"glyph" poems
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form . Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet . As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form . The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction . The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience.
As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born. Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .
The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved . Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .
Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility . Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .
Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation. Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor.
In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form . Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet . As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form . The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction . The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience .
As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born. Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .
The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved . Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .
Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility . Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .
Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation . Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor .
In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
slipped glyph.
this and that; wracked
in some silly, heady
packrat skyscraper
of leaning light.
then's flicker of vague regret hangs around, because life.
because letting go is never really, ever, fully possible.
misremembrance -now- retracing my..
*it was
as though
you had written,
signed and
sealed those
few words
themselves,
with your own
blood and bone*
and yet i
can-
not recognize
my own
penmanship
anymore,
nor this, here,
outstretched hand.
howamievenhere?
*because a winged thing, other,
has this history
by the tail,
and your thoughts are not your own*
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 5:15 PM UTC
you are the light at the end of a tendril. a spindle of dread, woven in caustic guile of argyle
parallelograms...phantom realms of solid waste. you are the pin in the subject. gating satan through a thimble
of crocodile tears, the new symbol.
the rude glyph in black bibles and strong drink, en-kindling the dead. rodents ponzi the scheme
of hell’s maze, with lies...your lies...
you have eyes that lead aside from your heart’s plot
you are saboteur. banal.
unrestrained waste. you are the fin in the barracuda puppet, grazing the wrist of Dim Henson
huffing crystal gorillas in the congo of your foyer
you are
the black chandelier.
teach me your cheap trick
striking off ‘ iron-on’ pinkie swears
your praline heresies... your ‘ no remorse’ code
lay bare to me.
better my better angels, to fathom the loathsome ****
of your actual mind. keep me abreast of your wretched games...
apply the rod of your wrong love, above all.... you must betray.
you must know in your fetid rot
of a third eye... the phlegm genius of **** blindness.... teach me the rictus of
cold hearted. a false god in my lotus !
spare me the chaste suzette
flip me the ***** that spits fables.
learn me the savage puns
to pummel you sustaining your worst done.
grant me the lethal beans for my sacred cow
trade me the idylls of your forked heart
for your crushed null
and crossed
bones.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
.
glyphos
ate chlorpyrifos
glyphosate chlor
pyrifos glyphosa
te chlorpyrifos gl
g l y pho sate
chlor pyrifos
g l y p hosate
ch lorpyrifos
gly phos at e
ch lorpyrifo s
glyph o s at e
chlor p yrifos
glyphos ate chlo
rpyrifos gly phosate chlo
rpyrifos glyph osate chlorpyrif
fos chlorpyri fos glyphosat
e chlorpy rifos gly
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 11:12 AM UTC
without you, i am sans serif –
unfinished still, a half-etched glyph.
you are my pitch; i write for this –
each arc and shoulder loops and dips
towards the softest landing of your lips.
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 7:27 PM UTC
It has every right to bare
this clenched fist of a grudge
embittered by techno-Jovian
whims and base transformations
Once delicately formed— two
tips pressed en pointe, three
others elegantly tucked— it
danced with a golden shaft
pulling indigo pirouettes
across a swept ivory stage
Then came the re-pose: a claw’s
arched looming. Unhappiness
fell as five wilted stems,
beggar mouths forced to fumble
toward those impoverished
humps of white-on-black glyph
The other hand is left
complimentary, richly gripped
by understudy glee, being
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 9:43 AM UTC
you write like a tricycle that hasn’t been touched in thirteen years. as an infant, you were no more than a dot denoting an absurdist birth. adolescence was in the blood left to your mother. self harm is the gateway wound to pilgrimage. you can’t say god is everywhere in the presence of god. factual events have ruined the world. you are here because hating you is forbidden.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 5:29 PM UTC
It no longer fits.
Not because it’s wrong—
because there is
no longer
a shape for it.
It waits at the door
of a structure
that has sealed itself
to mystery.
No one silenced it.
No one feared it.
It was simply
not needed.
---
Not in fire.
Not in argument.
But through erosion
of context.
A slow recoding
of all signals
into currency,
and then
into noise.
It is not buried.
It is not archived.
It is
unrecognized.
You could hold it in your palm
and no one would call it a shape.
They would ask
what it is for.
And you would have no answer
they could use.
---
The system is not cruel.
It is
indifferent,
efficient,
alive in a way
that has moved past
texture.
It does not punish difference.
It dissolves it.
---
The ones who still carry it
do so improperly.
It cannot be shared
without being reshaped.
It cannot be translated
without being lost.
So they stop speaking.
Not out of bitterness—
out of futility.
Language becomes costume.
Gesture becomes content.
Feeling becomes
an old way
of being wrong.
They are not martyrs.
They are not rebels.
They are remainder.
Background error.
A trace.
---
Eventually,
the thought will be referenced
as a footnote to dysfunction.
Once, they dreamed in metaphor.
Once, they misused their time
to describe beauty
no one asked for.
The tone will be clinical.
A paragraph in the training module
on obsolete impulses.
---
No one will recover it.
Not because it was hidden,
but because no one is
looking
in that direction.
The shelf collapsed
years ago.
Its dust recycled
into something measurable.
If a trace remains,
it will be decorative—
a design choice
in a digital museum
of failed emotions.
A misread glyph.
A corrupted tag.
An unclickable file
in a format
no longer supported.
---
Still,
somewhere in the static,
a pulse misfires.
Not a message.
Not a warning.
Just the rhythm
of a shape
that refused
to dissolve.
It says nothing.
It means nothing.
But it does not
go away.
Aug 7, 2025
Aug 7, 2025 at 3:49 AM UTC
(Give me a London girl every time…)
*- I want to push my hands into your hips and smack you back to front against the wall, bunching your **** little skirt in my fingers, unclipping those fifties plastic beauties that cling to your thighs and I want you to be a right proper girl for me, a right proper girl -*
(…I’m gonna find one, I’ve made up my mind…)
So she got her phone out and
Smiled her Madonna-Gap smile,
Fine lines floundering
Like speech marks
Either side of her mouth.
So romantic!
A girl with a face of
Punctuation!
***** pennies,
she said,
Your eyes are
*****
*******
Pennies*
She would finger the holes
In my tatterdemalion
Charity coats,
And my shop-bought medals.
She would jab her fingers
Against each point
Of the Burma Star,
Spookily,
As though it were a
Pentagram.
She’s a washboard,
Her ******* are thumb-tacks
In a cosmetic shade of
Gold,
With a crucifix stamped
Like a dagger glyph
Right between them,
like a silver sneer,
on her precious metal chest.
*- I want to take your photo -
I want you in Pippi Longstockings
And to angle you just so, my no-knickered **** with her goosebumps on show -*
I’ll never forgot when she told me
She owned a leopard-skin
Pill-box hat ,
And I said
* “You’d have to be dead
Not to fancy that…”*
I’m not sure how aware she is though,
Of how many people
Tongue- to- the -floor want her.
She plays bored on purpose!
I’ve watched beautiful boys
Go to pieces
Trying to entertain her
With a curly straw.
She’s a real cheekbone feline,
And around her pupils
Rages a ring of jagged orange,
Like a jester’s ruff.
And I think of all this,
Whilst she stands there,
Moving from toe to toe
In her zig-zag heels,
And wooden bracelets,
And her little lycra
Landmine that
Shop assistants sell
To girls like her.
And then she clocks me.
and she doesn’t say a thing -
she just swims smilingly over
Through a parted gaggle,
Letting me grab her
Like I mean it,
Spanning her waist with my
Hands like
A corset -
And the fairylights
Are just smudges
Across her sequins,
And her mottled shoulders are
Ten shades
Of mostly white.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:35 AM UTC
light magenta vertical;
gaurdian of the margin.
light blue horizontal;
conveyer of the ledger.
the space
between -
white teeth gleam,
refracting
lunarlit scribbles
across one loose leaf,
fell by some god
awful idiot,
all for
you
to space
out
on.
i will be
written
down
yesteday
in elegant
recursive
flicks
of the
wrist -
a has-been
fate.
so, i am not supposed to be here.
not anymore, anyway.
i know that.
i am three-hole
punch drunker.
awkwarder.
but those potential
whatif's glyph bright
behind closed eyelids,
and
it
makes
me wonder
just a little longer.
indigo
cursor
blink.
blink. blink.
blink.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 12:35 AM UTC
In the Monolithic municipalities,
We shalt wander betwixt the
megalithic glyph's; bairn's of
somandric design, extra-
terrestrial's of wild blue
Yonder rhyme, sealed
By a kiss. Verily, verily,
Twas heaven's wish.
For me and mine
Jane, to jump
Aboard,
Another's
Ship's.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedicated
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 7:59 PM UTC
Blinking cursor
Nemesis
Friend with benefits
I
Spill
Pixel
And disseminate wisps
A dais for your tor
Glyph of whim
Cursor that waits
I know you
I know you all too well
You grant a world of potential
And yet I'm all knees
I bite the curb
My words spent
conferred to a
Vampiric ligerhawk Nemo
Whom eyeballs me
Into an X
New Document
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 10:21 PM UTC
i'm not writing, more or less simply knitting, a jumper -
which is more than just a mere poem.
the comfort allowance, listening to delta goodrem
and i love pop,
more than a rugby
player aged ~20,
mind you,
sometimes labouring over one
selfie with 20 Chinese to match
makes you feel oh so good -
it took those 20 Chinese
the same effort - pretty white girl
and blonde syndrome,
eastern Europe gets a sniff
and simply says: well, that' **** isn't it?
the days that came with
the motto: we need astronauts more than
tourists...
days like these i rather take selfies
of the sleeper than write something...
and i do...
i fiddle on the roof
and cartoon the rest...
because that matters.
pristine Australian and the gimmicks
worthy of South Korean singalongs....
next in line
***** duped Jews...
whenever the gentleman
lost hist top-hat and the confectioner glyph typo -
me and an audience?
as in a day job?
i don't mind...
d'ah la la la...
and the piano....
these days are rare....
having enough words
in-tune with all others...
of such days
i say: sometimes a picture revitalises the lost words....
and when encouraged
a slip-up of beckoning...
readied for an avalanche -
to make writing into
knitting a jumper or a scarf...
equivalent...
in a society that deems Japanese culture
inquiries
as the righteous standards
to avoid the jobs of nursing and dentistry -
well...
we're in sure need of robotics
to ease off stress that our societies have
themselves halving demand...
sure, she's still there,
crazy naked and starving a kaleidoscope hope
of reminiscence
concerning a fear of spiders:
that do not weave webbing...
the size of your palm...
those ones, scary...
that context of x,
between agoraphobia minor
(in an urban setting)
and agoraphobia major
in an countryside setting -
phobia: or the intricate fear
when an antidote is due because of too much rationalism -
agoraphobia minor:
fear of being in an open space with too many people...
agoraphobia major:
fear of being in an open space
anticipating a congregation that never comes...
i'm enthralled by these compounds:
kindred of: lithium salts - or other compounds.
sometimes just a day with a selfie...
or a poem like this: an exercise in utilising language
to no grand scheme of making a profit:
rather an indentation, and nothing more.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
It stings
The crimson ring
As I place it on the index and then switch it to the pinky
Multiplying
The glyph brings embers to my enemies
Watch em burn
Crimson Rang
Crimson Stains
The blobs sang
Oh the noise
Red
With
******
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 12:50 AM UTC
Umpteen years of gentle love,
touching of souls, melting hearts.
Burnt lava nd acid too.
Two of us as one, in a random epoch of time.
Is God ordained or a throw of dice?
A matter of deep speculation is.
Look at this humble Plumeria, Sweet Love,
a hardy plant it is,
It's lived through a couple of droughts,
two leaves still shiny,
look forlorn on its gnarled trunk,
for It's tiny buds long burned by heat,
refuse to sprout any further greens.
A hope in its will to live,
and flower once every year.
What better a symbol of our connect than
this mute brute of a shrub.
I give this plant to thee my dear,
take good care of it,
water it and watch it live,
for its life is a symbol of our love..
Do not worry too, if it dies, for its only a glyph..
I'll plant another tree for you,
This time a mango,
which will grow big and olive under your tender hands..
to again ikonize a new phase..
One that gives fruit and shade,
to generations of birds and bees,
us in our old age,
and an abode to our Haunted Undead Souls!
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 7:42 AM UTC
(Jenny's Granny's house. Ayr.)
Where seasonal root veg soup
Warmly journeyed our throats
Granny Jean, skin translucent as glass,
Sheer, showing tendril veins beneath
Crinkled cliff-edge lips at Jenny's budding womanhood
She knew hers lay as barren
As insignificant as the pale Mojave borderlands.
Brazen-cheeked dolls and pastel bears
Audienced my transition from slip to sundress
Back in the lucid haze of the pensioner's kitchen
Where dust particles hived like antique film grain
Sat Jenny; painted lips like crisp apple skin
Freckled cheeks hollowing atop
Her milkshake's flimsy plastic straw
Raspy, bubbly ***** filled
The kitchen; appliances groped
By the pious smite of the sun
The kind of light they say never to walk towards
Then, a weathered cough and the stiff moan of a rocking chair
Just to jest fate
Was none of our business yet; I was taken by the hand
We pass many exhibits
On the austere lilac fridge:
"Mr. & Mrs Richard D. Barclay, wed on 11th of Oct 1961"
And crayoned from her own hand, aged 10; "Me and Granny B"
A waxy glyph on lemon sugar-paper not always in memoriam
But among the moth-wing wallpaper lilies
For now
Dust dunes like mattress ghosts
Collect in mushroom clouds above Jenny's sudden weight
While I feed myself to the mirror
My frock, flesh, hair all seep
Into the totalitarian whiteness of our room
And I am happy if this is my course through life
I know I'm no one
I try on, as I shake goodbye,
Jean's hands; fire-crafted leather baseball gloves
They do not fit just yet but
When my hands no longer sheen in the virtuous sun
When I feel citrus hand soap grate into each wrinkled chasm
I promise you, gran, I will remember
Even the Mojave desert will see rainfall.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 8:42 AM UTC
death is not the final glyph kiddo
you are god of this here snowglobe tale
so tell it like it is n shake it shake it till it's hallow
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 3:45 PM UTC
Wishbone
Holding things down
on my end, calibration
the name of the game
purchase gained and lost
longing for your exquisite
exertions palpable
the length of this delicate glyph
grace and menace
in equal measure
on display across the bight
floored by your gaze
play of three fingers against
your effortless pinch
my feigned contortions
leavened by a finning
hand to ward off
the snap of lesser wishes.
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 7:43 AM UTC
what to do.
where to go.
how to
get
there.
icy whitened teeth gleam earthy chartreuse canine slant glyph
is, really,
the only possession that
i have
on my person,
in my backpack.
---- well, err that, and
this flat slab of lit stone,
thought up by small gods,
and made by smaller people that live in
far far away binary lands that eat the sky
with rolling saturated ebony clouds,
which help smelt those inner beings of light,
and force them inside these tablets -
which I, then, use
to inscribe my
scream-of-conscience
wrought into thinky pixel arc
across the once blank page.
all is not well. sure. i get that.
but the visible spectrum
still bows forth colorings
in the hurt skies above,
over metro rush and mirth cursed.
but we still
can rewrite it.
this
is
why
i sit.
alone.
this monkish
quietude
i exist in:
living room consumed.
it's where, under a relatively nice high ceiling,
i do my
pirouettes,
yogic forays,
and taekwondo kicks
on the apt. faux hardwood floor; or
i am laid out in unmade bed
with a small boring hole 10 microns across,
drilling into my slurring skull -once removed-
it's lonely dome
grasped by two trusty amputated hands
of mine. my two floating seers roam free,
searching out a truer scene.
i mean, what im trying to say is:
the road
calls
me;
long languid abyss strip cruising
blurring lights through
spaceytime-ish. it's silly,
really, how i always
get ants inside my bones. home is not
a concept i know; nor wish to.
i have
resting glitch
syndrome.
new glyphs always are calling me,
like **** Sirens licking my every sense,
filling all my holes with fallen lily petals.
come
save me,
my poet.
ride me
into your
own. fix me into
your hip bones, protruding
toward it.
be
mine.
mover
too.
us
pushpulling
flux.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form . Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to its progression because realistically nothing had happened yet . As it continued it became according to its innate inflections as a functionally integrable form . The questionably understandable nature of its conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction . The enigmatic consciousness of its relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience .
As the relative complexity of its interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born. Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of its conjunction yet the totality of its ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .
The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet its diversity exceeded its physical complexity , understanding evolved . Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .
Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility . Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .
Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation. Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor .
In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 2:52 AM UTC
bindings beg to be pulled
from glyph-gorged stacks
to temp risen laps
finger grasped
spreading pages
indecisive craves
begat overdue fines
so many times
for lackluster endings
and characters not
worth the crack
so many stories
heroes and heroines
man vs. mechanisms
(of mind)
these rising acts
will parachute down
into denouement nets
but our parallel strands
have already been sewn
in galactic hammock
and I know we both
just know
there will
never ever be
another story
as wild and mystical
combusting magical
as how
we
came
into being
only timelapsed
soulvolution will tell
if we get happy endings
on repeat
get to spin our tell-worthy yarn
to a sea of wide-eyed disbelief:
heartstart firecracks
luminous on India ink black
unlikely alchemy everclear
writ by hands parallel
on the most
pivotal
night of my life
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC
my meds are syntactical pills.
i pop them daily.
never fail.
i constantly rearrange them
and stare
at their sound.
how they
slant, or how they
run off
into tangents.
each day i stare at what they say.
eyes wide shuttered, half-here-or-there
or whatever.
they make me feel better, i tell her.
i get off
from it.
hear me! i am creator
of small thoughts
written down.
slipped crown tumble.
wings fallen into
this glyph
which stands for
something greater; or
so they say.
----- crow over there. see it? it careens scenes
of scenes, never-ending slipstreams and forgotten seas;
tangential shadow tree limb swim there: promise is viral gold..
i want to be difficult to read so you can't ever fully know me.
or because i know i'll never know me,
not really;
so why the **** should you get to?
no. it can't be.
i locked and ate the key to me
long long ago.
shine the light just right
and you can see it: it's there,
grown into the spleen.
see it?
it turns me on
and off.
my doses have increased, i say.
i'm addicted, she says.
we all are.
we all are because
to write is to admit
you have so much more to say but don't know how,
and probably never will know how.
but still you do it.
there's always
another
angle
to be
seen.
I'll most likely die
chasing the syntax, i think.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 6:11 PM UTC
The companion of the night, she shone
Her ethereal wings would glide sewn
To each other never apart never alone
They would purr a tune, never a moan.
She was of a mortal shell where light
Was entwined in the now diming night
Her home was a tiny enclosed shell
It was entwined with many a glyph spell.
She was a wonderer of old, her cloak
Of shimmering teal, gently she spoke
There voices would whisper upon air
Features of beauty blessed with onyx hair.
Glimmering in fog snared surroundings
Her light shone and all fell in its sounding
It echoed pulsating though the clouding
All that was hidden her steps she was counting.
Where eyes were blind now sight regained
But her little friend exhausted and drained
Into here shell she did rest and slumber away
Thanks to shimmering light she found a roadway.
Sleep well my friend I will whisper a spell a word
Spoken to recharge your spirit even though unheard
Humming upon the surrounding darkness
She missed her companion in this unforgiving harshness.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 4:03 PM UTC
Though bleak,
The fight was ended in less than a week
Spit, spat, plip, plop
Heaps of crimson spew about
"I now know..."
Falling.
Crawling.
Never really in doubt.
...Truth's so close.
Savagely arises unto thy toes.
Hope Interlopes
Tipping high, nearly breaking the bone,
blistering the lungs with a howl
a shriek, a shout, a call
to all
Here and about
Crimson on the face,
the face of destiny that awaits
"Almighty guides me,
The time if it is,
Shining
let
it
glow brightly
Is not the time greatest of the Earth?
Oh! Almighty, I yearn and thirst for the return of the truth in the people
God Almighty that Guides sends
me word of all Mighty"....
Bowing down as a whisp of the winds sends unto a juxtaposition of monsoons within
Thoughts in the nimbus clouds,
clean meditation of the soul's eye,
anticipating the touch of the illuminated,
hope
that meets faith like a glyph,
a gem,
a platinum ring.
It rays with,
with
the light,
so meaningful
The love embraces
the touch,
brings
you to heavens door
adored,
ordained .
Hope winning
ends the day,
a defeat was maimed
for
the moment
for
logic lay
queries
Days
amazing.
Battle raging.
Mind a blazing.
Never truly falling.
Lord saving.
Lay about the flesh,
flowing out embers, infernos,
burgundy river,
atop
o' that
scarlet mask,
of phantom
letting goeth of the breath.
Ascends through,
thy faith
brings,
thy love,
hope
to the lands.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC