beaches
immortalized  by brush strokes or camera shutters
empty panels of superhero legends forgotten

there would be blank canvasses, empty words
of no church praises hollered over holy rollin piano riffs

but most definitely, most importantly,
there would be blank canvasses, empty words
and
hands that never itched
to craft golden scrolls onto the haggard loose leaves
residing in sharpie stained notebooks
and great wisdoms never told which ****** great minds
moves great minds
with melodious lyricism
which haunts souls
taunts souls
with the burning questions of shoes and ships and ceiling wax

there would be pens never emptied dry
cultivating piles of paper ***** with half *** rhymes, rhythms, and washed up metaphors
muses would never possess individuals
sleeplessly seeking to fill up forests worth of leaves
after suffering from the doldrums of writers block

blank canvasses, empty words
in a world without art

We are the kids – beautiful blank canvasses ready to receive the joy of life.
We are the kids – hope & love consuming our souls, grasping at the shiny & new.
We are the kids who played in the fields and danced in the sun.
We are the kids with innocence in our hearts and a cheekiness in our soul.
We are the kids who believed in a benevolent God and the generous teachings of Jesus.
We are the kids whose imagination was an infinite resource - bounteous, diverse and effervescent.
We are the kids who reveled in the fancy, the nonsensical, the romantic and the wild.
We are the kids that couldn’t wait to grow up,
We are the kids who believed in our future.
We are the kids who never saw it coming.

We are the kids who lost our innocence as soon we walked through the big school gates for the 1st time.
We are the kids who were told to “think of your future” and to suppress creativity.
We are the kids who were forced to grow up very quickly.
We are the kids who didn’t know we were “different” but there were plenty out there who did.
We are the kids who had to pretend to be what “they” wanted us to be just to survive.
We are the kids who came home with scars every day – both physical and emotional
We are the kids who endured the obscene words of Neanderthal hate every single day.
We are the kids who were screamed at by our parents to fight back even when we really didn’t have the capability to do so.
We are the kids who were told crying was a sign of weakness.
We are the kids whose so-called classmates stayed silent when they did their worst.
We are the kids where the school gates were no barrier to their lynching.
We are the kids who turned quickly from being wide-eyed & hopeful to being terrified & desolate.
We are the kids who dreaded every single weekday from first term to last.  
We are the kids who fruitlessly prayed to a God who had deserted them.
We are the kids taught by teachers who were found wanting.
We are the kids who suffocated in sheer hate.
We are the kids who took our own lives or at least tried to.
We are the kids who self-harmed.
We are the kids who sometimes never came home.
We are the kids who survived but never really left the school yard behind
We are the kids.
Your kids.

June 11, 2018.

Floating above the rifts of apperception I glaze over the gaudy faucets of imagined vector thrusts in hibernation by the lucubration of space-time materialized crystal in the somber beats of fetched farrago of choice slices in delicate hums of hemmed balance rantipole only in ethereal importance but otherwise supersolid above the sprauncy vagrancy of dilettantism. We shout a clarion virtuosity so that the conclamation of neovitalism conjures upon a spell of lapse and regress a motive for further crystallization of epidemiology into harmony with syndicated admonition sleek in design and parceled into renown by feats of completion rather than slugabed gregarious fountains of wasted ingenuity bleeding from the vacuum of an empty hearth in a hospitable dwelling otherwise cleared of imperfection. Right now, I levitate with transcendence with an approximated eidetic memory that is the surgical vibrancy of renewal rather than the chameleons of hidden talents buried by the walls of Jericho sounding tocsins of alarm that the anointed favor of choice destruction is only an encircled rapture of rhapsodies of confluence found in axiomatic truths ribbed with the futtocks of seaworthy but cauponate recidivism into the donnybrooks of apocryphal revelation preceding the whimsical fall of cascading permanence just as gravity so ordained it. We breathe the life of the ethereal numinous spirit of isangelous repute because we navigate the exquisite cobweb of reconciliation to surpass all understanding in peace what would be a miscegenated carcass of war otherwise apart from the incidental apartheid of the drones of causality ignoring the antecedent reality too much to register fathomed streaks of preventive endeavor because of the scars of a scrappy schlep of the rampicks of ecbolic servitude to moth-eaten star-crossed lovers of the mean menagerie of gutless succor renowned only in tepid rejections of harbingers bequeathed in succession but ignored because of the procession of “Billie Jean” politics.

   The citadel aflame with controversy buttresses carnality by witless contaminants of hidebound scaldabancos of ineffable destitution so craven in eisoptrophobia for their hypostasized indolent fatuousness of capitulation that they are but a minor punctuation in the largesse of centuries to favor audacity in candor over the prevarications of catastrophe to dented human pride against humane dictates of theodicy in fatalism that predestination experimented with its own vaulted verve to find permanent solutions engraved in the agrapha of time to solidify the redintegrated truth of God’s divine stewardship above the quisquilous deism of former regnant centuries of blench and blandishment. We revolt at the specter of rot only when the effluvia of disgust elevates the visceral reality above the utilitarianism of recycled prim nuisances of noisome lineage that yet balk because they are bereft of attention but not a vacant talent and therefore should the subsidies of man surpass the ignorance of appearances he will shrug of the demur of the scrimshank and sharpen his scrivello in the service of redemption found through cultivated prowess of gardens beneath where rivers flow above a cubic centurion of embattled visages of the heavens becoming the rampart for the vestigial clarity of Secret Masters to foresee the bypass that heals decadence and rebukes the formalism of puritan endeavor to sweat with exhaustive patience over the gossamer intertesselations of a ripe reality rather than a groveled fragmentary world shattered too much by exigent metanoia to mount the crenellated catchpole of vigilant enmity towards the stew of listlessness found in epigone and farce more than in organic fortunes. We flip the upheaval of society to squander our proportionate degrees of wealth on the necessity created by dire quandary which enamors by interrogations of pulchritude the verisimilitude of participle ivory dalliance of etched canvasses of simultagnosia for the librations of the liberated rings of betrothed liberation despite profound lurches of the mistetches of ignorance presiding dismally over the hulked disdain of glamborge rather than resselenque.

     The winter is a poor porcine glut of ciconine swelters because the prickly obtuse recoil of the delopes of caution find their permeable balance with a sort of photographic photosynthesis that braves the dearth of reprieve for the reprisal of nostalgic deeds found in the docimasy of riveted reflections because the preordination of God is the superlative champion of the witeless grandeval protectorate of infinite concepts guarded from the parvanimity even of the most strident minds squabbling over the braseros and battues of history as though those funereal stains of lachrymose regret outweigh the traditions of vaunted human progress because they are finicky about importunate pleas of subsidiary injustice rather than fulminations of the modern rebuttal to the disclaimers of an uneven history that shepherds the doubts of nihilism into ripe fruition at the expense of very expensive moral rot for the codlings of urbacity and mendaciloquence used to foment that tribalism of totemic justice. We see in Penuel the wrestling match of specters and heroic giants documented on the ageless pages and we notice the ironic twinges of struggle that kneaded the propriety of gentilian privilege that ultimately fostered an insurrection against chosen bravado among those that sear with zeal beyond the yordim afflictions of yobbery because the Jewish heart is stronger than any calamity even if it departs from the reverence of the colporteurs of the integrated syncretism of the attempted monolith that beseeches polyphiloprogenitive growth in mindset rather than in testy abeyance of forbearance because of known scrutinies into the tropology of wilted facts remanded by curious historicity that crumples without disdain when we memorialize the erasure of scepsis by modern standards of thaumaturgy.

    The minauderies of growth are a repositioned tacit allegiance to the untold fanfare and hearsay immunized against the broach of facetious levity to buoy discordant hearts above fumatoriums of relentless ignorance because coherent masterwork can be cobbled without such lapidary toil and toll on sincere affectations of wizened brevity. The seismic precautions for the forefathers of incidental convergences between expectancy and crystallized history are an ironic intortion of priorities because the heralds and tribunes matched the peerless foresight with the gerrymandered figments of apartheid between the imaginary and the real so that the delicate synchrony of events could unfurl a riveting carapace from the shells of protection even in amiable squalor for its impenitent attrition on the volleys of sensible rumor becoming fashioned in covert bedazzled errors in judgment leading to the triumph of the eventual civilization over the futtocks of the burial of the former trekleador of zenkidu belonging to provincial cadasters found so tucked in the hedges that discernment of frikmag would be an indelible scourge on the biognosy of the diagnosed endeavors that elapsed into remediated circumstances that brave the depths of deontological violation for the breadth of apportioned loaves and two swanky fish earning a place among the miracles of transcendent liberation from articles of decree imperious by sardonic disdain becoming nullified by the histrionics of a delicately staged orchestra that cements human achievement.

       We relish the frescades of a ruffled autumnal reminder of flourish above pothers of the screed of admonition swamped by nostalgic backtracks in the séance with ultimatum of design and the impregnated and carnal lusts of a world pitched in darkness with guarded lambent lights fomenting a perjury against tact for the deliverance of freedom in tacit agreement with owleries that every bonanza be tithed in their favor regardless of hibernation of spoilsports or their subsidiary remarks on indelible quills of invented manufactured realities we crave with desperation rather than cower from in requited nescience urging us to depart from affairs and stagnate the loyalty of fealty above the limber of utility mobilized above levities for solemn remarks and rejoinders. Promulgated above the robotic rubble of staffage haywire in wiredrawn contemplative resonance of tremulous subterfuge vestigial but immediate to the yardsticks of reprehensible malarkey, is the barnstorm for erratic dimples sauntered by the saunas of shelter above the chaos of ruined ginnels for the gimcracks of auxiliary duty to service, is the glorification of the sultry intimations of legions of remonstrance in guarded decorum about sunken atrocities lapsed in memorial to the incumbent brunt of sockdolagers of justice returning revenants from the bridewell of historical internment. The symphily of orchestras to cineaste symposiasts of surquedry in impudence beyond the brays of betrayal is the aborning mythos of regimented perceptions of a world that when magnified by minutiae appears starkly contrast to the gapped gubbertushed reality of the average patron of the arts to such an extreme gulf of receptive understanding that the qualia are dovetailed only in the swink of careful kisswonks to certify certitude itself when all the fragments coalesce into subjoined harmony to the substructures of inherent conscientiousness. The miracles at work that are vesicles and vessels for the swage of imprint above the loyalty of the imprinted tribunes of the fluminous is how hidden protrusions can emerge so victorious over popularized glazes on the pastures of a farmed culture itching for timmynoggies of innovation but only finding the etched remarks of pristine imagos of heroism dwindling in motivation to surpass the imaginative leaps accustomed to a newfangled laziness that bedazzles the guzzle of crowds but not the discrimination of the crowded morass of incompletion found in mosaics missing enigmatic philters of intoxicated love for the profound. So to be intermediary as a custodian for artistry we must cozen the wheedled imaginations not of the relic but the archaeologist that discovered the embedded prisms of attentive scrutiny for glinting sunshine inherent in troves of surpassed excellence beyond parochial sympatric blandishment of donnism rather than a resselenque that floats above demeanor to usher the cosseted age of treasure above the glib brocards and florews of past success.

      Immanent to the provisions of God as decreed from a syncretic reconnaissance of the pitiable gulfs that separate boundless divine love from the clavigerous potential for scrappy sympatric affiliation to **** through the barnstorms of internal comestions of conflated priorities we are ourselves prismatic in the indulgence of a tasty life sprinkled with zest rather than tempered with the vengeance of retorted animosity that we knead the pottery of ironclad resistance to a metallic conduit of pruned fulminations of unguided intuition so that the natural accord supersedes the goad of materialism for the sustenance of antiquity beyond its heyday for vital gains against the tauricide of panic and frenzy. The linchpin of all realistic attempts at the sympatric symphily of civilization is a guided remorse through the torment of affliction that sizzles without anteric barbs as it measures through engrenage how to pilot the vehicles of prosperity through the minefields of contingency that invisibly bequeath new hurdles and inestimable obstacles that collude surreptitiously to fulminate measured controversy against the backbites of restrained equipoise created by polities of the macadamized fabric of a welded smithy of a universe that with ubiquity proclaims above the senseless the harvest of conjugal repartee in sensible pride against militant bastions of incidental prejudice for a careen against the flyndresques of danger and the flyndrigs of glaikery alike for a humane spurt of enlightenment to tower peerlessly in supervision of entelechy created by esemplastic unity in apolaustic purpose. We cannot be puritans engaged in a pilgrimage to a palimpsest of priggishness because the daring elements of adventurism are necessary ingredients to catalyze the supply-chain of the innate gluttony of ego-seeking endless balance with a natural sustained biognosy that prizes biocentric harmony above bibliognost scepsis so that the enthused can flock with liberty divorced from libertinism. The ultimatum is a war between hedonism wed with donnism against eumoirety and self-restraint and this battle will be waged on the indolence of a future of cordslave tethers to interrogation of privy conceptualism hamshackled by the gradgrinds into the neat nexility of precise conformity that blacklists the samizdat because the genizah profoundly twists the already jumbled jengadangle and provides a junediggle of procession and ceremony rather than pomp without substantial grit embedded in the showmanship of a reality in need of a fourth-wall.

        It is ironic how we bewrayed our stewardship of the planet as a plenipotentiary sentience waged against the vesicles of instinct but more fundamental to this tattered but pregnant psalm is that the stronghold of our future is the tenacity of filial duty to enthrone the household with husbandry and restraint as an emolument to divine justice that sparkles opalescent in its own redacted notions of gravity imperfect in the taradiddles of science but refined by the eclat of the combustible syncopation of a reiterative trope of realism combined with surrealist caprice to henpeck affectionate violation above inviolable screeds of blood sport rather than conjugal affections afforded to the brood and the feast of the flocks that rein supreme over all things but exert inclement justice over the cattle and chattel of civilization itself. The minkumpf against the sacrilege of a prioritized kosher is to abhor the suffering rather than embrace the penitence of perceived but specious sacrifice which is an ornery thorn on the stained conscience of the yobbery of both the apikoros and the obedient because to attenuate all suffering even of instinctual beings we anneal our hearts to a glorified compassion that supersedes the relegated relics of pushful genuflection by succedaneum of sacrifice waged against the docile whangams of otiose theodicy. The filibusters against the regnant complexity of regalia that is a sprauncy poivrade with terpsichorean flairs to transmute the intimations of hibernated perfidy into finicky transmissions for the riometers that accord orbific merit in a lackluster time enchant the rollicking audience of this auditorium of the prevenance of the conquered universe bracing for the camorra of the insipid entreaty of defalcated casuistry—the prominent exchequer in hoodwinked political agitprop that forges ironclad allegiances to flimsy facades of the verisimilitude of dignity with recalcitrant but incondite bruits of venom militant against secular apostasy—that the fitful arrivistes that swim in dire dearth will be welcomed into the reconciliation of all time with a tempered lurid glint of revelation bounded by sunken albatross of hype unbounded with a peace insurmountable in prestige rewarded only with the highest reservations.


    On 3-1-2020 when I penned my philosophy—even at a slowpoke margin of crafty precision above rapid empirical faucets of folly—I was entirely selfsame with the autotelic engravings of the smoldering aboriginal talents within that many can swing through by tenacity for enormous plaudit but a flagrant majority will apprehend with flippant scollardical tenets of rebuke and remain honest in their appraisal only in meek resignation of parvanimity.
Consider the postulates of rarefaction whittled into a vehement zeal against the prostitution of our species to the anteric cycles of residual molds of dingy spectacle mired by the tyrannical towers of supercilious squirms of revamped novelty rather than enhanced by the freebooters of dirigisme that borrow from time the behest of philandered flairs divorced from the cadges of secular instinct and enthroned by the qualms of engineered virtuosity that is stark, barren but peerless in its outstretched clamor for luxuriant sprees against the silentium of grandeval asylum incurred by the flippant filigrees of recalcitrant modernism endangered by the irredentism of the future upon the whimsy of the present-minded momentary glare of rapture.  This impending architecture of nimble but subservient endeavor is a pinprick rejoinder against the wernaggles of prepossessed fountains of configured animosity against the stapled heed of a modality of trayned invictive invectives against the plodding course of fustilugianation that swerves in apathy of autopilot junediggle to emanate the surrender of epigone to the raktendure of the synaesthesis of the attuned perception of all superimposed minutiae delegated by calculated design into a synclastic focus on veiled caprice that is vaulted above the choppy and sketchy verdure of remiss perception to stellar continuities rather than mundane knickpoints of stodged blurs that magnify syncretic qualia into baseline congruity rather than staid torpefied resignation of the visage of thunder without the pangs of the widely vituperated lightning that bequeaths all certain notions but flouts the tortious saboteurs of the prim trucage of brittle fundamentalism.

     As the flawed paragon of a picaresque youth punctuated by vibrant plumage of self-wrought tropophilous usucaption of remote groomed frontiers of desolate luxury but buoyant morale into the ballasts of a nimble usufruct that hikkles yet still against still-framed thilloire--fatuous in endearment only to the polity of the waterdrip of craven but gravid disingenuous flickers of lambent cloaks of perfidy—that earned its birthright by meditative fruition rather than prodigal tallespin of indolent frapplanks of a vicarious personage rather than an autotelic haecceity showcases the folly of heterodyne inclinations meeting an impasse of accidental dislodgement. The interregnum between the spurts and sprees of luxuriance is a staid pause between continuities of afforded parlance becoming stapled demographic solidarity affixed to a strident gallop of effortful pushes against the tenacity of the slumberous wicked hibernation of vetust magpiety without hieratical internment because youthful industry beats hackneyed bludgeons of wiseacres of a stilted manufacture of steamy nostalgia for lickerish moments that dignify but undermine moral virtues but splash anointed and sometimes disjointed favor upon the congeners to a rabid escapade of a heedless love frowning on the girdles of the prim balderdash of heralded jolts dim on levity and puffed with elusive contextualized control of libidinous serrated defilement because the crotaline **** outmantles the sweedled limber of exploitable folly. The cosseted reality of wheedled gourmands of continuous perception rather than the Gaussian blur of the protean invention of stitches in time that obscure rather than magnify the supernal levity inherent to most artistry is a linchpin of lenient gravitas that levies the lavaderos of ripe perception into annealment.
Excuse the bravado of the gait of winnowed forks in a bronteum for heralds of megaloscopy fastened to the macroscian reality of indelible filigrees of countermanded controversy becoming its best behest in the sempiternal flowering of burgeoned demonstration rather than illustrious overhang of drab slabs of manufacture rather than organism that should be interposed between the constellated concepts of both apperception and the aggrieved counselors to obtuse obsessions that are an improper tutelary for a designated reprisal of the once profane now immediately gratified by ramshackle tenets of a guarded sublimation of the tenets of post-modernism into a sustained force of the internalized tabernacle of haecceity shepherded into exuberance by the manumission of spirit from the ******* of purblind scalds of defamation that incurs the penalty of flippant privation. The refuge the Lord provides is not contingent upon the vagaries of deliberation nor the calculus of oversight but the remontant amaranthine glower of a listed deed becoming an eternal reminder that a dismantled and disjointed world fathoming only remorse rather than the trudge of gentility against the headwinds of brunt asperity will always flout the successor rather than atone for the failure of the imponent condition that constellates around rudimentary drivel grubbing the momentary out of avarice for allotted merchandise rather than glommed magnets to amoeba sentiments for the kisswonk of ulterior motive beyond dungeons of desperation that lurk ghoulishly with spectral frights at the disfigurement of morale created by errors askew rather than a contagion of righteous valor.

   Ask the heedful servant if the captaincy of reneged commitment owes homage to dutiful instruction or whether it is a balking corpse of necrosis accorded to the omphalism of brutish carnal repose in times of sedentary silt siphoned in spelunked rijuice for preordination is a predominant specter for a world scared scurrilous and skittish in a diatribe against the very notion of tribal screeds embedded in the sedimentary heft of traditionalism above the pother of vacillation commended to the apikoros but counterfeit fiat system of a ruddy governance without a supreme magistrate. Now lets venture into the territory of visagists as we envision the swanky subversion of impoverished and nebbich visions of oligochrome that fixates on belabored but dead notions of rigid propriety and levitate above those concerns with a querulous transcendence that never wernaggles about the profaned irrelevance of burlesque tropes of sidereal friction but instead memorializes the thermolysis of permeable endeavor above staid countenances of imposture that lurk in the shadowy penumbra of the connivance of persona above the archetype of the tutelary guardian spirit that through windlass and sometimes deliberation affixes nobility to even the pedestrian in order to assize its proper proportions to granular ironies expounded into megalography transformative by the very rivets of its supersensible existence and cohabitation with histrinkage among human taboos.

   The handiwork of a permeable race prone to exacerbated proclamations of prerogatives bulldozed by the rapid percolation of insoluble quandaries to the gripes of the feast of foofaraw sometimes shelters our otherwise regnant concern about the plenipotentiary God that observes all latent affairs without the paramours that conflate vivid carnality with appeased luxury and superimposes a crafty system of seismic shifts in rantipole dances with numinous flux rather than dissipated militant suppression of the fracklings of dissolute pollution which swirk in their dastardly desperado endeavors to corral the entire monoliths that guard each province into a winnowed rumble of rubble by tarnish of Tyre rather than by the upstart rejoinders of Canaan. Every creature which has the capacity to perceive language is afforded benedictions by the overhailing force of the hypaethral heights of superlative ingenuity founded in the bolted speculation of the endearment of all to tropological seesaws embattled against the hearsay of nyejays that contaminates the telmatology of the ecosystem of revivalism rather than buries the leaden debts of the disjointed revenants of past prominence into recycled irrelevance for posterity rather than for anything but a machination of a clockwork apple rigged for a rotten worm to swindle the sweet delicate tempests of unforeseen disaster to perjuries against financial solidarity.

The spinsters of sardonic drollery underscore the imminence of an incondite cutthroat collapse blackguarded by the hucksters of incontinence grubbing every fetched noisome notion and congealing a bonnyclabber of desiccated mildew that proves vestigial when the victors of time earn their joyous serenade to the pinnacle of the totem of jaundice slits in wavy endeavors for the participles of sejungible syntax of the ephorized furor to outlast the draksteng of droned dereliction manned by half-baked spies of ulterior recitals for imprinted vicissitude in supremacy in synquest for frizzlounges rather than the pedestrian circulatory system of careworn polity. We vaporize the petty hatred of sympatric regelation that neuters the virulence of motivated impediments to the draconian surge of asperity that sinks temporal haplessness as a regaled blasphemy that crowns only the ringed betrothal to spumid serrated halts in slick superstition that is a buggery to the idea of insectivores devouring the erratic chantage of germane germs that pauperize rather than even blind the deafened to be a crutch to vehicular homicide. Melismatic sennet is a dirigible of immense herculean sinew without the traces of vestibulary retches of kisswonked grisly tepid intimidations of eccedentesiasts by the radioglare of wizened corrugations in thanatism that exhort the avatars of narquiddity over the natural departure of revenant souls back to their temporary hostility to crass lifeless decarnate immediacy that slinks with foibles magnified by vertiginous heights of scollardical reputes rigged by the rijuice of the plackiques of meaningless spoils for swashbuckler bonanza borrowed from serrated vengeance exacted in prominence to provide false avenues of extenuation to malefaction that is confidant to the panopticon of exemplary dimples meager in the largesse of the composite realism of a sizable imprint on megalography that outlasts impertinent excuses for dangerous trout swimming against the mobilized selachostomous frizz of sharks gathering to avenge disclosure with insolence and gravid atrocity of incisive surgical evisceration of attempted depositions that falter by innumerable facets of countenance that belie ultimate realism and the perdurable construction of a sturdy hive of bibliognost revelry.

     Even with the blaring sennet of majesty inundating my piecemeal perception with the marstions of flarium that is an efficacy in a flaccid world of otiose pretenses limpid only in folly but contraplex in ironic skewbald skerries of grubbed destination that is the terminus of karezza despite the maledictions of vehement guarded betrayals that conjure up lurid noisome virility against the gamines and gallywows that populate interstellar fictions of virtu rather than mundane pragmatica that astound with the resselenque of contaminated skeumorphs of latent fracture belonging to a skeletonized ossified reification of farce above historicity in seemly seamless countenance with overwrought princely stature deserving integrity to ripples through sparkling opalescence. The vapid insularity of the self-contained mythos of appeased groundlings is based on the rhizic and rhizogenic fracklings destitute in predicative flares to swelter above stratospheres of the illimitable into the dwelling of the highest serenity inherent to the pacification of truth to neglect its egregious errors of mistetches of a ripened pachyderm of bravery in times of austerity and now a reclaimed notion of sempiternal charades swimming above the punitive draksteng of dranger that is enlarged by acclimated attempts at foiled raltention hikkling against its own superior forces of galvanized preterition to elide over screwball insanity of derangement in this virtual paradise of inhabited souls belonging to former times congregating on the pasture of the evanescence of now for all eternity having the optative condition of incarnation above the ferules of the stagnant brevity of oversight in heavenly realms by postulate but not confirmed by regal logic.

     The troponder of the flickered lambent niceties of polity is a countenance that piggybacks on simpered jostles of negligent engrenage to appease sworn enmities among beatific havens for certitude swarmed by the fisticuffs of darbied bridewells of desiccated drainage traversing the distant disdain for the gravel of cemented slits of stilted pragmatica that is a gavel of atrocious estoppel mediated by heroic heresiarchs against pitiable betrayal for forceful remedies in acclimated servitude to the groans and groaks of a life of remorse and dearth rather than the glut of luxuriance in forbearance to its own intorted mirrored ironies that etch infinity with every scrawled rejoinder to austere ploys of checkered rumbles of threat and exigency posed by the clairvoyant hypocrites who benefit greatly by the design of the omphalism above the frays and brays of corporate dogmatism slowly outmoded by vibrant plumages of heteronormative originality beyond petty chantage. A hesitation overcomes the bluster of bravado as the restive earnest concerns of tribulation beset the minauderies of divine affection to reaffirm the teachings of the Gospel so that future generations genuflect beneath the altar of the ultimate stroke of sociogenesis and the blood ransom of suffering that promoted the human latitude and liberty against incarcerated throngs of virtue over caesaraproprism accorded to genuflection beneath denarii rather than absolution by tether to the eternal vine of sensation of the supersensible entelechy of all valiant insurrections against defective polities and renewed policies.

     We thus seek a transdimensional bridge between the morphean virtu of rudimentary alchemy of propitiation divulged by leverage and the teeming rambunctiousness of fiduciary tribes to the ultimate duty of man to consummate the future of eternity even in slowpoke mannerisms that sidle through rigors of entelechy and assize the masterwork of tutelage above the circumforaneous entrenchment of glut above the mastery of the subtle subaudition that beleaguers an adept conflagration of harnessed human ignorance staid in the incarceration of exotic virtues of freewheeling sapience never vulnerary to hospitable concerns that entrenches the verisimilitude of a refracted justice to reign over the stultification of a primitivism inherent to man and not man alone.

i loved to paint using your colour.

i’d go day and night, from one canvas to another, using different shades of you to paint all kinds of pictures.

i never lost any ideas.
i never had to find inspiration.
it all just comes to me whenever i look at you.

one day, i woke up colour blind. and unfortunately, it’s in your colour.

all the paintings, all the sketches, all the canvasses that were of your colour, plastered, hanged, and taped all over my walls doesn’t make sense anymore.

it was all grey. all dull. a colour i know existed but never really tried using before.

i tried searching for your colours in the things you’ve touched. the words you’ve said. i searched everywhere but whenever i do think your colour will come back, my eyes revert to reality.

now you’re just a memory.

your colour will only exist inside my mind.

those shades i loved. the pigments i crave to achieve every time i stroke my brush. it’s all in my head now.

it’s been years now. your colour isn’t as bright as i thought my memory would remind me of.

i paint with a different colour now.

actually, i paint with all the colours now except yours.

all those nights i spent painting, it’s with every colour i come across but yours.

now my wall’s full of colour again. all from different parts of me. colours i never knew existed.

now,

i’m happy. i’m content.

i’m colourful.

It was a strange thing to throw a house party for birds, especially since no one showed up. I was left sipping honeycomb champagne and gawking at the colored glass bubbles descending from the sky. And I thought it odd that a car dealer would care enough about my obsession with old VHS tapes to throw a few onto the cruise ship. Never mind the fact that with all I had paid on fixing my transmission of thought, I was dead broke and looking for a summertime getaway closer to downtown and nearer to autumn.

The things I'd like to do if I could paint. I would construe a white front porch in repurposed chair caning and glue it to a canvas, mottled in shapes and light. Or maybe it would take multiple canvasses to hold what I consider to be the best image of a future. Perhaps a patio with an overgrown garden would do the trick, and I would be just another loner.

Will anyone remember when we were children and we dug a canal by putting the dirt into paper cups and leaving it in the forest? You can't deny that life was easier before I ingested that Matisse print hanging on the graying wall. All these skewed angles and les possions sont rouge make for a bit of a stomachache.

I have a question for you to ponder as it gets dark. If I were to fill a swimming pool with blotchy pastel hues and sit in it as if it were a motel jacuzzi, would I receive some kind of tye-dyed epiphany or would I just catch a chill?

Please let me preface
I dont like people
crouds make me cringe
and while i value my friends
i highly value my solitude
------------------------------------------
I cant picture a face
when i close my eyes
when my mind trys to grant
that one final human wish
before slumber encompases my body
and reality and dreams interlace
For i have no soul to match with mine
nor a soul to follow
in deepest secret with the fleeting hope
that maybe our souls shall intertwine
But i wish not for two to meld
for hearts to pledge an undying vow
for lust and ****** greed
for billowing convorsations

But silence

An individual respect for ourselves
two beings gracious for company
bodies laid side by side
your fingers tracing circles
on blank canvasses of skin
Where there is but an understanding
that breath so silent can be pleasently shared
and electic touch soulfull
igniting warmth surrounding my heart
of which embers burn soft and hot

Where aching muscles
tense from harsh realities
are smoothed away with solid hands
a mutual relationship where the
solidarity in thought is aknowlegded
yet the pleaure derived from presense
a caring being holding steadfast
unwilling to let me go
gentle and kind
Where the silence of
spiritual understanding guides
the instictual need for
companionship

It all suddenly seems to make sense
As you lie in your own filth

Naked, cold, intoxicated
Yet, happy

As you stare at a blank canvas
With quivering hands

Hoping to leave behind
A few stupid memories

One face looks out from all his canvasses,
One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans;
We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queenin opal or in ruby dress,
A nameless girl in freshest summer greens,
A saint, an angel;--every canvass means
The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
And she with true kind eyes looks back on him
Fair as the moon and joyfull as the light;
Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

supine, deeply do I ponder
of those times as if, I've
treaded upon coal ablazed
beds, of womb fetally
withdrawn; darkness embeds
itself, attempting to see
with clarity through murky
watered canvasses

I, analyze self, coping
with turmoil; glimpsing
the light at the end of
elongated tunnels, leaving
burdensome baggage
that isn't a *** of gold
at the end of a rainbow

giving way to self-awareness
as a glorified sunrise opens
to new horizons; long awaited
as if, eons have passed without
notice, finally, arriving at my
threshold of salvation by the
grace of God; sanity redeemed

This is the time I cannot bear: this silent evening hour
As I shut windows and the balcony to prying nightsong:
In the trance of dim lights, I ride the incense plume
Across whispers and half-thoughts, slicing through
The canvasses of time: that unforgettable house of love
Perched by the lakes, circled by the stream and canal
Where worlds and time stopped to catch a glimpse
Many shades of grey silhouetted against stormy skies
Of swans gliding past fresh ripples across reeds
Drenched in a hundred hues of ethereal moonlight,
Hum of the wind surfing on the waters, drunken voices
Of assorted lovelorn: thrushes, finches, hidden warblers
Majestic storks and herons guarded the secret doors
To eternity, pitched right in the middle of the great city
By the home that housed love in precious embrace
O the cold of the winter that screened for damp corners
In our souls, through meditative shades lining the view,
The home that I squandered, I who love ruins and rubble

No paints and not one canvas
Nothing sellable at all
But, an artist is an artist
With art to share with all

No profit in creations
No way to sell his works
But he creates pieces of magic
With lots of different quirks

His tools are nothing special
Pastels and pieces of old chalk
His canvasses are static
They're the place that people walk

He's a sidewalk chalk pastel artist
With only digital designs
His work goes with the weather
Cracked pavement creates lines

No matter where he travels
He can work when the muse strikes
But, he has to watch out for street walkers
And folks riding through on bikes

His pictures are amazing
Where real life ends you can not tell
But, because there is no canvas
He has nothing to sell

He creates from chalk and pastels
He is an artist just the same
As those with paint and easels
He just plays a different game

Donations are his lifesblood
An empty cup beside him lies
Stand back and be awed by
His artwork before it dies.

i found a weathered love note pressed into the breast pocket of a second hand wool coat...
the year pre-dates my existence,
but it's addressed to me and signed with a moon beam.
it reads like a perfectly orchestrated symphony of strings of small silver bells swinging from the trees in a breeze,
and a melancholy hum of distant thunder as her luminous soul mate tap-dances his way through humid states in flashes of raw,
and sacred light.
it reads like an epitaph-
a stumbled upon testimony to the life of a stranger that makes you fall to your knees
that simply begs you to weep...
and to wonder;
if you should have said goodbye...
or if you could have locked the open door long before the sweetness of life you so surely insist that you've found fled through it.
it reads like a note taped to the bathroom mirror in the handwriting of a concerned friend...
reminding you of your likely survival,
of the possibilities of each and every sunrise,
and of dollar beer night down town.
it reads like the author had meant it.

"my dearest stardust," it begins,
"how forcefully bright you are destined to shine...
you are built of light,
of ancient celestial wisdom.
you're a beacon
a light house on a foggy shore guiding lonely sailors back to where their hearts belong.
your heart-songs are the articulacy of a thousand life-times forgotten.
each note flies from your lips as you forge them with force...
like speeding bullets sent out into the universe destined to slay the way we fear ourselves.
don't let the darkness find you;
never let anything thin out your glow or drown out your melody.
you are magic;
the type of thing we cling to-
as children and as dreamers.
you are a mother to every orphaned flight plan and exit strategy...
an escape artist painting door frames on surfaces not meant to be defaced.
you end up everywhere,
and you have everywhere to run.
you overflow from poorly stretched canvasses,
to broken spines of dusty books,
and back into the heart of a lonely traveler's compass rose.
let your self be magic
be aqueous
be fluid and refreshing like the rain-storm that you are.
you're the desert
the sands of time
you're quickly fleeting and quick to run.
you're a dying breed.
and we,
the lights of the sky,
treasure you.
we remind you of this in every comet's tail and every clear wyoming night sky.
all of our love."

and i can feel it
flashing before me in every stranger's eyes
it is real...
we are magic.

How can I expand on my thoughts that pushed me
to the conclusion of what was proceeding was indeed
not out of desperation.
I was artistic in my endeavours, but with a little one these
concluded in less than affluent earnings. I could not feed us
with words or palettes that seeded blank canvasses alone.

I would borrow off friends but one can only ask out of
pride so many times. I want about to be looked upon
as an Oliver of adulthood, can I have some more mate.
Never would I stoop to that as I had a child of innocence
to bring up in the correct manners of the world...

But when the food banks rescinded my pleads for food,
not for me but a child that did nothing wrong.
A mind was set in motion an undertaking not to use violence
in a manner of vocabulary where none was to be used...
I sent my baby of to school her thoughts not of what I was
about to levitate myself too...

I approached its doors, I had wondered past different times
to see when streets and this monument to moneys endeavours
was least to show in the manner of silent desks and minds
wondering on there own. I entered in sullen thoughts that I
wasn't doing this for me, but us. I walked up as gasps of the few
were heard, I thought the attire appropriate for this moment.

I saw her eyes glance in direction as eyes orbited around the
room ours were synchronised. Her oceans were what my
thoughts were swimming in and as I washed up on her shores
I handed her the note. She blushed as smiling she opened it.
"This is a robbery I have a gun, my bullet is my words and I
am going to steal your thoughts away,

"Ok, lets recap for a moment I was an artist and I had fallen
for this woman in a hundred lifetimes that were condensed into
this one, she asked me to ask her to marry her in a  unique way.
"This was that offering in gesture and word,
But in my eagerness to be the artist, I had pondered on what
I'd just done. Seconds past and then alarms bled on my ears.

"What can I say I was daydreaming and the last a hundred
and forty  words that just played in my mind were just dreams,

"Back to reality,

I just realised that I was indeed staging a robbery, "CRAP, "Crap,
"Ruunnnnnn, I was within grasp of the door when I
heard her voice like an angel breathing on the air, "Stop him,
I turned winked, which I got a puzzled look and into the air
of freedom I stepped only to see those men in blue saw my
features and they ventured in my incarceration in haste.

I tried to run, but I was up against an invisible wall they were
gaining so I found the lock and ran though that door.
I locked it, lets see the boys and girls in blue get around this
so I ran with all the speed my legs could muster.
Looking behind I saw them just run straight through that
which took me at least a minute to get through...

Catching on my heels I was nearly at my end, I thought
only of my daughter I did this for her. Maybe not the
right way, but I couldn't let my light that shines so
bright be silenced by the hunger that no child should
suffer.. I cried as tears streamed through blurred vision
"I love you my baby, daddies so sorry,

As I thought those words, I stumbled through a door
not of my own making. What visited my sight in
silence but those of my kind artistic in virtue and like
penguins we fell over like dominos. Not a word but
silence and startled gazes. The police bust in to find
not one suspect but a room of 1000 mimes in silence.

It took time but I was set free as my thought of individuality
was repurposed with the thought of how close I was to
losing everything. On the news they said that a mime had
tried to rob the bank with no gun but a hand in the shape
of holding something that wasn't really there? one thing
caught my eye, the bank teller spoke a few words.

"Strangest thing ever, but I have to say he was cute,

"I was cute, hell ye, "what was that daddy? I smiled
and cuddled my girl as I was a free man and my artistic
heist wasn't a complete flop, as those that I had collided
with had handed me a card in silence. My first job,
a pay check I had food on the table and we smiled.
I never broke the law again my baby was my only thought.

Trying to capture a moment, but the moments ever changing.

I paint in oils
-oils outlive my mortality
-oils extend my message
oils prolong my life after death.
It's a gamble because anything could wrong when I'm not there to care for it.

7am:
So I start by sitting in front of a huge blank canvas.

7:05am:
So I start by sitting with a mirror in my hand.

7:30am
The canvas is intimidating.

9am
My mind tries to capture the final product
- composition,
style,
toned down?
bright colours?
thick smears of paint?
hyper realistic?
or make it an abstraction from reality?

11am
I half-fill a jar with turpentine to clean my brushes.
I fill a small jar there with linseed oil to thin the paint.

11:05am
On my palette
-a small squish of cobalt blue
-proceed on thinning it.

11.10am
Lift brush,
dab it into the paint...
almost reach the canvas.

11:15am
I study my face to see where I'll start.

3:15pm

4 hours pass.
The sun has moved.
The shadows are softer
and the shadows longer.

Accurate painting is not about talent as much as observational skills-
thats why you can stop for years but if you have learnt the art of seeing you will be able to paint a more realistic picture than when you quit the previous time.

7pm
All my contemplation sees the sunset
without a stroke being applied.

I flick a switch and a new light appears-
harsher with darker shadows-
it doesnt allow the paints show their true colours
but at least it is consistent.
I don't like what I see in this light.

Days have passed me in front of this mountain-
when I started it was sheer will that got me here-
not because I want to
but because I know I can paint better than most a
nd some will think it's worth something-
might  make a bit of extra cash on the side.

When I was younger I pumped out canvasses faster than toilet paper
but now I dont know Wonder Boy anymore-
too much distance between now and then.

Out of sheer impatience I decide to put a wash over it. I mix a bright orange mixture. and start brushing the canvas-
the brush is too slow so I start pouring it out of it's linseed mixture bowl straight onto the canvass and rub it with a cloth until no more white can be seen.

I hate the result-
my compulsion led me to trade a white blank canvas
for an orange one-
I'm nowhere closer to coming up with an idea than when I started and now I have to wait two days for the paint to dry. By that time I would have aged two days and my resolve might not be what it is right now- the little I have left.

So the final result of my painting-
a blank orange canvas hiding behind my bedroom closet.

LAUREL AND THE MARE

It was spring and Southern Ontario air tasted of trees.
A pregnant mare escaped to the woods from her prison on the estrogen farm.
She had long, curled hooves and cracked skin.
She came to Laurel and her two children at the edge of Beamsville.
Laurel had no work, a jumble of painted canvasses in the porch, her father's
Hired man's stucco cottage. Laurel, Hadley, Malcolm wore ski jackets and jeans.
The horse loved to exercise at night in the yard.
They combed her and gave her oats. They couldn't afford a vet so they

Called a farrier horse dentist and she fixed the skin and hooves and filed the teeth.
They hung a trouble light on a nail and talked to the horse at night.
The farm smelled of animal again: you know the power of grass breath.
They read library horse books and what's left of the family
Sang with the radio in the barn. Those might have been holy days,
They were feast days, and the children were pulled away from
American television by the strong and willing horse.

Torn French bread and good cheap Beamsville Magnotta wine on the picnic table,
Wine for the children, too, and they all read in their beds after dark.
Laurel went to bed thinking: "It's La Vie Boheme for us."
She gloated at the return of ******
Feeling and the possibility of love and laughed her
Coarse, sweet, hee-haw laugh.

        Paul Anthony Hutchinson    
This poem was published in Canadian Poetry

America, you don’t need us anymore
so we’re going on vacation.

You’ve got religion to whisper in your ear
and sing you to sleep at night,
and culture of homogeneity to get you up
and going on cold Monday mornings, coffee in hand.
You’ve got plastic prophesies to keep you alive
and sick on medicines from unrhyming
peddlers of purpose.
You’ve got assumptions and science to teach the kids now
so long as the chemists abandon their really significant digits!
You’ve got calculus problems and practical things to scribble
on the back of the wornout canvasses of Monet and the recycled
papyrus of Parmenides—nothing’s changed.

You don’t need metaphorical ice cream.
You don’t need symbolism of green ideas.
You don’t need moonlight anymore.
You don’t need breezes on summer afternoons
unless they’re part of a lemonade ad.
You don’t need stars.
You don’t need hope or purpose or prosperity
that can come from the meaningless lines
of poems.
You don’t need us anymore, so we’re leaving.
That’s it.
We’re done.
Goodbye, America. It’s been
fun.

I humbly ask You to unlock
the hidden silences and secrets
of my fugitive and forlorn heart,
that there may be in this exile
a fruitful renewal,
a new birth,
a total pouring forth
of without cessation worded petals
on the canvasses
of a continually blooming mind
with living acts of creation
in Your most holy of holiest names.

There are faces that go on the pretty, high-end magazines,
In demand, highly sought
Read once
Then kept away
Then there are faces that go on the canvasses of painters who were once unknown
Coveted, evoking
Imprinted on the mind
Hanged in the Louvre
(for all the world to see)
Now worth a million

Time broke the heart of Van Gogh
Wrenched the soul of Edgar Allen Poe
As the ages spoke with words and paints
The romantics yielded up all of their pain
And put it on display in canvasses and pages

His hand seizes no brush,
What he has is dish alone.
There came a deluge –
A surge of days
With lovely clatter of voices.

Eggs tousled,
There’s a perplexed question within.
Amused by her doll,
That little one.

His weeks-old pant
Now rowing incessant,
Famished for something.

A trance of canvasses stretching,
Where there’re outlines
On ocher-soaked linens,
Earth-dug umber, sienna, yolk yellows,
Wet, oily and waiting to bleed
Thick and gummy from the brush.

In his veins,
The scent in ether enthralls him –
He was lightheaded
leaves me lightheaded,
Daubed and anointed
By the deity he has filched from.

Now the baby cries,
Sodden, smells like a milky cotton
Sopping every minute up,
Those implicated hours.

He’ll spill years
As the earth alters his faces.
Greens of summer,
Tarnishing into autumn..
And in winter, the north light;
Grasping firestorm
In the braids of the medium’s hair.

(9/10/13 @xirlleelang)

I humbly ask You to unlock
the hidden silences and secrets
of my fugitive and forlorn heart,
that there may be in this exile
a fruitful renewal,
a new birth,
a total pouring forth
of without cessation worded petals
on the canvasses
of a continually blooming mind
with living acts of creation
in Your most holy of holiest names.

when i was one and fourteen
i knew a woman whose soft hands could make colors fly
wherever she told them to,
covering canvasses and fluttering into human hearts with a
puff
of breath.
a woman of Hope, a woman of Pocatello--
her spine was the trunk of a tree, her mind abundant with fruit
she told me about colors, wild geese, and what it means to be beautiful
she told me to show up, pay attention, tell my truth,
and not be attached to the outcome--
but i was, so much.

i am one and seventeen
i am a woman with soft hands, i speak to colors and make them fly:
they cover canvasses, bodies, and hearts.
a woman of Campbell, a woman of Heron--
i press my back against trees and imagine what it would be like
to have one for a spine.
i know about colors, wild geese, and what it means to be beautiful
i know that i spent years trying to cling
to the slippery, slimy, gelatinous blob that is the future--
it sure is beautiful from a distance.

Where is that lover in the black dress? One not of worldly dispair, one of makeup made from queen like caress.
Where is the string player? The dream slayer amongst devils of men, beyond cremation of friend's. For words art just meaning's of all seeming realities of cape fear! No desires ever met, for this one truest of death surely draweth near.
Like liquid to the needle, like wings on the Beatle, air conditioned rooms made from doom, I bleed out prophetic tears!!!
Images of ashy mascara currupts human time, queen of black, sits on back cracking fingers in glue like slime!!!
An actualiser, say adieu to morning glory faces. Painted on places to canvasses of darkened boutique....
The administrator,a navigator gather all on cloudish cobblestoned paths, much more than an assembly....
Babiche laces rambling to the dark souled queens Victorian skin!!!!
Axer thy taste towards her, the one owned by no one!!!! The one adored...

She whistles to heartbrakes destruction...... ( la,LA,LA,LA....she's the only one awake amongst those who snore....


©Brandon Nagley
©Prison poetry
©Lonesome poet's poetry

I can imagine staircases already
From her legs up,
The sassy strut divine
     Of deities descending,

Her curvatures, delight,
Carefully cascading, lather me
As hands on her hands, as fingers,
     Or *****, my spirit.

I am nowhere near my mind
Within her mind,
The clauses of her mind, this flower.
     O her oblivious flower, opened, bare and all.

I can hear it all already, all,
Her steps deceptive,
The pleasant cries and onomatopoeias,
     A princess or a pheasant somewhere,
     Surrendering, the grin
          Of suffering.

I can sense it, feel it, peal it from our canvasses,
Which were carcasses for so long, taste it,
O sweet molasses,
     Which intimacies were hers,
          Were mine.

We're mine alone.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

1.

Because I do not believe
There is any love for me
And that gender is a construct
Of this confused society
I state plainly or plainly post
For all who wish to see
My gender is not binary

2.
From one voice history flows
All hippie dippy flower child
All love and no fire power
Just truth and the hope
For a world where words
Can change dark hearts
To canvasses of light

3.
I choose my verses carefully
Line those syllables up in front of me
So I can see if I am a decent poet

new lovers meet underneath the glaze of stars
the moon shines reflections in pools of sorrow
swimmers swim in the paint of fresh canvasses
drawing their imaginations through still fruit
seeds make fruit like humans make baby's
always afraid that one day we'll be eaten
but one day we will fly on our own
dropping feathers everywhere we go
leaving behind memories unforgotten
we are the finger prints on the murderer's axe
gone but traces of us are still left behind
never speaking but always thinking
never wanting but always getting
the painful scars of remembering
these scorch marks on my back are seared deep
like the raw welts upon my heart
every pump is another explosion of life
this life is a dark silhouette of a man
standing in the shadow of god
unable to find my way out of the garden
arms stretched out looking for any sign of life
I ran my fingers against unseen thorns
my bleeding hands are like strawberries
I remember a time when we once caught spiders
let them go and stomped them into the dirt
ran back to the house and played with my father's gun
I was six years old
we didn't know what death meant
to little to understand these complex feelings
my best friend cried when his cat left
I have never felt death
not my whole life
even when she broke my heart
I felt like I could never carry this world with out her
my spine would crumble underneath the weight
I wasn't a doctor so I couldn't heal it
there are somethings in this world that duck tape can't fix
I thought that night my heart would give
but I was far from death
far from ever knowing what it means to die

It rained today,
A thorough soaking
Of the ground
That left the fields
Soggy and spotted
With small ponds.

The fallen leaves,
Orange and yellow
With the autumn,
Had stuck to the earth,
Soaked and weighted down
Around the edges.

Everybody
Wore rain coats and rubber boots,
They carried multi-colored umbrellas.
Squinting in the wind
As the water licked their eyes,
They trudged and suffered
Through it.

They walked over the puddles,
Never looking down at the
Liquid canvasses spluttered
With circling ripples
As the sky’s tears
Kissed their faces.

On the edges of the sidewalks
The water pooled and drained.
Dead leaves lay on the bottoms,
Flickering amber in the gray light.

Nobody took notice
Of the tiny moments
Of perfection.

Once, I fell for a traveler
whose eyes sought the beautiful.
But even those who were simply mundane
didn't even have to worry a thing,
for he always saw the best within.

Never have I ever been a destination.
More like ruins that give the illusion
that abandon could exhibit beauty.
But his map was never way too full
for more pushpins on places he'd rule
with polaroid films and blank canvasses,
that only his eyes and hands can caress.

But little did I know that he was
more on an adventure than just a petty tour.
That when time came for him to move on,
I'm sure I forgot, here wasn't his home.

At least, in the roster, I exist.
One of the places he chose to visit.