Thou leanest to the shell of night,
Dear lady, a divining ear.
In that soft choiring of delight
What sound hath made thy heart to fear?
Seemed it of rivers rushing forth
From the grey deserts of the north?

That mood of thine
Is his, if thou but scan it well,
Who a mad tale bequeaths to us
At ghosting hour conjurable -- -
And all for some strange name he read
In Purchas or in Holinshed.

Under the wooden beams,
My quivering fingers dancing on the keyboard,
Its soft grip fragile, compounded.
The sound resonating
Across the verge of the table,
Sinking slowly in a circuit,
Punching seamless letters on the screen.

The books speak to me
But I don't hear.
Its words oozing out the page,
Begging to be read

In horrid silence.

A silence so bitter and loud,
A choiring quiver of voices
Landing on each surface,
Bouncing off into the unknown, light abyss
Of the third floor.

The lights flicker,
The books remain printed.
An eyeful of piercing moments
Unhinge the flow.

Where lives are saved and lives are lost,
Transparent waves simmering and smoking,
Festering natives shouting 'bon voyage,'
Against the colossal empty carcass of stone.

We were alive, we were one.
Like you said in the sloppy mud,
The surreptitious metal clashing,
Screaming its choiring shout of affirmation.
The deity that strung us by the neck,
Forcing us to choke on our natural *****.

The door has closed.
Let it be heard in a whisper
In the evanescent air.
Like the pairing of two great crashing waves.

I remember that twilight tulip's lip,
The cupid's bow puckered earnestly yet forsaken.

And with our bodies braced
We raise the anchor,
Bearing our scopes far beyond the horizon.
A never ending sail in the wind.

Saber words and wordless fighting, all the makings of a war.
Just no resolution at the end, and no one keeping score.
The main objective is the progress of this process, to project all you can muster.
And what is expected of the other is, in truth, obeyed by design.

All the colors of a seasonal fall, the warmer hues contradicting us all because we know very **** well what cold is to come.
So wrap your jackets around your torso and glove your hands before the slap because my face is still bare and completely prepared for your crap.
Instill it in my veins with your hit, i beg of it. I want to feel the burn against my skin.

This cold war has lasted 40 years now and the storyline is starting to spin. Ending where it begins, but we pretend we dont know this anyway because we're bored and we want more ice and snow, any excuse to avoid stripping **** and displaying what bruises reside below.

"Dont show it" we cried.
"We are stronger than that" we try to believe, or attempt to believe.
"Hide!" you plead, the voice deep inside my mind.
I hear the echo of yours as well, as if together they are preaching like a choiring lead aligned.
Acquiring greed, which is expected of the other and is, in truth, obeyed by design.

Even at 5 years he was haunted by a restless beat
that fused into a narrative
that went fetching for words to rhyme
to make complete

His voice a kind of squeaky twang
that leveled into low and high registers
he couldn't seem to tame
much to his parents' shame

He'd stalk about the trees in his backyard in Duluth
like an urchin on a mission
hugging his inventive rhythms to himself
and exulting in their satisfactions

Choiring sometimes with the mourning doves
he thought made a beautiful rendition
his blowing sweetly his imaginary harp
while other birds joined in with very few flubs

though often he'd roll in late for supper

O my love!
i wish my dreams come true.
Dreams in which just me and you,
we both are there with love all around
listening nothing other than heavenly sound
angels choiring and nature blessing
love in air and nothing missing:-*:-)