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Reece Jan 2015
The promise of life
                                  spread over Sumerian scroll
                                                                                    surprise prose of the soul
like when the stream of water bursts through trickling riverbanks and turns to behemoth gushings of clear and conscious life paralleled only by man-made train tracks through these green pastures and serene hereafters
Grace Eccleson Dec 2011
For the message at one-thirty five:
I would like to say thank you.
For the smile that makes me glad to be alive:
Thank you.
For hearing my name being called with your voice
For stupid gushings: 'I'm so glad i'm your choice!'
For not cringing at my unashamed adoration
For asking for nothing and understanding my education
For making me happier than i've ever been.
Rob,
I would like to say Thank you.
L J James Dec 2011
Will you lend me your ear,
Will you hear my mundane and otherwise ignored words?
Gushings of the heart that fall upon deft ears.
She is in all normalcy a girl that otherwise falls as another face
But all the same...
Can i tell you about her?
To me she is above expectations of any women.
I often find myself losing all train of thought when we speak
diving in and out of consciousness while pursuing the thoughts.
Why me? Shes so much more than I am.... What does she see?
As i think to myself she catches my wondering and mistakes it for disinterest.
I do not dare tell her how imperfect I feel next to her yet so complete.
So
An apology, a kiss, a smile...that will have to do for now.
My ramblings of her must surly bore you.
I apologize to you too.
But to be next to someone that makes your breathe leave your lungs,
to have your heart not only beat so quick it might burst but for it to burn with lust for them,
One can not help but want to speak out, create, or express their passion in a beautiful manner.
Lingering self doubts fade as we kiss
Uncomfortable stares dissipate in a tight embrace.
I fell whole, I pray to know she does too.
But i am to much of a coward to ask, fearing the answer.
I pleaded for you to let me tell you about her.
I have told all I can.
Thank you stranger, for your ear, your silence and your patience with such a rambling.
I wrote this about a special girl in my life. I'm to cowardice to say many of these things out loud, but thank you for being the ear to listen to my silence that i hope speaks loud
The gods of the Faith left hand in hand, in some cases they did not recognize their gender or status, rather the divine and ineffable condition of the irredeemable Seventh Heaven, ad libitum of titania as a mental abstraction of pro-Olympic labyrinths, which have not born under the eaves of it. Spring was coming and winter was arrogant of all the rapes and abductions of the flowers that would not germinate, and that would go away because of the promiscuous sunset that was made of the dawn in some flowers, which did germinate on the defenseless edge. The converted Alexander the Great caressed the robe that he was looking at, more than the one the maiden wore, he looked towards his own chimp that did not make him defenseless of his gaze in the ability to transform into a Converted King, almost like a beautiful celestial lion after leave the libidinous gestures of Astarte as a foreign goddess and mother of the Levant, which made him doubt the rain that was refined as gregarious host in celibate women who tried in the outbursts of Alexander the Great, by removing the veil of darkness from Astarte, in cases of lost loves of the transcript Forest of Hylates, or in the awakening of the Apennines, when it was the trophy of a felid winged tetra in the chambers of the rampaging Bayard by Carlo Magno.

The rain bathed millennia that traveled from the boreal of Vóreios to the insane Argive spaces, in the Peloponnese where the first maiden hangs her braids sixteen times to forty times more, before all the brides who wake up in the hours that have not sworn eternal misogyny . The spring served the winter mead with sweet last vintage wine, from the valley of the plain of Sharon, both embraced by the Jamsin, squabbling in the sand that Zefian had hoarded before enchanted by the interval of Delphi. The north and south straddles dried the steely cobblestones of the dusty ground, where the Jamsin reverberates suffering for more than forty-six weeks, becoming light prey in the song of the three fountains of Life, the Castalia and the fountain of Arethusa. A solemn red stain was seen on the little sky that blinded the stalls that held the intramural walls of the wind tunnel, breathing on the Jamsin, turning it into murals of forced dust by channeling it and always levitating in the gushings, which shelled raindrops and sand in the disturbed electrical animations that made him possessed on the spiers, at the mere tone of liquid marble in the intertestamentals that already spoke of Hellenic modernity, but the barbarism of Ruah Qadim, banishing the spire of the east wind, for fifty days. The lights and festivities were seen to illuminate from the dreaded height when lowering the diminished light of the amplified candle, everything resembled in a dwelling where everyone was seated at a long table that had no end, in the center seven chandeliers, seven bread baskets, with a chalice. All gossiping with the Gensemani bees that did everything in their glosses and nectars that they celebrated in the palaces gleaming from the transit of the cheeks of San Juan and his Hexagonal. Raeder clung to the red and blue Gerakis with gold seams that spoke of dinner and oblation.
The Gods

— The End —