Septuagint prince scribing on scrivello detail
Emerges from the frogmarch grave of revenants sheepish about ghoulish masquerade
The tribes whittle puckered shibboleths and charismatic vengeance evades
The henpeck of roosters harmonizing sand into grassy knolls of carapace cathedral light
Walks beyond the whimsical despair the conniving conservatories of manufactured fright
Spurned by smokestack confusion above a plastered reconnaissance of abundant life flocking between small awakenings curtailed by fulgurant swelters of blistering white
The spectral dance assumes primordial shades to dampen the windowed elegance of betrayal complicit in the haze
Mojo’s rise and fall with moonshot decades flashing intimacy lived twice barking like a squelched gyrovague relishing the kantikoys of burlesque night
And yet among the bemused stars unbuttoned by the prolixity of the Russia ruse the smear indelible flaunts with decadence in the pleonasm of sluggish articles of flight
How long must the messianic age shelter the nebbich halls of crambazzled piety in science to an upbringing of oligochrome
How many dastardly wernaggles of the rusticated elitism flomp with desultory banquets reminiscent of boiling Rome
Incinerated in an ageless day revived only after a historic lapse of barbarity in the ferule exacted such immeasurable despair
That the prejudice of pride is forever shelved as redundant because the filigrees of geometry only permit curvature in flatness
Convex movements captured in still-framed pillories refract nothing but Blazing Saddles of a caricature full-bloom sun
Yet we marvel at storybook ghosts and the isangelous carapace of marauding instincts forever brave and encaged
Erratic by delivery but sciamachy knows no identifiable age
Scrawny fossarians dig entrenched charnels voraginous with skeletons of brackish regelation enthused by immemorial decay
Must we abridge a hearty ocean in a month’s sublime regaled design of trespasses of unsung heyday spaying its weakest defrocked knight
Armed to the Teeth we seek the terminus of apocalyptic capsules destined for gluttons braving annihilation in the vacuum of orbital planes plain only to the ken of the keenest sight
No we make no petitions in prayer for this Soft Parade of vigor verging on flair
We ransack littoral virtues in nexility bronzed with Stayin’ Alive shoes in remission of staircase blight
Beamish in beatitudes of milquetoast pregnancies of salted Matzah brimming in the yeasts of cesspool emergent from scarecrow metaphors flagrant hauteur gliding on air
Witness the spearhead of revolution in the metagnomy of oracular aubades to future brimstone caverns
Lurking like counterstrokes in revision blackguarded by the feisty prowl of outpaced labtebricole whipsaws of timber readied into foisted brown-brick comestion of elegant emerald errors
Dancing with galactic improvidence concealed by the rigor of lurched liars enthroned with prerogatives of stain-glass adumbration
We parcel up parsecs because clairvoyance among titans is a swank in need of 20/08 visions spectral in the clouds of all prominent registries of memory
Lost to faint delicacies of swift serpents outlasting gnats in the tabernacles of ribald ecbolic promontories on the verge of futile tomorrow pastimes spinsters flummox with slimmerback rigmarole flanged by whinks and escorted by the maskirovka of positive bears in absolute value alone
Yet Enola Gay found its destruction profitable to hominist lore enough to attenuate its evaporation of suffrage in the glint of pervasive remedies to stranded gore
Embanked on the sidelines of conquistador flaunts that a Titanic missive of classy regard found the damsel at the steerage slipping on zalkengur irony the anticlimax of lore
Traipsing fellowship of many a ring is a phony artifice for an ostentation that bellows so loudly when isolated perjury must not whimper but sing
The loudest plaudits afforded to a parallax incumbent white horse in the shadow of Dark Horse occultism a barbed flying wing of the West becoming the king of behest
Scurrilous are many jeers because their similes are baseline just as much as the storged conglomerate behind ensnared rapture looming with less ecstasy and blunt fear remains the kilmarge of simple foresight wrinkled behind the sum of many tears
We await our Creator’s Throne insuperable even with the blandishment of piecemeal craters that are superlative bolides of the weirdest attenuated into the spectrum of eldritch weird
Yet the riches of hobohemia found in “invisible lockets” worn by the travesty of jerseys measuring up to Roadhouse beer
The cartels of citadel cascades built on mountebank fortunes reaped from venal psephology collectively embody the unconscious gamut of javelin cloaks of sardonic sneer
Threnodies written long ago in the Hidden Tracks of sophistry welcome the intermissions of antiquity abridging the donnybrooks of charlatans bossed around by facetious gibes of manicured belletrist humid enough that evaporation itself of rarefied tabacosis has few if any peers
Yet the peerless sketch thrombosis in the oxygeusia of deceptive schadenfreude only to topple jengadangles that glabrous gravity muscles to barely if it all steer
In a vacant reality eager for surrealist bounty the sidereal question of moribund placards supplanted by vibrant living semaphores fixates upon figments of acatalepsy rather than ruddy enumerations of partition despite beloved chalky rudiments filibustering with courtesy rather than jeer
Amicable are ravenous betrayals for chieftains cloffined by warm sapwood integral to equated tantamount mountains festooning firmaments in quaffed delights rigid and keen
The most welcomed blasphemy fragrant with jejune originality celluloid enamors splenetic with sprees of perishable profanity lurking ever more obscene
Regaled in the modest jostle is the forsifamiliation of heterodyne dins of honest applause from the blackguarded periphery among which there are no visible beacons no visible stars
Scarred by diacope enumerated in prescient revelry the trollops of tune and attunement magnetize a riveting weld of seamless geometry that is permeable to ineffable lychgates both porous with prowess and ajar against a golfer’s remediable par
Wizened ghosts flirt with tucked bushes in the forlorn deserts jolted by oasis and flagrant with confection torn asunder by wide-eyed gallantry skipping stones on ataraxia from a distraught afar
That lake of goldmines is scattershot with limey limelight squandered on profligate wrikponds of propinquity but not prolixity in scores and bounties of exoticism in glaikery’s fugitive charm
In proximity there is usucaption but the usufruct of sustainable obelisks to liberty must have the forbearance to bear many witnessed eyes to the Right to Bear Arms
Skirmishes of benighted fracking obsolescence ragged with vitriol and poison-ivy nostalgia flaunt the bromides of algedonic flash over consequences that many disregard
Spiraling with vertiginous pain the scowl of obligation is both seamstress of emblazoned effronteries and the proper reflection of seasoned but not seasonable garb
This barbed quandary riddled with rapacious tendency mixed with myopic bonhomie devours a rickety cacophony of diminutive scopes of ******’s glare to prove each atomic indivisible atrocity a carbonated fulmination heavily barbed
This is all why the killjoys monopolize their gangster vices behind tinted windows and chockablock morality are uxorious bridewells for the bridgewater of garbology sketched by vanity in the outrecuidance of gallionic chasms of an absolute value of firebrand regard
No difference does it make if the recoil is whimpered by hordes of sheep in pretenses of authenticity or whether decapitated delopes emerge from visagist dacoitage snuffed like flavors orbiting self-injury by clockwork towers apace to outlast tertiary bribes for secondary bards
The atocia of freckles in recognition of frail pinnacles summited by daily alpine dilettantist dualisms of polarity are a gullywasher to cleanse and launder indelible regrets carved by aboriginal pottery to memorialize primordial penury
As the slick oleaginous tilts of wicked smart Northeasters swarm the hindsight of Southern Weather afflicted by tempests beleaguered first on recapitulations of Calvary and then deposited evidence upon bourgeoisie
Fumes of the modest flambeaus torching sunken apostasies of hungry spasms of the wind meeting the brusque celerity of the ribald waves rarely etch sublime hint in etch-a-sketch lapses of untimely mobility
Instead that perspicacity of conservatory silence bludgeons Lisbon in the fright before the fall of so many a Phoenix in a foreign land can bear the assaults of the heaved seas
Lambent upon a craggy regularity extinguished by sentinels of the tattered womb for a grimace of prestige by primipara seduction we find no justice of known and knowable terminal disease
Figurative in spoken wisps that predate evaporated concepts of precipitous time the triumph of exalted adoration belongs to hubris but vacant of the prideful decline of crime
To each outspoken verve witnessed on sublunary turf the absolution is nearer to fertility than the craggy soil is to dirt as blemished prowess is a furlough to the sensitive pink tucked manifold beneath each authentic skirt
Liberated by ophelimity but flexed by vicarious pomp in serenade only of hauteur for the hottest we slice and dice a cavern of temptations regardless of enumerated patterns of clearly lopsided dice
We think we live and die but You Only Live Twice in ******* to the oriental bolides of meteoric meteorology preeminent in governing plantations of rice
In jubilant proclamation, I graft from venereal skin a renewed girth of purpose that all enchanted fantasia is a birthright of pleasure more than a vapid drawl of purpose
Glitter bores the scintillation of a denuded naked glory of gore because intimacy is antecedent and consequent to immovable revolutionary procreation of service
To conclude this homily the apothecary in persiflage renounces the role of kilns in both poverty and pottery because his shaken dreams are yelps of a disgusted ornery camaraderie
Listless by oracular dreams of titanic parvenus immune to the sway of tentative croons of Suburban Muse because the grisly subversion of vetust honor that honors not verdict but version of ghastly spools of flimsy epitaphs and not the paragon surgeon is the downfall of a diatribe of petty men
Littering their taradiddles on owleries in overclocked jaundice drowning for purpose among hatcheries of the privvy roosters that own the consequence of audacious pens
Dodgy in interrogation, flummoxed with deracination, isolated by time for time’s recapitulation of surrender in katzenjammer vibes it is time for gossamer servant surfers to borrow nine and hang ten
But the noose of the wednongue nun specializes in puritanical Model Ts for DeLoreans trendsetting years ago because listless lethargy benights the glory that cineastes already won
Teeming on the brink of tomorrow is the progeny of hopeless yesteryear engraved on the iconoclasm of the weak after the next debacle because the Earth after Christ has already borne a Ton
Liturgies revised to reflect corsair trigonometry aimed forever at zephyrs of plight bathe in July 3rd infamy doctored by Generators and Generations before and beyond Walter White menacing the saber with imperious might
Flowered in the nuisance of death is the womb of the arena participant to infinite relapses of contention gladiatorial only when the shunamitism of shanachies sheds serpentine grit for the blench of ligonies of redoubled sight
Towering from the knave inferno of a tramontane elusive cordial imitation of captive citizens of attentive sites the illusion is the vanguard of centuries guarded gingerly by Canada Dry sprites
Rollicking in vehement magpiety attuned to machismo if marginally the sultry philander of naked ruse medicates the charmed Apache Indian on his brief encounters with limousine cruise
Stark in sunken destination glimpsing coal-fire recursive ironies the cloned subversion is a golden calf so effete because it never moos about instinctual muse relegated by twin terrors riddled with sparkplug truce
Limited by scopes enlarged by scales mired in funereal pyres to rigmarole sensationalism worthy of nativist coercion and pivoted lyres the riddle of terminus remains an acquiescent scoff, cough and quaff that never expires
It reaches planetary dread of vast distances regaled against gambits of the spread so the richest sourdough appeases the riper vipers of the nested bed
Recalcitrant with frugal uxorious creed the leader of esquivalience is the headless horseman of innumerable tractions but no mouth to feed
He digests the gallop of the gallant interregnum specious in caitiff ploys and the recessive allele of commiserations against the piety of apolaustic joy because rambunctious speed always attracts a resignation professed from the tailspin of a crass voyage of ludic greed
Tricksters boast of passionate lubrications of finessed bread recocted from useless toasts glowering with insipid pallor as heat and humidity reckon billows of hype congregated more in cisterns of apostasy for remark than a marksman headshot of a Head Hunter wed tightly to a pregnable visions of proactive Ghost
Recidivism and time have a vendetta against verdant drolleries coated by waxen plenilune accordions rampant with polyacoustic rhymes
The tridents of mercurial weather bent on the ineffable vacillations of whether are the brazen opponent of Sterling fatherhood of life’s only father the clockwork animation of a living patronage of eternal existence cobbled from immutable time
To the glory of the Father the sun shades its whimpers and the moon alights as the frontispiece of nocturnal revisions to the New York Times but the hues of rocketed ingenuity coax the ingratiated few to the laureates of genius reckoned with both designation and superlative artifacts of pristine design
Haunted by Green-Light Politics for Greener-Eyed Ladies masquerading in star-crossed tomes of existential dread of lollygagged playful mischief tucked in the coach as he leads his team with sophrosyne feel-good invictive treacle we witness the fumiducts of fortune blitzing Hail Mary contrition with earnest specialty in defense of offensive precision
Games won by the squirrel are outnumbered by the stars in the heavens flagrantly devoid of specialized electricity enough to encapsulate the ommateum of collectivized insights found only in the most evolved sequence of cell division
Incarcerated by the scrappy schlep of bad beats and bronzed chariots roiled by the momentum of angular spears we seek oracular transcendence that cements decades into the span of days that portend the deliverance of future years from past and present fears
Presiding as proctor in the redacted exoneration of crash-course pilots glowering with the effluvium of recensed perdition the heyday of one becomes the mayday of anarchy tested only by the alacrity of the summation of its beloved yet maligned cheers
Against a prosperity hard-won by earnest husbandry commandeered by gammerstang notoriety spawning the recrimination of star power into centupled peers negligent of zero-sum opinionation wagered by Country Club fraternities embedded in the taxonomy of wilted hackumber for hegiras minimized by outcry but cemented by Dear Johns’ twinged with sultry pleonexia in taxed tears
So with the whipsaw of the individual between the collective funnel and the idiosyncratic insubordination that amplifies outcry galvanized throes of insemination built on cross-pollination is melliferous to a pretense of alchemy outstretched to sidereal wonder
Hardest to guess is intimacy clothed in Platonic virtues crumbling because puritanical pilgrimage is appraised as a joyous thunder for a abnegation from all potential blunders
To wager such a life is a depredation of the abundance that John breathes as a ceremonial birthright cast aside by latent regrets stampeding the realm of nosocomial reflections of the pallor of a lurid squander
So we are left to bemuse the decrepit bodewash of realism taken to such a virulent extreme it leaves few artifacts of nostalgia to croon about and ponder and fewer abstractions to yield to manicures of elegant troponder
Diminutive sinews in the intertesselations of heft profess a fidelity of notoriety carving life before and after death
Unsung by the beadledom of the usucaption of exotic tailored musician brutes upon my landlocked assault of chryselephantine usufruct I lampoon nescience as it lurks in murky graveyards of anoegenetic zombies covered in thick pigments of piggish soot
Yet this fuliginous bronteum of warped clarity transfixed by the ulterior wednongues of atrocious spans of provenance jilting providence makes betting interests of rivalry outcomes harder to win earnest roots
The trees of the gamboled skittish resignation of checkered blinks obscuring the curtailed discernment of bedizened slogans of future campaigns yet distasteful in ornery churning the bootstrapped tie their tethered laces to their acquired boots
Barnstorming through afflicted spandrels of abeyance shepherded by notions of public dereliction by imperium of centrobaric centripetal philters of concubine rhymes I surge beneath cordial flonky redhibition because of redshorts in estimable traction cemented by supernal design
Weak in luster my potent pollination for synergistic aplomb evades the fringe of corrugated affections mounted upon quixotic escapades of jockeyed statistics flourishing by reticence rather than frazzling the prolix emulation filibustering the mundane ignorance but garnering the harvest of the plevisable sequence from prime to prime indivisible by liberty alone or complicit with cadence sublime
Finishing the sermons of modern apostasy to a gallant cause my laments outnumber the muzzles belonging to the quorum of begrudged applause in the rawest spectacle of unheralded genius clawing insistently at the heart of electric gravity
The nuances of plausible nuisance bicker in emerald harlots of the tantamount nature of derelict frikmag to calculated prosodemic solidarity around insanity because the vein of the golden ore should see ivoride as nullification and inanity
We all stoop on counterfeit stencils of pretense hearkening a clairvoyant sun to droop for closer inspection but detective remonstrance is outmoded by dreary witless defections
Thus the drawl scrawled by the genius flonky in gadzookerie but gilded in rhapsodies of ineffable cadence fighting orthodoxy to a relegated draw sketches the outline of the special talents of lying claws
Because stipulated in the vast oversight that predicates reprisals of retches glazing in obtuse effronteries with eccedentesiast odontoloxia we witness the corrosion of race and gender into pontificating audits of nomadic treason in a fortress militarized by niche applause
Trickling from repcrevel faucets implicit degradation is a casual casualty of an abbreviated motive gestured in ponderous stupidity to distract abiding legislation into the giggled gaggle of tinsellated glitter
Fatuous by vacuums of gaudy prizes worthy only of token motions rather than locomotive strains of virulent and compassionate respect lapsed on vigors of vehement regret is a sing-song ridicule of a still-framed pillory erected as the obstacle that gouges the riddles of impediment and deprives the luxury of preferential emolument siphoned off to lurid jeers of mockery propaganda sizzling in the cauldrons of tilted marginalization
So we witness the faded declension of the hubris of fair-weather camaraderie as a flux dispersal of invidious buoyant bloviated streaks of temporal grit into inverted revelry never shared by the proper ubiquity of streams of personal recompense for plodding fragments of invasion
If I veer away from bickering cackles of denounced preeminence swiveled to face the shadows upon the great cavern of insuperable bounds of fickle human ignorance I deplore the vaunted toadies that shrink my shadow and diminish my viable conceptual and vibrant footprints
Few extinct creatures know the annihilation of petty fame quaffed on Whiskey Bars I never met because the insipid banal pleonasms of restructured irony grimace at my complexion as the scent of the game alerts the foibles of a champion begotten once before as a shark-tank prince
Livid is my grief in the aborning moral quandary of sunken priority overlapping with piebald skeumorphs of retches of blinkered allegiance faltering prior to the primary day of my true awakening because the completion of nesiote subterfuge  rusts on creaky hinges of noncommittal regressions of pointed but pointless deluge
I spar with the augury of irrelevance with a five-pointed star bequeathing rigid but plentiful provision to assist with more than a petty dime of tithe to a 20/20 flash of perfect prescience and hallowed vision
The eve of all destruction is the lollygag of subordinate squawks redacting convenient priorities on the slowpoke walks through teenage immaturity found in the infamous “talk” that the world is governed by evasion in supremacy rather than by the bywords of the perennial stocks in sublime stalks
This nation perishes with my visionary clarity because the bifocal constraints of delimited defenestration remands my custody beneath ****** upheaval documented by useless historians of deliberation in gaffe and ammunition for agitprop flickering away the aubades of praise for the stilted pretense of sclerotic values inflexible to authorship thus scuttled by crowdsourced dictatorship
How sad a spate that the welters of sciamachy hide behind the glaring shadow of immeasurable genius for an unwarranted earwig to steal the echoes of my thunder and poison the servitude of the minions to companionship to highlight aggrieved infamy over walloping feats of refrain found in an isolated rather than protracted celebrity
The guilt of the reproachable beams through the frikmag of tyrannical bouts of circular wernaggle as I carve spherical reckoning that outstretches in all viable directions so that “The Mailman” and the Male Man both succeed in historic insurrection
Flashy benumbed brutish ferules of ferocious dainty dances with an arbitrary cage highlighted among a voiceless heyday for an auditorium which perceives insanity more dangerous than inanity is a profane stipulation by wrinkled mediagenic hubris which scours planetary limitations for excuse to recourse and recourse to excuse
We find marvels in subtlety finicky on the apothegms of heterochrony divergent even further from syndication as the regimented nuances of abuse become plucky daredevils that cozen robust vital sapwood from anglers seizing by seizure the roundabout logic of the innumerable minority characterized forever obtuse
I writhe in delicate contortions of flexed directional bypass surmounting orthodromic velocities capering with the anenometers that spar against spangled enthusiasm only to become an anointed slave of the flagging moral resolve fulminating a huffed crusade with silentiums of false asylum for true achievement brusque against any resourceful tempest scurrying the hidebound illusion of pandemonium for scrappy shenanigans of vergers and emptied pews griping with the dearth of the day-to-day despite the known tomorrow
We cannot affix primary focus upon constellated wasms of puckered abstention borrowed from a maskirovka of secret hedonism wed to many vices among wives but deprived of sacrosanct remuneration for abiding expenses yet an atoll upon a continent decisive in its aborning revolution
Ribald wiseacres of a jovial dismay flanged on rectiserial exaggerations of sebastomania is a stranded frigate of a fugitive escapism wandering with nomadic insistence against cosseted blackguard of assertion without plenipotentiary verdicts against the suborned crater of overstated flimsy truculence in sardonic dissolution
In trespass of a reservation of recoiled tender of tutelage proctoring unseemly haggardly refuse to creak into noisome and noisy cacophony armed by centurions of merciless scorn that lackadaisical winter belies the meteoric riches of autumn mainour fungible with the retches of remorseful decay dangling retreat above entreaty for exasperated wednongues lacking curiosity or the backbite of counterfeit engastrimyths seeding an unknowing complicity to fallacy forked over by chiefs and chefs to an amounted dubiety reserves the armaments of glib sedition for inopportune blacklists by a whitewashed Listerine amenable to launder travestime into oversight rather than belabor banal graft upon the agelasts of a toilsome operose labor to trivialize Herculean monuments to creativity as backwater residence of restive plucky percurrent revivals of infamy as a primary thorn rather than a secondary abreaction
Sentinels swift to the expedited squalor intrepid in sclerotic simpers of renowned defalcation bludgeoned by the tridents of harmonized trauma healing the brayed complaint while regaining the quixotic statute of plevisable mobility belongs to the froward counterpunch to the flippant underminnow of savagery yet among noble personage a blip on furloughs rather than a singed diacope perishing in Wasting Light for denuded darkness to supplant the vacated stage of ironic upbringing bartered from a treasury of obsolete wasms of trivial shadows in the amounted lineage of time.
Elected by the purblind fudged cadge of intransigent solidarity behind unhinged proclamations of lewd lunacy the reset of wibble-wabble and conflagrations of trenchant visibility will cloud the cloudiest tempest with hurricane-force devastation by the healing stripes of the piebald idiosyncrasy of gerrymandered defamation failing where insular regeneration outlasts hamartia and blinkered foibles of girouettism to pillory the excess but not transmogrify the whittled progress of seminal generativity unbounded by harped lyres of discord for secret concords of select femicide
With outstretched hands I point to the tapestry of the Heavens as eternal folksy witness that to endear the temperance of time bullishly roaring on the laureates of prolific servitude to the malleable substance of capered argument the enigmatic punctuation outweighs the baragnosis of miscreant opportune glares at personal prospect for aggrieved sockdolagers of redstrall over the filigrees of innate geometry to cackle above the shouted gnash and the dissoluble squirms of blackened cremation of living memories into insipid fracking of sapwood caitiffs flowing on the motion of discredit rather than honor in valuable endeavor for future genuflection
Totems value me as much as they stalk grazed hinderbaggle of cosmetic devolution of ragged popcorn theatrics in the desuetude of normative ethics beneath the carcass of rotten dastardly cowardice brandishing an ulterior discretion beneath the level of the lowest stoop of any breed founded on loyalty verging into flagrant snipers of integrity for the integral unshakable paragon of broad illumination the guidepost for many spectral truths overshadowed by one miserly fool flummoxing with albatross without the overhang  of pluvious integrity shepherding his hauteur in zig-zagged wallops rather than buoyant serenades
Thus entrenched in juicy poignant barricades against virulent spawn of the katzenjammers of squawking femicide I spout the blossom, bequeath the gift, renounce the delusion and form a formidable bastion against depredated valleys blemished from sight by intolerable patches of darkened verdure hiding from commonwealth perception the pearl of ecumenical salvation swimming in the naked tongues of honest profession dancing with conventional demarcated demerits of Rimbaud ramshackle deracination as a humdrum belittled squander of a prop of craven filibuster rather than beavers outsmarting the delignated destruction of habitat because of outright distaste for plucky individuation above the squalor of relativism in minor octaves of gnashed betrayal rigged by hamsters rather than owned by the men trigger-happy with rat race motivation only to the servitude of degrees rather than plausible recovery embedded into the fabric of fickle society
Hidebound tomes fishing for destruction but grappling with the enormity of the plagued pitfall of ceramic skirmish with brittle conscience emerge with epincion rather than sulk in brooded hyperbole of convenient drapes of flocks postulating irrelevance clearly in the light of the truest day frolicking with gigantic swaddles of curated support etching masterpieces of traipse into the frescades of future calenture beyond the petty misestimation of hemitery politics
Thus the weapon serves two masters of row rather than regatta and the besieged rankles the testy predicament to a teased poetry riveted by years of rhapsody rather than moments of tomfoolery emergent victorious rather than dilapidated by what-could-have-been chary brinkmanship on the precipice of modern sacrilege
To instruct the herds of men to hoard and the wisdom of the wise to circulate that apothegm of reclamation owns superlative traction fundamental to whimsical festivity even forsaken on a churlish masquerade outmantled by frenetic activity famigerated by the true Richter Scale of public fanfaronade because justice is truth and only in germane truth beyond germ scares will decrepit scarecrows demolish their Fear Factor even when the gullible squirm for nexility on bounded continents rather than novantique frontiers
Conscription demarches for assembly beyond relegation and celebrity above frays of discordant rumination feasting advenient rather than cherishing internal and integral the virtuoso wrabble of residue generations churning wheels of acceleration rather than quibbling extinguished vitality as principal complaint exercised in negligent abodes of facetious barnacles to outlandish freckles in the majestic pulchritude of a Titanic salvation beyond and considering the curglaff of sunken resources pitted to my registry by slot-machine audiences incognizant of brittle whittled henpecks of adoring truth and perdurable verve
We sink and die by destructive tongues but abide and live by righteous exemplary prowess capable of scraping the towering canvass of the firmament and the retches of the deepest sea inhabited by any curiosity worthy of emolument
So in token liturgy I decry sidelong cursory squandered affronts that drive the Jehus madcap with fractious celerities of formal destitution rampant on flonky menace rather than modern hypertrophy
In The End, we see triumph in every nuance and bristling concord with every perspiration of ennobled effort truckling into serrated selachostomous and fractious bromides of wrecking-ball fashionistas fumigating cultural pederasty with subtle bailiwick but ragged travesties of taxidermy celluloid
Marvel in-between the serenade and grandstand and cull the turnverein of triumph from banished evasive rundles of the outlasted calculus to neuter the estranged and to estrange the atocia of vibrant surreal vibes no stranger to an alien hand in a desolate world.

We are all human beings
We all have our own lives
And different ways we live them
But each one of us is a writer
And this poem is for all of you

All of you who have virtues and use them in your writing
Those who use flashbacks and revisit mental photo albums

Beginning the story from the middle for that’s usually where you mind is at
Looking back then looking forward
Studying the past so you can be ready for what is to come

Recording catastrophes with a number two pencil

Tales and blurbs of tragedy
Caused by love or the lack there of

Rewards and punishment
Self-reliance and self-fulfillment

We are mere narrators
Humble, maybe unreliable
Equipped with numerous devices
Ironic Paradoxes
Red herrings
Fortuitous plot twists
Metaphors
Allegoric hyperboles
Analogies
Oxymorons and onomatopoeias

We sling Chekhov’s gun like bandits of literacy

We’re visionary revolutionaries
Revolution of the mind, body and soul

Changing ourselves and examining who and what we are
To become what we are destined to be
The best

Rejecting convention
Building our own paths
That lead to cliffhangers

Romantic lust
Comedic affairs
Dark massacres
Spiritual healing

Religious speculation
And the questioning of the way we, the people are being governed

We use the tools we are giving to sculpt new art that the world can stand in awe of

Personification
Symbolic imagery

Practicing pastiche with respect
Dionysian imitatio

Surreal reality
Defying mortality

Reiteration and retort

Using nature to express emotion and thought

Doubts and fear

Opposites
Morals and ethics

Satisfying curiosity

Parodying what we see
Embellishing just a little

We us word play to dive deep into the topic of conscious, subconscious and unconscious thought

Using satire to poke fun at the human condition,  its senses and perception of the universe to get readers thinking

Expressing our anger, our boundless joys
Desiring unknown pleasures

Seeing past the fallacies put before us

We write with great candor about war, personal conflicts, and self-abuse

With hinting undertones to give these ideas a second thought

We write of the supernatural, metaphysical mysteries
Outlandish, obscure mind boggling theories

As the clock ticks too fast for us and the characters we’ve created

Demolishing the fourth wall with a sledge hammer of defamiliarization

Epiphanies in a parking lot
Speaking in the 1st, 2nd or 3rd person

Using fun things like anagrams and palindromes
Candy for the lovers of such things

Spontaneity is an understatement
Nonsense is an insulting overstatement
Absurdity seems to fit just right

We are chameleons
We can write in various forms
Streams of gratifying consciousness
Brilliant prose
Beautiful poetry

And chose to use or merely acknowledge the ways to achieve these forms
Rhetoric, rhythm  and rhyme
Meter and mora
Conceit and consonance
Assonance
Intonation
Working with phonaesthetics  

And accenting aesthetics

A poem can or could not be organized as such
If we want to get technical about it

We have a poem
With a number of verses
And in those verses
Are lines
And those lines might rhyme
And have a meter or rhythm
Stressed or unstressed syllables

In contrast to that we may write
Without all of that and use emotion
Feeling and structure our work with what we feel is the best way
Line breaks
Pauses and puns
Silly similes
Ambiguous antonyms  
Intonation, linguistics
Fight against the fascists of grammar and conservative correctness

So, in the end we are writers of a rainbow kaleidoscope forms, devices, ways and ideas

But we alone are the ones who make the world think
Make it move
Revolt
Renew
Learn
Look back
Remember
Cry
Smile
Forget
Ease

Write my friends write until your mind explodes and your fingers bleed

Read, read and become inspired
Even if what you’re reading is bad cheese

Forget getting published it’s the writing that matters
Disregard the off-putting, critical chatter

And if you think no one reads
Than be the seed and sprout a tree of astounding artistry
And let’s begin a new movement composed of ideals that will hold true forever
I might be preaching to the choir but it must be said that poetry; literature isn’t dead

i think a lot
about the me before this all

i think a lot
about the rocky start
about the headstart the Universe gave
about the time i ghosted for 6 months straight
about how i ended up back in square one
about the space you occupied in my mind
about how you evaded my senses
about a chinese-esque boy

i think a lot about the Universe
about premonitions and gut feelings
about beliefs and signs
about how maybe we were supposed to be
about how we finally we became one
about how it seems that you were a gift a day before my birthday

i think a lot about Us
about how it was fleeting and fun
about how it all felt brand-new
about how it was to be in love
about how emotional i got
about how tumultuous it got
about how rocky it became

i think a lot about Abuse
about how it traumatizes you
about how it ingrains into your survival tactics
about how it invades you as a whole
about how it takes a dove and crush its feathers into limestone
about how i will corrode through and through people's soul
about how i got an epiphany
about how i shouldn't be emotionally abusing you
about how i want to become a better person
about how that even though i'm better now
you have been significantly affected by that abuse

i think a lot about the Me all before
about how a silent storm i was
about how guarded and angry i was
about how unpure and unwholesome
about how malevolent and whipped my mean streak
about how independant and unemotional
about how numb i was

i think a lot about the Me now
about how silent after the storm i am
about how guarded yet softened by your touch
about how i'm semi-pure and wholesome to you
about how i sheath out my mean streak when hurt
about how dependent and emotional
about how i feel all at once

i think a lot about the in-betweens
about our 4th to 6th months
about how we were happy content
about how we still bickered and slept it  out
about how good it was
about how much of a happy spot our relationship was
about our development together
about how maybe we were destined to be even more better in the future

i think a lot about Now
about how it feels like a void
about how there's a force so strong
about how it's separating us
about how we keep hurting each other
about how we keep stressing out
about how we keep breaking down
about how it doesn't feel like we're happy here
about how i wake up crying and still fall asleep at night crying
about how our differences keep pushing us apart
about how much i disregard your frequent drinking
about how you go to drink because your relationship has gone to ****
about how our-used-to-be-happy place is causing us so much pain
about how it doesn't feel the same anymore

i think a lot about the Future
about what we're supposed to do now
about how lost we both are
about how i need to find myself again
about how i need to rebuild myself
about how we both new a clean slate
about how we need each other so much more than before

i think a lot about You
about a Chinese boy
about a friendly, sweet and caring boy
about how reliable he is at work
about how witty and smart he can get
about how mentally stimulating he is
about how plain and dull he can be
about how unemotional he is
about how he is a man of few words
about how he shows his love
about how lousy of a texter he is
about how sweet he is
about how mad he can get when provoked
about how i always forget that he cares even though he doesn't show it
about how he always seems so wild and energetic when he drinks
about how he feels a buzz in alcohol that is pretty unhealthy in the long run
about how much potential he has in his art
about how he can scale higher feats
about how i want to watch him grow
about how much of a workaholic he is
about how distant he gets when he's working
about how sometimes i need you during your busy periods
about how much he loves dogs
about how much i'm not really an animal person
about how much he loves kids
about how much he wants to be a dad
about how much i hate kids
about how homophobic he gets
about how he understands me
about how he can read into my soul but doesn't do it often
about how sometimes it feels like he isn't putting effort because he's busy
about how sometimes i want to be validated and showered opnely and be treated like a Goddess
about how i know he wants me to smile more
about how i know sometimes he can't understand my depression but still puts in effort to calm me down
about how for the past 8 months i know every single inch of him
about how for the past 8 months he knows every single inch of me

i think a lot about Love
about how much i love you
about how my love for you can start up it's own universe
about how love is what keeping me with you
about how we both have our needs and wants in a relationship
about how we should be compromising with our differences
about how we should listen and respect each other
about how we should be kind and giving and freeing
about how we should always try and try and put in effort
about how we should always be there for each other
about how we should always support each other unless it raises concerns
about how we should always understand and put ourselves in each other's shoes
about how we should think before we speak
about how we knows each others flaws and cope with it
about how we will be better as a couple in the near future.

i just think a lot

Innocent fear of an overwhelming urge
To break away from pain and to build up the courage;
To live life to the fullest with the deafening sound
Of euphoria breaking out, making silence again found.

Not knowing life's conclusion has a strong velocity.
But who is to say we should not fall victim of curiosity?
Living in curiosity is an understandable clause
When trying to live life fulfilled; living life unpaused.

Giving everything to our success should not be frowned upon
When happiness is the foundation we constantly draw on.
Without this foundation, a collapse is in progress.
Without this foundation, success is wrongly confessed.

Stress is not something we must try to disregard.
It is but a nuisance we must learn to discard.
Its abandonment will push life to its fullest extent;
Happiness will prosper if we show ourselves some intent.

My body listens to my commands.
Back straight, stomach in, legs together.
I have trained it well enough to not sway to the whims of other hands.
The back of my neck has learnt to not tingle at a touch anymore.
The lips don’t quiver when someone says my name.
Boot camp ***** is under control, captain.
No one crosses the line that has been crossed before.
We don’t speak of it,
but the legs did open before they knew how to behave.
With a sneak attack from the side,
And right between my thighs, I found fingers exploring
me like someone walking into the restricted section of the library
with caution and excitement, but all disregard for the rules.
There were no rules then, rather.
My body froze in attention.
I was a pawn and I moved one inch at a time as asked.

My mind led the coup to reclaim the kingdom of my body.
Pleasure remained locked behind doors
And muffled in pillows.
Obedience was learned
when the body woke.
Stay woke, stay woke, stay woke.
I am my own marching band now.
I am my own army.
I fight every day
Defending
Disagreeing
Shoving
Hiding
Covering
Curling in
Curling up
Shouting out
Screaming in.

Fight on, little soldier.
Seek your own pleasure.
But keep your back straight,
your eyes bright,
your laughter in pitch
And your legs closed.

In late 1888, a Wells Fargo stage
Was relieved of its freight-
A strongbox, taken from its hold,
held thousands of dollars in coins of gold.

The brigands had a master plan,
To bury that box,
sit, and wait-
Then dig it up at a later date.

They found a spot on rock-hard ground-
Where it would lie, safe and sound,
So they sank it in a three foot hole-
to hide that box with coins of gold.

But what they didn’t realize,
that in the distance, sat a pair of eyes-
That had watched the whole event unfold-
and watched, as they buried that chest with gold.

Late that night, under a pale, lantern, light-
a shovel's blade split those rocks-
and the hole was relieved-
of that strongbox.

William Nelson Riddle, owned that property-
And he lived with a basic philosophy-
“Since it was found, on my ground-
I guess it belongs to me.”

“Nelson” died in ’28, at age of 85-
He never said what happened to,
Or if, that chest survived-
And the "Legend of Riddle’s Gold"came alive.

As time passed, the story grew-
each year, a bit more grand-
That Nelson took that strongbox-
And hid it  elsewhere on his land

Greed is one of the “seven sins”-
"Everybody loses, and nobody wins"-
But the “want” for gold is a mighty strong thirst-
So his kin set out for a “family search.”

At morning’s dawn, the kinfolk came-
To search for gold, fortune, and fame-
They came with shovels, spades, and hoes-
And some “TNT”, so the story goes.

With disregard for propriety,
they descended upon the property-
Without a map, without a plan-
They spread out to search his land.  

Now, the rabbits and the coyotes,
and the gophers(one or two)-
Gathered on a little knoll,
To have a better view.

They knew what was going to happen-
It was just a matter of time-
When the dew had disappeared,
And the morning sun had reached it’s prime



They dug a hole here, and dug over there-
The morning sun was getting hot-
and everywhere they looked –
Was for naught.

Now, it isn't very clear
as who said what, to who-
But it must have been insult'n-
to start that ballyhoo.

There was push'n and shove'n
and calling names galore!
Yell'n and cuss'n
using words you ain't heard before!

And that was just the men-folk-
the women got in it too-
screaming heard, from north to south-
Those words should never come from a ladies mouth.

Fists being swung, shovels slung!
dust was kicked up in a ball-
nothing could be more entertaining-
than watching a family free-for-all!

Then suddenly, it came to a stop !
as quick as it began-
They gathered up all their gear-
and departed Nelson's land.

This is where the story ends-
all I know is what I'm told,
From my daddy, for he'd been sitting,
atop that little knoll.



Epilogue
(This is how I would like to have it end)

Somewhere in the "high above"-
at a table, two people sat-
One, wearing suit and tie-
and Nelson, with his beard and hat.

"Nelson, a lot of folks have you to thank,
for bringing that strongbox to the bank-
you saved a lot of folks their homes and farms."

Nelson, from his chair, arose-
standing *****, and proud-
Stroked his beard, then tweaked his nose,
smiled, and faded into the clouds.

(thanks folks for your patience)

Copyright September 16-2013 Richard Riddle






True story- sort of. Originally written in three parts.The holdup actually did occur, and witnessed by William Nelson Riddle.  Years later, believing he had hidden the strongbox elsewhere, relatives converged on the property to conduct a "massive" search. A story on this saga appeared in the San Diego Union newspaper on May 7, 1939. William Nelson Riddle is my great-grandfather and resided in Crowley, Johnson County, Tx.

Am I leaving to start a new journey?
Or failing to satisfy my current yearning?

We stay up late and sleep too little. Devising our schemes.
Though no dreams, can be ignored. Even when being fickle, and rarely forward.
We pretend to contemplate, while we belittle
Our aspirations.

The lost generation, in the age of information.
An oxymoron, searching for the said promise of fortune.

It was all lies.
They squeal and creek as a damaged door hinge.
The door never opens, it can never be closed.
It remains a hole in a tremendous stone.
It's a pathway to our heart's catacombs.

The road less traveled?
Well it's only for the successful.
Which is yours to measure.

So then why is it all so stressful?
So high frequency?
Is there something in me that I can't see?
Something that I strive for, but possibly can't be?

Circular logic prevails as I slowly,
Inhale,
Exhale,
Possibly even,
Account in further detail.

Every kingdom needs a king.
Every dream must have a gleam.
A shine, an allure, a variable that will one day be your cure.
An idea that will free your soul.
An accomplishment which will make you whole.

But why am I telling you, what you already hold.
It rests inside of you, like a fire, steady to mold
The rest of your world, and influence your goals.

Dreams keep us grounded, they are what we desire.
All the while making us rise higher.

It's frightening, the possibility of missing one's mark.
But how will we know what we can achieve, if we never even


Start.

A doer--yes, that's what you are.
A challenge is always good for you.
But people around you learn very quickly
That you resent being told what to do.

Through you are a hard worker,
Too many details can be a shackle.
But you are eager to initiate
Projects that others don't want to tackle.

You are assertive and impulsive.
New adventures always thrill you.
Showing others that you are a leader
Motivates and helps fulfill you.

Being a lively participant
In the everyday bustle of life excites you.
Being able to finish what
You start always thrills and delights you.

Physical accomplishments
Show that your energy is abundant.
To say that you are always in motion
Would, of course, be redundant.

In fact, to everything that happens,
You have a physical reaction.
To anything that's enterprising,
You have a natural attraction.

You have a lot of inner strength;
You are open and direct.
But a disregard for others
Occurs if energy goes unchecked.

Your independent nature is fine,
Since inwardly you are so strong.
But you can also be self-centered.
To say that wouldn't be wrong.

Generous in many ways
With time and energy, you know
That keeping high ideals in mind
Is the surest way to go.

You march headstrong into combat--
Verbal or physical. Forward you trudge.
Your anger never lasts for long,
And seldom do you hold a grudge.

But you can be impatient, pushy,
And sometimes a little overzealous.
But because of your honesty,
If something is wrong, you will tell us.

Watch that your self-confidence
Doesn't end up being excessive.
Learn the difference between being
Confidently and rudely aggressive.

Ready to try anything once,
You always maintain a frantic pace.
But disappointment of stifled efforts
Shows up clearly on your face.

You're always ready to fight injustice.
There are few doubts--if any--
Whether you can accomplish your tasks.
Just try NOT to take on too many.

- by Bob B (3-23-17)

Below the hanging tree I wept
Remembering the past.
There was a secret I still kept
Or – it kept me aghast.
A secret so ingrained in me,
An ache, a pain so deep,
A nightmare all day long for years
I could not fall asleep.

Beside the hanging tree I crept
My world – a shrunken hiss…
That fateful night I found the cure
Was in the air I kissed.

Beneath the hanging tree I dreamt
Of stranger things to come.
But all my dreams were swiftly swept
With shafts of morning sun.

Behind the hanging tree I stepped
And took the leap of faith.
And now I know you are to come
To this most sacred place.

The memory of ones we lost
Will never fade away
And neither will our love for them –
Not for a single day.

We might seem peaceful, fair enough,
But we have shown our teeth.
When freedom cried and duty called
We chose to clench our fists.

With every step along the way,
With every drop of blood
We learnt there was a price to pay.
We hardened our hearts.

With every cut and every bruise
And every shot we took
Our numbers grew, so long the queues
That everywhere you looked
You’d see the mothers and the sons,
The daughters and the dads,
Their fiery eyes, their daring hearts,
Their disregard for death.

With every blast and every hit
And every shrapnel piece,
The hopes went high, the dreams grew big –
Our dreams of lasting peace.

But first there was a war to win,
An ego to submit,
Old gods to cast aside for good
And fears to defeat.

A score of scores to be paid off,
A destiny to meet,
Old shackles to be shaken off,
A brave new world to greet.

And long and hard the battle went,
The toll is still unknown…
But to this day we reap the fruit
Of seeds of love we’ve sown.
…
And now, around the hanging tree
We join our hands
As we recall what made us free,
What brought peace to our lands.

I smile as I linger on –
A minute, maybe five
As I recall the war we fought,
The sacrifice, the lives.

I weep no more, so wild and free,
And all I ask of thee:
Are you, are you
Coming to the tree?

Can you stop a heart on fire?
Well mines been burning for yours.
If I take all the hands off every clock
Would time stand still in us?

Now that I've lost my voice
You are the new song that I sing
You are in everything,
My greatest joy.

Let us float along together
Disregard all our deepest fears
I'd waste away each moment
Wasting time with you.

When the sun shines it shines
When it rains it pours
You hear every word i can't speak
I'm still hanging on all of yours.

I dream a new dream.
And you are my sweetest love,
You are the feeling of rain
Dancing, racing, winding on my skin.

You're in everything.

His blood ran down the fogged mirror.
Even after the final breath had escaped,
life hung around, wounded but out there,
counting how many heartbeats it takes to forgive.
Hair stuck to faces. His, hers.
Unsaying the words was of no use now.
Vows to save lives they had spoken,
but only one of them had kept that word.
She had known he’d be the one to follow through,
moved as he was by the pain of another,
strong as he was to disregard his own.
His parts would be carved out, divided,
to give another sight in eyes, air in lungs, blood in veins.
He must not have considered
he’d give her heart up for donation too.
That by saving all these strangers,
he’d **** the very person
whose vow was only ever meant
to just keep him alive.
He’d live on in others, mothers, fathers,
who’d pass on the breath he’d so selflessly shared.
She took her hands from the glass,
wiped his blood from her skin,
looked up in the mirror and ****** that final breath of his in.
His organs might be taken to give another hope.
But the air from his lungs was hers to breathe,
his life to live on in her.
Her heart might never again be beating,
and her life might be spent walking among dead.
But at least she’d find him there,
where he’d prepared the way.

I am not a-
I am not a-
I am a red mess of what human kind doesn't need to see
the human heart doing a double beat
fingers too sweaty to snap
eyes that twitch in a foggy mist
I can not be quiet in my head
and so I talk to myself
I cannot be regarded as beautiful
unless you disregard the film of error
plastered over my worn-out soul

Sometimes it's hard to disregard
My feelings and emotions.
My head fills up with thoughts
And it feels like I'm drowning
In a sea of nothingness but
At the same time
I'm experiencing everything all at once.

I start to feel the sadness
creeping in my head,
Not far behind, you will find
anger and dread. Along comes
Doubt, unyielding and stout,
Then happiness comes out to play,
No one knows what they're doing,
I feel like spewing just to get the feelings out.

no longer a true human being, not really
a tangled web of hurt and anger and
confusion and physical pain and
depression and fear
lost, useless, paralyzed
doped like a drunken dog
doped with careless disregard
a bundle of nerves held together with
tissue paper, tearing slowly
the pressure increases steadily daily
it squishes my brain and
squashes my heart, already close to broken
slipping hands scrape and beg for a tether
they used to be strong, steady
now they are willowy, cracked
barely there
there is no back-up; there is no safety net
just me, tearing at the seams
ready to implode
a dying star inhaling
its last breath
ready to disappear

nothing left
just a small, glowing ball of matter
the remnants of my soul

oh my darling!
you make my head spin ever so wildly
drown me in wine
yell that you love me!
as i trace a master piece on your back with my fragile fingers

and they'll call us both mad
the lovers that danced until their feet crumbled
( though you claim you cannot dance )
as we will disregard them all, humanity, and however cliche our midnight rambles may become

15 Days & Counting

To pass the time
that I have to wait
I read street signs
and count the miles
between the states.

I hope when you arrive
I'm enough for you
I hope you still feel alive
I know that I can make
these hopes come true.

So now it's only fifteen days
which is still a lot and it's still
about two months late
but I can handle the hesitation
because I have the power and will.

When you come to me for the first
time on June 26th, I promise
to kiss you until my lips hurt
and I promise that everything I said
in this poem is completely honest.

I love you with all my heart
Angelface, you've made it all worth it
I hate the times apart
we had to spend, but that time
wasn't enough to make me quit.

Here we are, four months down the line
after the first official moment we met
(disregard the first not-so-happy time)
I was happy that day, it was the best
but, with you home, the best hasn't came yet.

-qtsp- 6/11

You've taken from me
my one true prize
without a care or dare

without a trace
without a face
as if a Convexian stare

my lover, here forever
my blessing in disguise
You have stabbed me in the back
taken me by surprise

Your conscience has no tack
your brain is full of lies
Then go ahead
you brave, true knight
and take what has been mine

Make it up
and make it right
and disregard all time

To me this means
everything
to you this is benign

If it were me
I'd make amends
I'd **** you, through and through
But its not me
and you can't see
is it the Devil? or is it You?

She steps outside
Outside the jail cell she calls home
She breathes in the cold air
Turning her insides colder
Flakes of white are inhaled
While she exhales fire
And her fire spells out words of hate
Such harsh words..
In this world, winter is year round
As she drowns in the fluffy white sorrow that freezes her brain
Sends her flying through a sky of lucid dreams
But these dreams are real;
But to her they are all nightmares
And she runs to the snow again
*Like a child who needs her mother's side.

Poems about Roses, Lilacs, Violets, Orchids and other Flowers



Lady’s Favor
by Michael R. Burch

May
spring
fling
her riotous petals
devil-
may-care
into the air,
ignoring the lethal
nettles
and may
May
cry gleeful-
ly Hooray!
as the abundance
settles,
till a sudden June
swoon
leave us out of tune,
torn,
when the last rose is left
inconsolably bereft,
rudely shorn
of every device but her thorn.

Published by The Lyric, Poem Today, Deviant Art and Suravejiliz (Tokelau)



The Harvest of Roses
by Michael R. Burch

I have not come for the harvest of roses―
the poets' mad visions,
their railing at rhyme...
for I have discerned what their writing discloses:
weak words wanting meaning,
beat torsioning time.

Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer―
images weak,
too forced not to fail;
gathered by poets who worship their luster,
they shimmer, impendent,
resplendently pale.

Originally published by The Raintown Review



Let Me Give Her Diamonds
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Let me give her diamonds
for my heart's
sharp edges.

Let me give her roses
for my soul's
thorn.

Let me give her solace
for my words
of treason.

Let the flowering of love
outlast a winter
season.

Let me give her books
for all my lack
of reason.

Let me give her candles
for my lack
of fire.

Let me kindle incense,
for our hearts
require

the breath-fanned
flaming perfume
of desire.



Deliver Us ...
by Michael R. Burch

for my mother, Christine Ena Burch

The night is dark and scary—
under your bed, or upon it.

That blazing light might be a star ...
or maybe the Final Comet.

But two things are sure: your mother’s love
and your puppy’s kisses, doggonit!




Our English Rose
by Michael R. Burch

for my mother Christine Ena Burch

The rose is―
the ornament of the earth,
the glory of nature,
the archetype of the flowers,
the blush of the meadows,
a lightning flash of beauty.

NOTE: This is my translation/interpretation of a Sappho epigram.



Fairest Diana
by Michael R. Burch

Fairest Diana, princess of dreams,
born to be loved and yet distant and lone,
why did you linger―so solemn, so lovely―
an orchid ablaze in a crevice of stone?

Was not your heart meant for tenderest passions?
Surely your lips―for wild kisses, not vows!
Why then did you languish, though lustrous, becoming
a pearl of enchantment cast before sows?

Fairest Diana, as fragile as lilac,
as willful as rainfall, as true as the rose;
how did a stanza of silver-bright verse
come to be bound in a book of dull prose?



Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar 1460-1525
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear―
except only that you are merciless.

Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently―
yet everywhere, no odor but rue.

I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose of pallid and gentle cast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that, if I could, I would compose her roots again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.



The Toast
by Michael R. Burch

For longings warmed by tepid suns
(brief lusts that animated clay),
for passions wilted at the bud
and skies grown desolate and gray,
for stars that fell from tinseled heights
and mountains bleak and scarred and lone,
for seas reflecting distant suns
and weeds that thrive where seeds were sown,
for waltzes ending in a hush,
for rhymes that fade as pages close,
for flames' exhausted, drifting ash,
and petals falling from the rose,...
I raise my cup before I drink,
saluting ghosts of loves long dead,
and silently propose a toast―
to joys set free, and those I fled.



Roses for a Lover, Idealized
by Michael R. Burch

When you have become to me
as roses bloom, in memory,
exquisite, each sharp thorn forgot,
will I recall―yours made me bleed?

When winter makes me think of you,
whorls petrified in frozen dew,
bright promises blithe spring forgot,
will I recall your words―barbed, cruel?

I don't remember the exact age at which I wrote this poem, but it was around the time I realized that "love is not a bed of roses." I wrote it after breaking up with my first live-in girlfriend, in my early twenties. We did get back together, before a longer, final separation. The poem has been published by The Lyric, Trinacria, Better Than Starbucks, The Chained Muse and Glass Facets of Poetry. It has also been translated into Italian by Comasia Aquaro and published by La luce che non muore.



Escape!!
by Michael R. Burch

You are too beautiful,
too innocent,
too inherently lovely
to merely reflect the sun’s splendor...

too full of irresistible candor
to remain silent,
too delicately fawnlike
for a world so violent...

Come, my beautiful Bambi
and I will protect you...
but of course you have already been lured away
by the dew-laden roses...



Winter
by Michael R. Burch

The rose of love's bright promise
lies torn by her own thorn;
her scent was sweet
but at her feet
the pallid aphids mourn.

The lilac of devotion
has felt the winter ****
and shed her dress;
companionless,
she shivers―****, forlorn.

Published by Songs of Innocence, The Aurorean, Contemporary Rhyme and The HyperTexts



Violets
by Michael R. Burch

Once, only once,
when the wind flicked your skirt
to an indiscreet height

and you laughed,
abruptly demure,
outblushing shocked violets:

suddenly,
I knew:
everything had changed

and as you braided your hair
into long bluish plaits
the shadows empurpled,

the dragonflies’
last darting feints
dissolving mid-air,

we watched the sun’s long glide
into evening,
knowing and unknowing.

O, how the illusions of love
await us in the commonplace
and rare

then haunt our small remainder of hours.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly



Sunset
by Michael R. Burch

This poem is dedicated to my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt, who died April 4, 1998.

Between the prophecies of morning
and twilight’s revelations of wonder,
the sky is ripped asunder.

The moon lurks in the clouds,
waiting, as if to plunder
the dusk of its lilac iridescence,

and in the bright-tentacled sunset
we imagine a presence
full of the fury of lost innocence.

What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame,
brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim,
we recognize at once, but cannot name.



What The Roses Don’t Say
by Michael R. Burch

Oblivious to love, the roses bloom
and never touch . . . They gather calm and still
to watch the busy insects swarm their leaves . . .

They sway, bemused . . . till rain falls with a chill
stark premonition: ice! . . . and then they twitch
in shock at every outrage . . . Soon they’ll blush

a paler scarlet, humbled in their beds,
for they’ll be naked; worse, their leaves will droop,
their petals quickly wither . . . Spindly thorns

are poor defense against the winter’s onslaught . . .
No, they are roses.  Men should be afraid.



The Monarch’s Rose or The Hedgerow Rose
by Michael R. Burch

I lead you here to pluck this florid rose
still tethered to its post, a dreary mass
propped up to stiff attention, winsome-thorned
(what hand was ever daunted less to touch
such flame, in blatant disregard of all
but atavistic beauty)? Does this rose
not symbolize our love? But as I place
its emblem to your breast, how can this poem,
long centuries deflowered, not debase
all art, if merely genuine, but not
“original”? Love, how can reused words
though frailer than all petals, bent by air
to lovelier contortions, still persist,
defying even gravity? For here
beat Monarch’s wings: they rise on emptiness!



The Donald Trumps the White House Roses
by Michael R. Burch

Roses are red,
Daffodils are yellow,
But not half as daffy
As that taffy-colored fellow.



Isolde's Song
by Michael R. Burch

According to legend, Isolde and Tristram/Tristan were lovers who died, were buried close to each other, then reunited in the form of plants growing out of their graves. A rose emerged from Isolde's grave, a vine from Tristram's, then the two became one. Tristram was the Celtic Orpheus, a minstrel whose songs set women and even nature a-flutter.

Through our long years of dreaming to be one
we grew toward an enigmatic light
that gently warmed our tendrils. Was it sun?
We had no eyes to tell; we loved despite
the lack of all sensation―all but one:
we felt the night's deep chill, the air so bright
at dawn we quivered limply, overcome.
To touch was all we knew, and how to bask.
We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt
spring's urgency, midsummer's heat, fall's lash,
wild winter's ice and thaw and fervent melt.
We felt returning light and could not ask
its meaning, or if something was withheld
more glorious. To touch seemed life's great task.
At last the petal of me learned: unfold
and you were there, surrounding me. We touched.
The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched,
and learned to cling and, finally, to hold.

Originally published by The Raintown Review and nominated for the Pushcart Prize; since published by Ancient Heart Magazine (Australia), The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Boston Poetry Magazine, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Strange Road, On the Road with Judy, Complete Classics, FreeXpression (Australia), Better Than Starbucks, Fullosia Press, Glass Facets of Poetry, Sonnetto Poesia (Canada), The New Formalist and Trinacria



Will There Be Starlight
by Michael R. Burch

Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
damask
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?

And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?

Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
seashells
and mussels
and albatross feathers?

And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?

Published by Grassroots Poetry, Poetry Webring, TALESetc, The Word (UK), Writ in Water, Jenion, Inspirational Stories, Famous Poets and Poems



She Gathered Lilacs
by Michael R. Burch

She gathered lilacs
and arrayed them in her hair;
tonight, she taught the wind to be free.

She kept her secrets
in a silver locket;
her companions were starlight and mystery.

She danced all night
to the beat of her heart;
with her tears she imbued the sea.

She hid her despair
in a crystal jar,
and never revealed it to me.

She kept her distance
as though it were armor;
gauntlet thorns guard her heart like the rose.

Love!―awaken, awaken
to see what you've taken
is still less than the due my heart owes!

Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Shabestaneh (Iran), Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry, The Chained Muse, Inspirational Stories and Captivating Poetry (Anthology)



Auschwitz Rose
by Michael R. Burch

There is a Rose at Auschwitz, in the briar,
a rose like Sharon's, lovely as her name.
The world forgot her, and is not the same.
I still love her and extend this sacred fire
to keep her memory exalted flame
unmolested by the thistles and the nettles.

On Auschwitz now the reddening sunset settles!
They sleep alike―diminutive and tall,
the innocent, the "surgeons." Sleeping, all.

Red oxides of her blood, bright crimson petals,
if accidents of coloration, gall
my heart no less. Amid thick weeds and muck
there lies a rose man's crackling lightning struck:
the only Rose I ever longed to pluck.
Soon I'll bed there and bid the world "Good Luck."



Chloe
by Michael R. Burch

There were skies onyx at night... moons by day...
lakes pale as her eyes... breathless winds
******* tall elms;... she would say
that we loved, but I figured we’d sinned.

Soon impatiens too fiery to stay
sagged; the crocus bells drooped, golden-limned;
things of brightness, rinsed out, ran to gray...
all the light of that world softly dimmed.

Where our feet were inclined, we would stray;
there were paths where dead weeds stood untrimmed,
distant mountains that loomed in our way,
thunder booming down valleys dark-hymned.

What I found, I found lost in her face
while yielding all my virtue to her grace.



Mending
by Michael R. Burch

I am besieged with kindnesses;
sometimes I laugh,
delighted for a moment,
then resume
the more seemly occupation of my craft.

I do not taste the candies;
the perfume
of roses is uplifted
in a draft
that vanishes into the ceiling’s fans

that spin like old propellers
till the room
is full of ghostly bits of yarn...

My task
is not to knit,
but not to end too soon.



First and Last
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

You are the last arcane rose
of my aching,
my longing,
or the first yellowed leaves―
vagrant spirals of gold
forming huddled bright sheaves;
you are passion forsaking
dark skies, as though sunsets no winds might enclose.

And still in my arms
you are gentle and fragrant―
demesne of my vigor,
spent rigor,
lost power,
fallen musculature of youth,
leaves clinging and hanging,
nameless joys of my youth to this last lingering hour.



Because She Craved the Very Best
by Michael R. Burch

Because she craved the very best,
he took her East, he took her West;
he took her where there were no wars
and brought her bright bouquets of stars,
the blush and fragrances of roses,
the hush an evening sky imposes,
moonbeams pale and garlands rare,
and golden combs to match her hair,
a nightingale to sing all night,
white wings, to let her soul take flight...

She stabbed him with a poisoned sting
and as he lay there dying,
she screamed, "I wanted everything!"
and started crying.



Unfoldings, for Vicki
by Michael R. Burch

Time unfolds...
Your lips were roses.
... petals open, shyly clustering...
I had dreams
of other seasons.
... ten thousand colors quiver, blossoming.

Night and day...
Dreams burned within me.
... flowers part themselves, and then they close...
You were lovely;
I was lonely.
... a ****** yields herself, but no one knows.

Now time goes on...
I have not seen you.
... within ringed whorls, secrets are exchanged...
A fire rages;
no one sees it.
... a blossom spreads its flutes to catch the rain.

Seasons flow...
A dream is dying.
... within parched clusters, life is taking form...
You were honest;
I was angry.
... petals fling themselves before the storm.

Time is slowing...
I am older.
... blossoms wither, closing one last time...
I'd love to see you
and to touch you.
... a flower crumbles, crinkling―worn and dry.

Time contracts...
I cannot touch you.
... a solitary flower cries for warmth...
Life goes on as
dreams lose meaning.
... the seeds are scattered, lost within a storm.



What Works
by Michael R. Burch

for David Gosselin

What works―
hewn stone;
the blush the iris shows the sun;
the lilac’s pale-remembered bloom.

The frenzied fly: mad-lively, gay,
as seconds tick his time away,
his sentence―one brief day in May,
a period. And then decay.

A frenzied rhyme’s mad tip-toed time,
a ballad’s languid as the sea,
seek, striving―immortality.

When gloss peels off, what works will shine.
When polish fades, what works will gleam.
When intellectual prattle pales,
the dying buzzing in the hive
of tedious incessant bees,
what works will soar and wheel and dive
and milk all honey, leap and thrive,
and teach the pallid poem to seethe.



Ah! Sunflower
by Michael R. Burch

after William Blake

O little yellow flower
like a star...
how beautiful,
how wonderful
we are!



If You Come to San Miguel
by Michael R. Burch

If you come to San Miguel
before the orchids fall,
we might stroll through lengthening shadows
those deserted streets
where love first bloomed...

You might buy the same cheap musk
from that mud-spattered stall
where with furtive eyes the vendor
watched his fragrant wares
perfume your *******...

Where lean men mend tattered nets,
disgruntled sea gulls chide;
we might find that cafetucho
where through grimy panes
sunset implodes...

Where tall cranes spin canvassed loads,
the strange anhingas glide.
Green brine laps splintered moorings,
rusted iron chains grind,
weighed and anchored in the past,

held fast by luminescent tides...
Should you come to San Miguel?
Let love decide.

Published by Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times and Muddy River Poetry Review



Redolence
by Michael R. Burch

Now darkness ponds upon the violet hills;
cicadas sing; the tall elms gently sway;
and night bends near, a deepening shade of gray;
the bass concerto of a bullfrog fills
what silence there once was; globed searchlights play.

Green hanging ferns adorn dark window sills,
all drooping fronds, awaiting morning’s flares;
mosquitoes whine; the lissome moth again
flits like a veiled oud-dancer, and endures
the fumblings of night’s enervate gray rain.

And now the pact of night is made complete;
the air is fresh and cool, washed of the grime
of the city’s ashen breath; and, for a time,
the fragrance of her clings, obscure and sweet.

Published by The Eclectic Muse and The Best of the Eclectic Muse 1989-2003



She Was Very Strange, and Beautiful
by Michael R. Burch

She was very strange, and beautiful,
like a violet mist enshrouding hills
before night falls
when the hoot owl calls
and the cricket trills
and the envapored moon hangs low and full.

She was very strange, in a pleasant way,
as the hummingbird
flies madly still,
so I drank my fill
of her every word.
What she knew of love, she demurred to say.

She was meant to leave, as the wind must blow,
as the sun must set,
as the rain must fall.
Though she gave her all,
I had nothing left...
yet I smiled, bereft, in her receding glow.

Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea



A Vain Word
by Michael R. Burch

Oleanders at dawn preen extravagant whorls
as I read in leaves’ Sanskrit brief moments remaining
till sunset implodes, till the moon strands grey pearls
under moss-stubbled oaks, full of whispers, complaining
to the darkening autumn, how swiftly life goes―
as I fled before love... Now, through leaves trodden black,
shivering, I wander as winter’s first throes
of cool listless snow drench my cheeks, back and neck.

I discerned in one season all eternities of grief,
the specter of death sprawled out under the rose,
the last consequence of faith in the flight of one leaf,
the incontinence of age, as life’s bright torrent slows.

O, where are you now?―I was timid, absurd.
I would find comfort again in a vain word.

Published by Chrysanthemum and Tucumcari Literary Review



The Gardener’s Roses
by Michael R. Burch

Mary Magdalene, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, “Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.”

I too have come to the cave;
within: strange, half-glimpsed forms
and ghostly paradigms of things.
Here, nothing warms

this lightening moment of the dawn,
pale tendrils spreading east.
And I, of all who followed Him,
by far the least...

The women take no note of me;
I do not recognize
the men in white, the gardener,
these unfamiliar skies...

Faint scent of roses, then―a touch!
I turn, and I see: You.
"My Lord, why do You tarry here:
Another waits, Whose love is true?"

"Although My Father waits, and bliss;
though angels call―ecstatic crew!―
I gathered roses for a Friend.
I waited here, for You."



Crescendo Against Heaven
by Michael R. Burch

As curiously formal as the rose,
the imperious Word grows
until it sheds red-gilded leaves:
then heaven grieves
love’s tiny pool of crimson recrimination
against God, its contention
of the price of salvation.

These industrious trees,
endlessly losing and re-losing their leaves,
finally unleashing themselves from earth, lashing
themselves to bits, washing
themselves free
of all but the final ignominy
of death, become
at last: fast planks of our coffins, dumb.

Together now, rude coffins, crosses,
death-cursed but bright vermilion roses,
bodies, stumps, tears, words: conspire
together with a nearby spire
to raise their Accusation Dire...
to scream, complain, to point out these
and other Dark Anomalies.

God always silent, ever afar,
distant as Bethlehem’s retrograde star,
we point out now, in resignation:
You asked too much of man’s beleaguered nation,
gave too much strength to his Enemy,
as though to prove Your Self greater than He,
at our expense, and so men die
(whose accusations vex the sky)
yet hope, somehow, that You are good...
just, O greatest of Poets!, misunderstood.



Nightfall
by Michael R. Burch

for Kevin Nicholas Roberts

Only the long dolor of dusk delights me now,
as I await death.
The rain has ruined the unborn corn,
and the wasting breath
of autumn has cruelly, savagely shorn
each ear of its radiant health.

As the golden sun dims, so the dying land seems to relinquish its vanishing wealth.

Only a few erratic, trembling stalks still continue to stand,
half upright,
and even these the winds have continually robbed of their once-plentiful,
golden birthright.

I think of you and I sigh, forlorn, on edge
with the rapidly encroaching night.
Ten thousand stillborn lilies lie limp, mixed with roses, unable to ignite.

Whatever became of the magical kernel, golden within
at the winter solstice?
What of its promised kingdom, Amen!, meant to rise again
from this balmless poultice,
this strange bottomland where one Scarecrow commands
dark legions of ravens and mice?

And what of the Giant whose bellows demand our negligible lives, his black vice?

I find one bright grain here aglitter with rain, full of promise and purpose
and drive.
Through lightning and hail and nightfalls and pale, cold sunless moons
it will strive
to rise up from its “place” on a network of lace, to the glory
of being alive.

Why does it bother, I wonder, my brother? O, am I unwise to believe?

But Jack had his beanstalk
and you had your poems
and the sun seems intent to ascend
and so I also must climb
to the end of my time,
however the story
may unwind
and
end.



Dark Twin
by Michael R. Burch

You come to me
out of the sun—
my dark twin, unreal...

And you are always near
although I cannot touch you;
although I trample you, you cannot feel...

And we cannot be parted,
nor can we ever meet
except at the feet.


Keywords/Tags: flowers, roses, lilacs, violets, orchids, chrysanthemums, sunflowers, garden, petals, thorn, beauty, roots, mrbrose


Published as the collection “Poems about Roses, Lilacs, Violets, Orchids, Sunflowers and Other Flowers”

Disregard your playing cards,
leave them in the burning fields;
they were fixed from the make,
anyway.

Tear away at your Poetry,
and bury the remains beneath
your weeping willow tree
where the black orchids grow.

Turn back into the fog
to the only home you know;
as opaque as your prefer:
blindness lacking cost.

Abandon the appropriate apparatus;
never to be fit for this dead sea;
it’s all disproportioned,
anyway.

we're just dirt underneath the universe's fingernails, baby
small and so ******* insignificant,
our beginnings carved out of ice and stone;
our forefathers trapped roaming the sky above and beyond us.

i've been told that we on earth are the measure of the universe.
what a waste; egos larger than the solar system,
we are nothing but filth and plague.

god bless and disregard the truth.

I have
A train ticket
To the sea.

I have no relatives left to visit,
No business to justify my stay,
Nothing except
A sense of abandonment in me.

I have
Some loose change
And a candy wrapper
In my pocket.

I have no place to stay,
No place for dining;
The seaport has nothing besides
An old lighthouse,
Rusted and forgotten.

I hold its keys in my hand
And unlock the creaking door,
Climb the spiral staircase to the top
In a sort of restless agony.

We are one and the same,
Too close to the crashing waves of reality
Yet still with the silence of disregard,
Gathering dust and cobwebs
And echoes of human warmth.

We both sit,
Quietly looking out into the frothy churning of a violent ocean,
Salt spray crusting on my fingernails,
Its railings squeaking under the turbulence of the grey air.

I feel less alone
In the presence of loneliness;
We are one and the same, like I said.

So we sit
And we wait
For the tide to come in
And my love to come home.

Every single time we go to your car to light up a cap or a bowl
that never leaves us with nothing, we can feel something, even if it’s just the stinging in our fingertips as we draw ships and cats
on the windows, convinced we could make masterpieces
if we really wanted to. When we finally gather enough ambition to move inside, I sit on a couch somewhere and think about how my life
has led to a moment like this and I question every insecurity, every decision, and every conviction, but I just can’t get over how nice
it would be to taste cake or cream cheese bagels right now
and eventually we end up watching the same shows with the same people who make the same mistakes every single episode and it really does remind me of that video you showed
me with the disturbing sitcom theme song that never ended,
and that’s what this night is all about.

Disregard my silent replies, I’m listening,
I just keep staring in the mirror and wondering if lacquered eyes
and lazy expressions are what you think looks good
on me because whenever you look at me, I try to focus on your face before you kiss over my ribs and I take my socks off
because there’s safety in socks and maybe that’s why we feel
such a devastation when they can’t be found. I’ve lost mine in your
room and I think maybe that stands for something, but here’s the thing:
I just don’t understand why everything you do makes me so nervous.

It’s silly for me to trade
My worth for something made
Up just for a keepsake…

A keepsake paper trade route I adjourned
To pacify a need I had begun to forlorn.
Fashioned by the angst of my discretion.

Lo and behold! Here I stand my heart I made open
Know this, I never put up nor faltered a thought
Then again true colors sprung up revealed a dismay.

What I had longed for, I quivered…
Apparent of what I foreclosed…
For I will not resolve to disclose any matter.

Should I have to, I am welcome.
I am a lion, that’s what I am.
Yes, I may have faltered but never will I am.

I can only take the blame for the actions I had begun
And the hurt, I take it, from which had sprung.
But never will I lift a finger, once I know I am betrayed.

For I know the worth of a friend,
I was blinded by my self-dismay.
Settle your thoughts, my dear, for such resolution;

For I have placed God to be my absolution.
Distance plays disregard to known other virtue.
See me as I am and you’ll see me I’m true.

instead of being intertwined we’re the farthest we’ve ever been
i chose to look within
you always chose the life of sin
i stopped trying to be perfect and had to partake
i too wanna eat and have my cake
what was once golden has turned to rust
i understand why they say nothing lasts forever
cause everything is so mother ******* fallible
i had no choice but to pick up the pieces all by my lonesome and gained confidence with each step and each breath
what once felt heavy is now being forgotten
oh how lovely life can be when you forget
thank you for breaking my heart because i would’ve never had the strength to let you go
each event which you performed against me pushed me further and further away
from the love i kept in my heart for you
it seems to have disappeared and i can’t find it these days
i still believe in love
i still feel the warmth and always hope for the best
life is just a test
it’s sifting and then we’re blessed
this will be the last poem i ever write about you
i might’ve misconstrued the motion
i promise to write about a new love from here on out
just disregard this notion

What a tragically human fault,
The wound of our human nature
Doused in a history that’s a burning salt
Tongues drag 'cross the wound to soften the sting
The taste is a foul thing,
savor these poor decisions;
Feel flavour of mistakes, disgrace, dead-dreams and heart-aches. All a waste.
Wastes of wits, dreams, moments, chances, waste of choices,
Voices lost somewhere in evolution, where we drew the conclusion That since we’re superior, all must then be inferior.
Our decision was dominance, not prominence.
We wield wicked weapons of war with pin-point precision.
Laid waste in minutes what it took lifetimes to build,
Disregard the structures, think of the innocence killed.
Blood gets spilled like there's some quota to fill.
And isnt it a lovely day to be a human being?
There's nothing like ****** in the morning,
Or gunfire without warning. Countries still warring
Over a fabric of society long since ripped; torn.
The peace concept is present, but the practice so foreign.
World leaders still ******* their ideals.
None of them know what it feels like to be,
see, or even concern themselves.
They’re empty shells
The beast misstepped during his waltz into the world,
Humans got a kiss from Selfish, then hurled to the curb
Then, alone in rain, decided that's our date.
Making a perfect pair in a world unfair,
That Irate and Anger should copulate with Power and Knowledge
Birthing 7 billion beings none better than the last,
but each boasting birth rights, over shells that tumble from empty chambers.
Isnt it a lovely day to be a human being?

Unfulfilled

There is life among the three.  Two
now brilliantly white.  Winter is hard.
Survival happens, unlike the front-yard bush.
Cold did execute leaves and branches.  Survival
keeps all three away from trucks and men with blades
destine to transport to heaven or hell
where survival is eternal.

One older unwiser, grounded along
the fence, survives with blossoms rare.
Verdant, fated to disregard, hides
among the choice beauties.  Summer will be long
alive without show.  Like a middle child amid genious.