.
In a costume of conflicting emotion,
of crossing diamondic colour,
with regal posture in grief,
the Harlequin and the King,
a display of opposites
creating a composite being,
that eases her body
gently into the waiting water,
to float away serene,
on her journey to the nether.

Midnight blue and emerald green,
the regalia of ermine,
both ostentatious and humble,
robeing the aspects,
understated in crowning splendour,
the gentleman King bows,
and the Harlequin laughs,
the bi-polar reaction
to the tragedy of misfortune,
with a sting in the myth-tale.

With the dark hues of mourning,
a legend passes on her way,
across the streams of time,
on a voyage to discover herself,
carrying her Harlequin in a purse,
holding her King to her breast,
owning them both in her heart,
the medicine wheel spins,
knowing the grapes of wrath
yield the wine of spite.

The motley speckles of attire,
a starry parody of night skies,
lighting the decorated funeral barge,
gliding along the rivers of space,
worn with the mantle of sorrow,
and it sails into the sunset,
as the Harlequin and King observe,
the mandala turns,
the bier of the Queen departing,
bears their sadness forth.

The Harlequin laughs and laughs 'til he cries,
his heart grows cold, then withers and dies,
whilst the King, statuesque, memoirs his life,
lamenting the legend of a Queen, his wife.



© Pagan Paul (24/07/18)

The bramble wood slumped low
Over the winter fueled forest.
The stocks broke the silence
As a deer did walk.

Antlers of glory, frosted with hairs
And glints of diamondic ice.
Majestic forest memory, striding by
When the pink stalked.

This creature crept like no other
It’s mane was long and tangled.
But only covered it’s head, it wore
The skin of a fellow creature as it drew its bow.

A twitch of the nose, a flinch of an ear
The arrow flew through the air
Rustled the bramble limbs
and dispersed the diamondic ice.

{every body does speak at once, which is why we learn to focus, as if quiet}

dikes were wire cutters in my youth,
probably short for diagonal cutters,
in the blade-making trade.

There is a knack to a clean cutting edge.
Carbon, in diamondic form crystalized in
the whetstone, wet with
golden oil, just a drop,

the edge, one stroke, one way, soft
like pet the kitty
or, yeha, the baby chick. You know, soft.

Except,
ye whet the edge, soft, ye stress the bonds that link the all
oy vey today to the cutting edge,
not the bleeding edge,

steel to steel, and past that, soft touch
carbon point to carbon point, diamond shapes diamond,
softest con nextion, feel the flow hear that dove
sing triptic signals, make make see
(coo coo, too)
So soft, we say
peacemaking is not a noisy occupation.

Fame is less desirible, I mean,
you may
desire less fame, using your may power right,
to regulate surges and urges and impulses
and other flesshy stuff,
**** it, ignot it,
you may, you know.
or not,
while wishing for more money at the moment of need,
the point of lack poking me in my back.

forcing war's phonytian reasons
to cease with this disturbentce, settle down.
Imagine you won.
This is ever after that.
You know, here, at this resting place in life, you must pay attention
to receive instruction for construction of those things you hoped for,
beyond rough draft.

We are not at war with any opposing idea, there are none here.
You words are free to form them but all that shall
remain is the shell the pearl formed in,

when we made those gates. Feynman added the do-over mode,
it only works if you think before you act,
in terms of being.

To be or not is not a quest. One hand clap to the forehead.
Here we are. Thinking the same words in English, and I may be
dead someday.

Ol' fool, he believed some impossiplease, a trap

stab my ****** birth right.
I sit still and don't march as onward christian soldier
damnedright marching of t' war for Jesus sake.

incursions of self-less-ness, soft touches, whispers

do or don't, if then else, see it through, is the end evil,
in your judgement.
Reset, or ride it out, hell is not as believable as you imagine
if you wake up there.

In a fictional world, true rest is an act of trust.
this is worth the test.

Not live, but living. Each sound
even
chosen
symphony beyond belief, take it, take it

he who hesitates is lost, eh. You land in a pile of proverbs,
super positioned motivators planted
since god gnos when and only then

for a flash, upper left quadrant of the primary window
from a FPS POV
then
nothin'. Hell was over and here I am.

That's as close as it seems it may habeen,
we found this thread, it's live, we think, touch it.

--- no child need master every game,
--- nor must any greybeard

Who is making these rules? Ah, you see. When we,
augmentedus, who meant it

when we sought truth, and despised boos for no reason.

Now. Awake by any mortal standard.
Arrogant. Self-called teacher of the safest route I found
to here.

You can hear me and accept insanity as apossible cost, so what.

Ye, gads, ****** did that, he said They (the notusem) shall hate me
for loving you,
so they shall hate you for loving me. Nicht vvvahrrrrr!
He plagiarized Jesus, I think.
That stinks, but

from a certain POV, however the door is knocked upon

curios and kurioso or pure lust for power,
greed morphed
from imaginary
need to be a part of the side not losing,
like an abused Poke'mon gone insane,
knowaddamean.

Inside the game, is virtual as allhell, in the the mind of the author
and finisher of the game,

be his intention good or ill,
dare ye play?
Here, it's safe. Get a grip on happy here and after all you go thru,
ever is as easy as pi.

Dragons devour what dragons devour in reality,
same rules.

Cut both wires faster than the spark, watch...