I want all my idols to be false
All my effects the placebo kind
All my monuments temporary
My loves the fleeting type
Cause I’ve got bones of gold
And I bend easy
Impermanently made
Permanently desiring
Permanence fearing
So make all my monuments temporary
All my loves the fleeting type

I recall the August sky
Alight and dripping
With the waxing candles
Of the poet's holy flame

And by this nectar
He scribed his desires
Impermanently
Upon the shore:

"Libera Nos A Malo"

And by his own command
He shed the garments
Bound to his skin
And laid them upon the earth

Blinking and weeping as though birthed
By the force of the ocean
By the love of his Father
By the light of the poet's holy flame

Reveling
In the newness
Of life unbound by the husk
Of becoming civilized

Marveling
Alongside the moon
At the wonders
Of the earth

And by this nectar
He scribed his desires
Permanently
Upon the dust:

"Libera Nos A Malo"

And by its celestial command
He shed the skin
Bound to his soul
And laid it upon the wind

Grinning and dancing
Creating waves in the sand
As though reborn
By the light of the poet's holy flame

There's never been any cue cards, and if there were, the mind would probably try reading inbetween the lines.
Impermanently permanent.
Imperfectly perfect.
Gloriously insignificant.
The formation of lights have and will always mean everything to me.
There's no color paint I can't appreciate.  The canvas keeps stretching, faster than we candash our brush strokes.
A symphony of whimpers abruptly ends after yellow illuminates their surroundings.
The green never felt so full of life until it absorbed the blue.
A tree formed, & together they grew.
Layer upon layer, note on note stacked until the slowly vibrating chord echoed through the cosmos; infinitely cleansing every soul with any clouded shroud of doubt.
We will carry clarity with absolute certainty, as the fires within emerge, bursting out with creativity.
Harmonies and Melodies of every key,
Painting the existence of everything~

my interests in / with philosophy are grammatical,
"         "        "  /    "    theology      "   linguistic.*

as philosophy did not entice grammatical words to express it,
as philosophy did not entice grammatical words to be utilised,
so thus the study of language became distinct
from philosophy, with only english or german or italian
teachers using these words as a forgivable badge of honour,
but what if a philosopher decided to "steal" these words and use
them, what then? it would be secondary, to have learned
a language in order to progress to the second tier of language
and erase colloquial truths, idiosyncratic truths, etc.,
those maxims that never really matter, but find me one philosophy
book that deals with words rather than ideas by submerging
itself in ideas and theories not of the world, not political,
metaphysical, theological... but simply grammatical... as to why
the pronouns clash when used as the universal stipend of question:
who, how, when, what if, etc. it's a minefield of considerations,
categorisation of words to only craft learned plagiarisms
of the pulpit, that such rigidity in grammatical classification
of words is so aged ashen leaky and rickety and sir sneeringly sneaky
as to be disregarded by philosophy is a gaping black gravity vortex
of travesties. how do i write you ask, with what ease
and with what machinery of split second bullet fire (sometimes)?
i simply declassified certain words, rearranged their
grammatical classification, some permanently, some impermanently;
such is this curse of the orthodox theory of language,
this ungrammatical denotative classification,
before the sun or the moon can be a subject for a poem
or some other form of inspiration, it's firstly a subject for nouns;
oh i believe in grammar, but not how it's organised
for the sole purpose of schooling, the odd jack-in-the-box popup
lightning slosh of um um ah when the teacher labours momentarily to
utilise grammatical words to explain a bewilderment without
actually explaining anything other than the classification coupling
obvious(ness) in a poem... esp. one beginning with a conjunction such as and.

The tears on my pillow won't dry
They've gotten cold
I wait for your reply and
bury myself further into the bed
The weather changes
Impermanently