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Dawn of Lighten Feb 2017
Dimension beginning of vile ****** exposed,
And the Emperor has no clothes,
While helplessly strut a mighty walk without a shame.

Course of history repeating itself,
Like the flow of water meeting in the river of streams,
But recycle through the clouds and back to the ground it flows.

Are we so blinded by the glimmer of the mirage of oasis in the desert,
We toast with sands of dune to quench our thirst of our plight,
And all is but a fickling light ducktaped by words of unintelligible muddled murmur?

This is truly the flawed design of our time,
When we no longer promote arts and crafts of philosophies,
And religious cults of zealots condemned the science and Academia by berating it's achievement.

Likes of ancient times of Agora and the height of it's human enlightenment,
There are forces of deconstruction of society of choas ensued by hateful fear mongers,
And systematic inward of national fevor of berserkers leveling progress.

Maybe another dark age is inevitable,
But little seed of hope I feel tangible,
And sometimes event maybe a phoenix.
Religion is all sense of purpose is a illumination of hope in human plights,
But those who seek absolute power by controlling devotees, then it is no longer a religions but a cult of designed by vanity.
Staring into their eyes,
Longing for the other
Sharing their aches, but never saying why.

He whispers, "You are the only one."
And he means true,

She replies, "I love you."
And she is truthful.

When the dawn comes, she is on a bed,
Breathing labored, and in pain.
He holds her hand, in such agony
At not being able to help more.

The fevor spreads,
And life is anew,
While she faded.
He holds the new life, and cries terrible tears.

"You are the only one left..."
He whispers to the child.

But he sees something,
The love that she showed him,
And that child, is the only one important to him
Paul Donnell Oct 2017
If trees could talk theyd tell stories.
Of a moon mad boy that travels between the seams.
A guitar motor.
A love punch horror.
A love **** taker,
The holy rock maker.
Crashing gates
takes the face
from bark.
Stoic as the trees
sonic as the sound
crazy loon lashing
dance around.

Heard a voice
One with the birds
birdy brain feather
emergancy of words

Killer killer
the liqour drinker

the little libra
The sinatra fevor

The apple eater
stream water drinker

the hopefull hopeless
Cautious curious

bring it back

the fat cat

the heart beat speaker
detuned reaper

an desperate dreamer of romamce roads and rigamorits

Carolina fire flies
tenneses weeping walls
arkansas arkane maw

The dandy dandalion
Photosynthesis the good times.

The photo prisim
The self made prison
The wall written upon
the wall dashed upon
friends family lovers understood
break down rebound
Some new coast bound.

Nothing but words,
And one with the birds..
Paul Donnell Oct 2017
I am a messenger,  a soft wing upon a glowing silver night. Within dreams I walk, bare feet upon rocks and moss, crystal citadels rise from subconcious seas, beautiful and titantic, refelctcions of the child, wonder and tall tales.
On star dust pillars i dance with fevor sweeping a psychedelic array of color with every intuitive step.
I drink tempests from teacups, swallow whole storms of tropical tenacity.
I meet with wizards place to place,  gather stories songs and bitter sweet good byes.
I am a messenger of no importance. Impotent against the tides yet powerful when I let go and ride.
Raj Bhandari Jul 2021
Time is not running in my fevor,
It is different all days,new flavor

— The End —