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Nigel Obiya Sep 2012
I am but a man of many faces…
Experiences and places
I am but one of many definitions of art, poetry… creativity if you may
Inconsistently consistent sometimes… makes no sense?
Just let these words play… around in your mind
Until you happen to find
Where I’m going with this
Several compositions in April, and none through May
I think
Where am I going with this?
These other poets and I aren’t in the same boat
I like to think… sometimes I float
Other times I sink
Then resurface again to let these feelings pour… let them rain
Down on the page
Feelings of happiness, sometimes rage
Sometimes love, sometimes ‘lost’
Because I’ve loved and I’ve lost
But I’m content, at most
With this relationship right here… my poetry and I
While others will wither and die… my faithful flower blossoms
And I will accept her… and her sweet call
Her nectar
Entices me way too easily
Satisfaction to this busy bee
Inconsistently consistent? Maybe…
But the poetry is real
And the inspiration… persistent.
Anna Miller Oct 2017
I.
It was the beginning of a mild Indiana summer, the kind when your lips are still recovering from being chapped through the inconsistently cool Midwest spring and your skin starts to stick to vinyl when pressed against it for too long. It was a summer of cold-sweat chronic nightmares and letting go. This is when I told you I would be leaving that fall, said I was doing it for myself, said it would be good for you, too. I’m not sure if you believed that. I’m not sure if I did, either.

II.
I spend the morning of the move on the living room floor with all my things strewn out in front of me, figuring out what to leave. I watch the light filter through the blinds, shifting across the floor, trying to guess where it would end up when I finally depart. I clean the bathroom for an hour, trying to leave everything prettier than what I had made it. Don’t worry about it, you said, it will all be a mess later, anyway. When I shut the front door behind me, it sounds different. Absolute. I circle the cul-de-sac three times trying not to cry, watching the trees start to shed their skin. I wonder if you saw me.

III.
We play phone tag for weeks as I try to put off the inevitable. In a stroke of bad luck, the real you answers on a bitter Sunday evening, instead of the recorded message I had heard so much it now sounded like a dirge. I say nothing at first, and then everything I possibly can. I did all I could; I tried to make it up to you, you reply, ambivalent. I agreed even though I hadn’t wanted to.

IV.
We took a Polaroid of our hands clasped together the last day we saw each other. I later cut it in half and threw it out with some rotting orange peels. I had wanted to burn it but remembered how I get around fire. I retake the photo somewhere on the west coast with my new boyfriend. I call it a memorial. I finally say goodbye to your red sweater long after I had already done it to you. I wash it five times trying to get you out of it, pressing it into my skin to make it all mine. When it doesn’t work, I throw it out to rot in refuse with the Polaroid and the orange peels. I call it giving up.

V.
I am such an unreliable narrator, how I paint myself tragic victim in every story, and you, culprit. I wonder if I’ll ever let you be the martyr. I think maybe you were the one who suffered, even though I’m told that can’t be true. It’s just Stockholm syndrome, my therapist says about the way I condemn and praise you in the same breath. I still don’t believe her. I think about my grandmother and her mother and my mother and me, and all their bad blood in my body. I tell her victims can be monsters, too.
Poetoftheway Jun 2023
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men

early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.

despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-**** anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions  plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…




8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
Sarah Jystad Feb 2010
The man in the moon swallowed me whole,
Just as I began to admire his soft glow;
There he was, knowingly smiling over
The scary affairs of my teenage cares.
Apparently, I should mention
My attention was too much,
The perfect remedy for pro-love prevention.
Just in case it was neglected,
I must warn you,
Affection to your reflection sways you
To believe your giggle is perfection.
But when you are presented with rejection,
You’ll step back with a confused expression,
Wondering what happened to his original affection.

Now, I proceed.
I concede
Wooing the moon is harder than
Shaving a true hippie on ecstasy or ***
In the middle of the sea.
Why do I love someone who constantly
Turns around and hides himself
Whenever seconds pass
Only to tease me with peeks of his soul?
Oho what a divine mystery!
He’s a maze with infinite doors,
More complex than hallways,
More intriguing than apple cores, skin pores, folklores, or antique stores.

But
He wears a different face every day,
Masks of white, amethyst, and grey.
And
He seduces a variety of personalities,
Of intellectual minds, of our kind.
With his charm that, more than good, does harm
To us; who have put forth increasing
Efforts to make his eyes glitter,
We who pride ourselves on mental capacity, titter
With giggles,
Because we cannot think of a better reaction,
We are so consumed with him.

Freedom from the man in the moon’s
Enticing effect came only when I saw:
His redundant, repetitive cycles of beliefs and views,
Only sometimes were they new;
His aloof disconnection from others,
Even when I carefully showed the best parts of my soul;
And
The Fact
That so many others found him
Captivation, enchanting, and beautiful
Without the knowledge or understanding
Of his desires, values, or issues,
Of his dreams, sorrows, or needs.
Ignorant, blind, obsessive aspects of infatuation
Sicken me.

Now, for the better, I relay with
Content at this little success that it is
Much easier to tease, to debate,
To befriend the man in the moon
Now that I can resist his effervescent
Glow.

Still, I acknowledge, anticipate, and dread
The algae, the residue of my ephemeral love,
The waves and cycles of my affection;
Still, I crave a lucid connection to his mind, to his soul,
For I know enough
To embrace his being as consistently
As the sea kisses the sky.

But hardly does he ever show all of himself to one,
But always does he offer smiles and woos to all;
So, patience is my haven.
Empathy is my understanding;
Distraction, my refuge, my remedy.

Eventually, the man in the moon
Might attempt to love me
Fully.
Who knows with such an
Inconsistently predictable being?
12/14/08
jas Dec 2017
I've come to the conclusion
I am two parts of a whole
you may look at the glass half empty
or half full
sometimes it's really hard to tell
but call me a Gemini , if you will

behind closed doors
I'm either high
or low
one minute I'm soaring
& the next on the floor

one half of me
battles depression & anxiety
my thoughts are scattered inconsistently
my heart pounds in my chest
the minute you speak my name
just know I'm doing my best
trying not to go insane

other days I'm free
gliding thru the breeze
of my life
energetically speaking
the sun dances around me
against my face, glistening

but I seldom wonder
the thin wall that divides me
if I should ever sunder
two halves of a broken heart
searching for the glue that once held them part

Gemini's are twins
such like, good and evil
an angel and a demon
dancing on my shoulders
dragging me farther and farther away
so in the eyes of the beholder
I sense the middle becoming yet much colder

judgment is given on the evil side of me
I'm distant , I admit it
at times , fairly resistant
a poor trait one must receive
nothing more than a peeve

alas I did not select this trait
nor must I choose to accept it
my slump has taken its toll
I do not wish to see anything as it is but dull
I may be present and alive
yet inside, negatively drains my mind

I pray that good outweighs the unfavorable
that you may overlook how I'm unstable
my bright eyes & tinted cheeks
how I simply ignore my urge to be weak
for in that one moment
I've experienced a whole heartbeat

ultimately, there is no escaping
no path could lead me elsewhere away from thee
no debating
I am not one but two parts of a whole
one day I hope I am in control

Gemini
the twins
its me
& I am them
Faeri Shankar Jun 2013
A broken lock equals an open mind. An open mind equals a temporary peace of heart. I constantly write in riddles and lines that will never rhyme, that most will probably never read. In my subconscious I relentlessly attempt a Resurrection of civil engagements with an uncivil mind. My internal demeanor never abandons a detail, a key worth remembering and a lock that will always sway to and fro in a shanty boat that is inconsistently worthless and valuable. It will never dock, it will never be entirely worth the stress or the time it would take to tie and secure a ship of that size and quality, or lack thereof. There exists ulterior motives that Miss blonde esteem is seemingly not even aware of, or like her prior, accepts ignorance as a temporary escape until the uncivil mind returns civil. The fact is this. The uncivil mind was never civil, and may as well never be. Locks can be repaired, even when the thief begs for no replacement. What makes the thief the uncivil enemy? Has it ever occurred to any soul, that a thief is only stealing away precious moments that are rightfully his, that circumstances and uncivilized minds have locked away in a pitch black that they cannot call their own night? There surely has been an uncanny instance when the locksmith swiftly turned about to find his prior gazing at him in the golden grooves of the trap. The thieving of one’s own mind, to break a lock enchanted  by the uncivil mind, should be easily empathized and understood. But alas, curly blonde esteem will forever submit under the spell of the uncivil mind, who will only cast a shadow upon itself and its priors. It will be remembered in the scent of cigarettes, where it will also be displaced. It will be avoided in the unrighteousness of a friend’s bed in another family’s house, where a respirator and the oxygen tubes intertwining the threshold no longer exist; neither do the white sheets. There will never again be an absence of music behind the actions committed between the uncivil mind and the civil heart.
-‘Pit-a-patter’-

Raindrops fall on the window pane before it slowly plummets,
Falling into a large, brittle, glass-made bucket
The water level in the bucket rises slowly but inconsistently,
The bucket never overflows— instead it waits for the raindrops fervently  

Your texts are inconsistent and you are slow to reply,
Each word is collected inside my heart to see what you imply
Our conversations and memories slowly build up inside my heart,
My heart is never full— it longs for more of you to impart

-‘Whoosh’-

A strong gust of wind blows by and the rain stops,
Objects picked up by the wind hits against the bucket nonstop
Each hit leaves a mark on the bucket like a merciless, sharp dagger,
The pressure builds up—the brittle glass bucket eventually shatters

Uncertainties and problems start coming our way nonstop,
Carrying along our insecurities and worries- we no longer talk
You start to waver, telling me your feelings for me are dying,
Each word pierces through my fragile heart which falls apart— I start crying

The broken pieces of the glass bucket are scattered all over the street,
Even within each piece, scratches are all over it- although many but discreet
The damaged bucket is replete and can no longer collect the falling rain,
The water it collected previously is released and spills all over the floor like paint

My heart shatters into a million tiny pieces with each piece lost and forlorn,
Even within each piece, scars are all over it— inconspicuous but not gone
All our shared memories that I collected earnestly is tainted in a second,
“Just forget everything, leave it all behind” is what you beckoned

The broken pieces of my heart are impossible to mend,
Your smile, your words, your presence causes my heart to rend
No matter how much I try, the pieces do not fit together like it did before,
Are you the glue? Should I walk towards or away from you? I don’t what to do anymore
----
12am
1/12/21
——————
METAPHORS USED:

1. Raindrops —> Texts, Conversations
2. Water in the bucket —> Memories, shared experiences, dreams and hopes
3. Bucket —> Heart
4. Wind —> Uncertainties, problems, temptations
5. Objects carried along by the wind —> Insecurities, worries
6. Scratches —> Scars
My first attempt at writing a more in-depth poem with many more metaphors and figurative language, it was more challenging to organise and create these metaphors and links but i enjoyed coming up with these! Will attempt to write more of these metaphorical poems and improve on it :)
David W Jones Oct 2013
They met out of mutual appreciation
towards their artistic expressions,
becoming slaves of free will;
incarcerated within their choices.

She wanted to be with him
to follow his footprints, no matter, wherever;
even if the journey led to Hell.

His fingerprints smudged deeply upon, her soul.

She said three words that left him devastated;
Her lips now covered with silence. Sitting in limbo
trying to make sense of it all.

A moonless night conceals the reasons.

She still writes about those moments;
delving into those times to reveal whatever
she missed about herself.

Changes flowing between life and death;
acuity erased by emotions. The long walk
along the path of understanding.

The images within her mind portray a song,
fading like forgotten lyrics.

She lingers upon the corner of exposed
intimacy; pricking her finger on the
point of fallacy.

Small drops of crimson nepotism
releasing clarity. The lessons
smeared within the inked blots
interpreted inconsistently.

She forgot the meaning of her poetry;
her passions defiled within the filthy
knowledge. Crying for days, it was all
she could do to remember.
Surrounded
All of me contained
Attire but another layer, another mask

Wounds heal and bleed,
heal and bleed, heal and bleed,
Pain never yielding

I observe, I witness
only shadows
and not the glistening
which bore them.

Except for one
at a time.

Time between each flash
inconsistently lapses.

I feel the fear
overtaking
this prolonged era.

Fear unto darkness
What remains
of my own luminescence remains
contained within.

I will bare only when a
Light pierces, blinding
all I know
when I finally open
my eyes.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2020
<>

11:03 Sun Sep 20 2020
2nd Day Rosh Hashana 5781
S.I., N.Y.

when I was twenty years younger, I wrote oft introspectively,
nowadays, today, provoked by the High Holy Day, the New Year,

it is my only filter, lens, and this solitary perspective that this moment affords, permits, demands, commands, insists on,  
prepared by this confession, so that I may better return to the union of my divine spark, unify body and soul, recover my true self,
by acknowledging that I am
not beholden to anyone,
therefore, thereby,
     beholden to everyone

how inconsistently wonderful that additional experience, alive in a time of upheavals, pushes me past the first stanza, where most often, my poems, prayers, go to rest uneasy, incomplete, only to be buried alive in me.

Yet, here I am stuttering, sputtering, words that come unexpectedly!
I have reached a second stanza, with the ending well sighted, nearby. The collective, overlaid wake of each passing boat, finger pointing, a road line for following, to a larger directive, a river emptying into a great ocean, birthplace & graveyard

premature celebration as it’s weeks till I return to this poem-in-progress on a bleak week, the winterized grays have dominated, the freshness of sunlight is just an occasional peekaboo.

The larger directive now suppressed, the pilings of damp brown leaves, multi-message; funeral. mounds of good days gone to hell, the inward perspective has returned me to a deep, dark place.

(Stutter, stutter, each day asseverates solemnly with tinges of rancor, no, no, no, still no answers yet, the second and third stanzas are *******, suns of no man.)
Jo Baez Jan 2016
Him -
"I love her down to her very existence,
I love her inconsistently, unconditionally, with flaws at seam.
But it seems that her love for me was elsewhere & so was she."
Lyra Brown Nov 2012
Your words, so pretty they enter
My brain and flood it with dopamine butterflies
Triggering thoughts and memories and I missyous and I love yous and
I hate yous and where are yous and I want yous but I cannot
Digest them anymore. I refuse them. I cannot do not believe them for more than
A few seconds.
Even now, I train myself to cringe. I train myself to deny. Reject. Avoid.
Love, a temporary season for you to give me
I am nothing more than one of the many melting ice cubes down your shirt.
I am melting,
Melting. I am
The puddle at your feet
You are knee-deep in spewing your
Words are what I longed for, for so many years
Had I had them then I might have swallowed them thoughtlessly.
Now I am closed up. Afraid. Your words are tempting yet
Your actions piercing evermore. I seem to attract people of the most intense,
Most compassionate, most real, most ****** up.
Most likely to be inconsistently there. Your fire breathing words melt me
I am
Melting
Melting
I am
Nothing
More than
The puddle at your feet, it's growing now
You are knee-deep in it
Katarina Arno Jul 2010
Our skin is ripped
Torn apart by our own hands
There’s too much ache
Love is disgusting
Fingers are ***** if they’re not yours

And your fingers are transparent
And I fall through them
I fall into them
In an unknown dark
In an exotic fire

Further
Every night
When you are absent, but you are here
You pull me next to your body
Inconsistently and soft
The way I want it

Because you are in my mind
You flux through my bloodstream
You ride through my neural network
Without final destination and without the ticket
Stowaway in my body
Always
This is a translation of a poem that I originally wrote in Croatish.
B-rich Mar 2021
It’s 2 in the morning
Looking out into the darkness of my window

You’re the worst and best thing that has happened to me
perfectly!
Inconsistently!
Toxic to me!

And maybe just we’re two people trying to make it in this world
Using each other like parasitic worms
For you, my dear, I have so many hateful words
But if you were to die?
Would I?
no! I know-
so would I!

Cause you’re the best and worst thing that has happened to me
Perfectly!
Inconsistently!
Toxic to me!
Jessica Saunders Aug 2013
i think i made you up in my sleep
the way you weave in and out so inconsistently
of my life with your broken promises
you left me
alone;
a single word that can drive a man to madness
alone:
what drove me to madness
yet, one day i didn't feel--
alone
i restitched the seams in my wrists
i rewound my brain
and i rewired my heart
some days i can almost feel
and your memories bring bliss
i'm no longer
alone
yet i haven't overcome the
loneliness
Samuel Adell Dec 2014
I spit catastrophes rapidly
Leave you a fatality
Innocent by reason of insanity
Her voice will always stick with me

Now my sanity deteriorates like Chernobyl
It's almost like I'm immune to the sadness of funerals
Our generation seems to have no need for morals
My generation known for disrespecting girls

Am I explicitly gifted or inconsistently wicked
Feels like my souls been torn out and twisted
It's got me adapting dynamically, changing my mentality
Truly what is the real reality

Living life with a new found belligerence
Like a high off of ten different barbiturates
This cypher shall be thy deliverance
From a generation polluted with ignorance

I'm a sadistic mystic
Artistic, and pessimistic
True art is about pushing limits
You want the full view, only giving you snippets
septemb3r May 2015
White shirts,
Chicken nuggets,
Kisses your brother,
Writes to your mother,
Reeks of stale cologne,
Always misplaces his keys.

Laughs like rain,
Fixes his tie,
Melts into your skin,
Drown in his eyes,
Golden as the sun,
Bitter as the night.

Drinks too much,
Watches you cry,
Ties knots in your hair,
Screams like dad,
Mismatches his socks,
Kisses you goodnight.

***** his teeth,
Rolls his eyes,
Corrects my typos,
Sleeps inconsistently,
Drives in reverse,
Cracks eggs with one hand.

Writes you poems,
Plays you guitar,
Traces your spine,
Kisses relentlessly,
Unzips your soul,
Keeps himself in a jar.
Mikaila Apr 2014
It is not your fault, what happened to me.
But this,
This,
You knowing what IS happening to me,
And knowing you can stop it with almost no effort,
And doing nothing, this...
Is.
And I forgive you.
I give myself no other choice, whenever you hurt me.
The only way is to forgive you, to find a way to love you even if you're
Silent,
Or venomous,
Or cowardly.
I never know if you are. I do not let myself find out.
I do not know your flaws,
Because I tell myself that to assume them would be the death of me, by your hand.
So I unfocus my eyes and look at you only through what you show me.
Perhaps you are a coward, afraid of what I am and what we've seen of one another. I wouldn't know it if you were.
Or perhaps you are angry that somebody pulls emotion from you.
Or perhaps you are just cruel.
Or perhaps you are none of this,
And I could not imagine what you are,
And whatever that is
Is right,
And whatever I am
Is wrong.
That is the end I come to.
That is the conclusion I reach, each time, to save you from me.
To save me from hating you, and to save you from losing me, I make you
Right.
I do not know if you have ever been right.
I refuse to know.
It doesn't matter.
You want to be. No... no I don't even think it's that.
I think you want me to be wrong.
Yes, that is it, you want me to be wrong, because I have reached some part of you that you don't enjoy.
You want it desperately, to pretend nothing bad happens, to pretend that the people in your life are
Easy and
Simple,
Unbreakable,
Unbroken,
Uncomplicated.
You want laughter to be the only thing,
But underneath we both know you are too smart not to see that without pain
Joy
Means nothing.
But you want your way.
You want me wrong, and I must want what you want
If you are to keep me.
And so I want to be wrong.
Want to apologize.
I want you to get your venom out at me, so that I may die of it and satisfy you, and have you back again.
Love me, hate me, but get it done.
**** me with one or the other so that I can rise again and love you.
So that I can be your friend and give you what I can.
It is not your fault, how I suffered before.
You knew nothing of it.
You couldn't have known.
You couldn't have fixed it.
But now you do know.
You have known for a long time, what happens to me when you hate me.
How it poisons me.
You have seen.
And so any punishment you hand me now is given without the shield of ignorance,
With full knowledge and intent.
You have watched me dying.
You have tried to save me,
Or to **** me,
And found that the moment is perpetual-
You can do neither.
You have seen the pain, and chosen to extend it, and
I
Forgive
You,
Whatever your reason.
It doesn't matter. It can't matter.
There is only the forgiveness.
You are a religion to me, because the only way I can stand to love you is to worship you.
If I were to see you as a human being, I would be unable to imagine such
Heartlessness and such
Tenderness
Wrapped up in one soul, given to the same person on the whim of the day.
If you were not a god, you would have to be two people:
One to ****** me and one to mourn me.
One to wound me and one to stitch me up.
One to hate me and one to love me.
You have seen. You know.
You know who I am, in full, even if you do not understand it,
And you have claimed you want to help me.
And I have asked you for what I need,
And you have given it inconsistently.
And I have loved you and hated you,
And you have loved me and hated me.
And I have forgiven you.
But you have never forgiven yourself.
And that is the only thing
I cannot do for you.
Emily Nolan Jan 2013
My mother made me clean the shower
It was today and I used cold water
and rumpled curtains over one shoulder
I am telling you that the water was up to my elbows and my phone, I checked it and I swear I was alone
And it was winter so my toes on tile when wet,
were angry and bit up my legs.
My toes were somehow as thick and slimy and
inconsistently out of order as my legs
And I thought that was absurd;
That,
And how my hands were raw, cold or not.
Bulimia
Bee Sep 2019
i would have thought the universe spat in my face
while getting gas after leaving your place
caught up in a brief interval of violent downpour
living in the shadow of shelter built for me
clouds drool for several minutes afterwards
i am dry beneath manmade canopies
you are stretching across the sky
free from conformity
fondling with branches dangling loose
jealousy writhes in my sturdy upbringing
if it were not for my pact with the universe
i would have taken this as a sign to leave
how infatuated trees are with you
how the sky cries for you
how roots untangle themselves for you
but i understand that when sun showers occur
the universe is with me more than ever
tangling herself with my emotions
bright and weeping
all at once
colliding in ways that neglect to care for one another
you are too fearful of things you cannot see
unknown territory primarily causing you concern
i drive miles for you on a daily basis in the dark
but what is distance if you have the sky at your fingertips
grasping for what is left of your horizon
i am merely stuck admiring sunrises for the time being
until the storm passes in front of me
unfaltering repetition in your unsteady breath at night
beauty held inconsistently in consistent
chaos
Necropolis of Hellenika / Kímolos
Tsambika / Philo of Alexandria

They passed each other on the outskirts of Archangelos to go to Tsambika, going to the Necropolis of Helleniká where he was waiting for them more than 400 kilometers to the west of the Cyclades, precisely in Kímolos where they would do the colloquy with to do the channeling with the Necropolis. Etréstles had traveled with Kanti the steed; on his back, they saw the distance before they arrived at Mandraki in Rhodes. They all headed down the coast towards Archangelos, but Etréstles went to Helleniká, the Vas Auric was landed on Mandraki for the purposes of the Creation of Vernarth together with the Apostle Saint John. Kímolos, it is on this island that the famous beginning of the procession towards the outskirts of the cities was to deposit their sacred remains on the way to a better one, here were the martyrs who were used to Etréstles since he cohabits in delay with Drestnia for the new millennium (His female of hers) with which he resides in the Koumeterium of Messolonghi in the ninth vertical cemetery. Having a chapel and altars this place was propitious to create between Kimolos and Tsambika which was so many kilometers away, so the meeting performance between villages would be seen in its entirety to be resurrected and worshiped between the Cyclades and the Dodecanese with pious exercises between both latitudes precisely in the chapel of Theoskepasti, while in Tsambika it would be in the Panagia Tsambika monastery. Etréstles carried in both hands some matches of some population dowries with laws of affability and generations lived there without knowing each other between the two islands and tabernacles, arguing canons of burial and exhumation. In this case of performance refer to the Vas Auric of Limassol that brought the construction of a world of the right angles for the neat reconstruction of multi polygonal spectra, adopted for the first time in Kímolos to be retransferred to a logical philosophical-architectural division seeking to enclose the perfect plans where the new Christians will reside, between Rhodes and the west of Kímolos re-installing themselves among more than a third of the venerable ones who rested in Helleniká, in syncretic neatness with dissimilar populations and creeds.

Saint John the Apostle with Vertnarth, Raeder, and Petrobus plus Eurydice would bring from the rubies of Alexandria the incorporeal honor of Alexander the Great, turning both island sites into palaces of the Muses of Helleniká for the scholars who would be at the canonization of Vas Auric. Being the precursor of the chapel of the Theoskepasti, this performance of erudition will be endowed with the new status for Philo of Alexandria present here, now being a co-demiurge who will convert this necropolis city into duality with Tsambika for distinctions of the rituals and homilies, reducing the inputs basics in ceremonies. Philo of Alexandria says that only God protects the Jews, adding to what Philo wrote in La Legatio ad Gaium, the Jewish delegation had trouble meeting Caligula and when they finally met him, the emperor declared that he wanted a statue of him to be built as Jupiter in the Temple of Jerusalem, which sowed desolation among the members of the delegation. Finally, this purpose was not realized thanks to the intervention of Agrippa I and the death of Caligula, Philo attributed the happy ending of both cases to Providence. This divine letter of these translators with Saint John the Apostle and Philo of Alexandria will make this homily the spiritual custody that will be preserved in these two cities and then towards the world of Vernarth of the Duoverse, so that invisible winds blow from the chapel of Kímolos to Panagia de Tsambika, in the frameworks that feed the Hebraic and Hellenic boundary “translating Greek into Hebrew, but in two universal sites of creation in the Theoskepasti chapel and Panagia de Tsambika, about the magic of the meeting of omniscience and grace. Says Vernarth: “with the interpretation of Philo of Alexandria and his exegesis, I will rub the tract of the successions of infinity legitimately stored the creation thought of the ZigZag Universe with the Parapsychological Regressive authority now circulating in a sniffing universe with a Verthian genealogy, tempering with my Falangist disciples but being biblical when it becomes the occasional emaciated mob of a world that falls degrading with its last pieces and challenges of the world associated with an allegorical spirit, contracted to wings of ethics and doctrinal rectitude. I have two candles in each hand, similar to Etréstles in Kímolos and in Helleniká, making delights of pleasures in these ceremonies to create the world’s ignored in the office of the super compassionate language, in more than seven days that add up between the Sun and the Earth, in a sub-mythological world being ourselves our own executioner established on the ***** that falls from the match of the wick of my Lucerne in its own mood. I still have a memory of who and of each one who will always be in my prayers, reopened in a sacredness less than my own end, here I will not continue to be stored. Rather I will continue to fall, exhumed from the very storehouse and from the struggle of the thistle that falls from itself rounded up to be competent to explain himself biblically as if he had never before been read ad limit of the doctoral, and sacred in the work of Philo of Alexandria here with us leading and there in the Necropolis on another thorn; as a perpetual creeping species growing here as an unvarying summer plant in cooler climates, which would usually be prostrated on the Helleniká slab with radiating branchy stems extending the fractal distance between Kímolos and Tsambika in thistle´s ceremonies. The hirsute silts will come from the genesis of their spiritual temporal being the same wool of the whirlpool of all the weeds attached and oppressed to the lamp of the gargoyles that are tuned together with the Gulpers of Archangelos in a happy diet following patterns of even, and odd thistles spring in the Cyclades and the Dodecanese. The Parapsychological regression XIV century - Saint John the Apostle says: “from Filerimos a sidekick monk of Philo of Alexandria has come with the image of the blessed Immaculate ****** and painted by Saint Luke the Apostle. The Knights of Saint John built the Monastery of Saint John in Rhodes with this image; everything comes from there on the Miraculous Hill of Filerimos, and the temple of Athens Polias was converted into a proto-basilica with a three-bay nave dedicated to Her. The church is known since then for housing the figure of the ****** of Filerimos (Our Lady of Filerimos). In the fourteenth century under the rule of the Knights of Saint John a monastery was built here surrounded by cloisters cells and a series of chapels, that is where the figure is the miracle worker and is reverently guarded. Being a Capuchin order after the Ottomans destroyed it; it was rebuilt by the Italians. With this image we canonize the Vas Áuric in the homily prior to the spiritual link with Etréstles in Kímolos, before every morning they illuminate the sacred Earth of both latitudes in the mystical house of Saint John the Apostle with the herbalists on the wind to fight for the Somnia in Hortum et Flos Herbarium in Kímolos, Garden of Flowers and Dreams in Herbalist in Kimolos. Knowing that the Universe is approaching the Vernarthian Duoverse, Saint John the Apostle decided with the Birthright to establish a Duoversal Garden in Kímolos with the aim of laying tremendous foundations on the base of the pre-Christians and apostolic who enlisted in the Greco-Hebrew world with the addition of compression, and medicinal valences for the herbalist of Kímolos, in such a way to reissue it in the monastery of San Juan in Rhodes and the Panagia of Tsambika. Since the grains grew and germinated they became thickets of great predestined forest in Rhodes, aspiring to continue being a well-known theology in Greek also being sufficient testimonial about its Aramaic originality, being addressed to the Sanhedrin, 37-42 AD Before Caiaphas and redirecting it to his brother-in-law Theophilus of Annas. The Aramaic Apocalypse, also known as 4Q246, is in one of the Dead Sea Scrolls, found at Qumran, with notable early messianic mention of the Son of God. Saint Luke says in the voice of Saint John the Apostle: “4Q246, we are children of God…, the Highest, the Messiah as a messianic voice, being able to be confused with the Beast or the Messiah but Philo of Alexandria will be there saying “I always ignored with the most blessed indifference to Satan, because therefore in this Aramaic manuscript he only has, and will reside forever and ever in his Messiah” Given this situation, the commanded expressions were those of astragals mysticism in herbalist and botany in this manuscript, since the unfortunate leftovers are the freshness and splendor of the flowers caressed by the wind that arrived at that moment; in regard to the wind of the Anemoi being eight gods that correspond to the eight cardinal points from which they came and were related to different seasons and meteorological phenomena, but he heralded the excitement of the Cyclades, like Sound of Sounds between Narcissus of Sharon and Lilies of the Valley. The audio-images were avocados forming the deep thickets that will move according to the inclinations of the planets, each time the Universe approached Greece among all the cisterns with water for the flower meadows that Vernarth in litanies was assigned to the paths that lead to the Vas Auric.

Vernarth says: “With these titles “Vas spirituale, Vas honorabile, Vas insigne devotionis, Rosa mystical, and Regina sacratissimi rosari”, I have to transform all the astragalus, and shrubs into the consorts with the presence of the jacaranda vase of living human nature in virtue of the meeting of the Universe-Duoverse, for the herbalist of Kímolos now imprisoned in the Vas Auric of Limassol. "Sweet Nectar of the dying, eager for eternal hunger and sweetness in withered flowers"
The end of Parapsychological regression XIV century
Saint John says Apostle: “Helleniká and Tsambika, will be the lily, the saffron, the rose and the violet but also new ones, like the marigold and the chamomile making of all a diadem crown to place the world of the Duoverse in all its radius, for the star that illuminates par excellence as a white planet without thorns, which is perfect among the perfect, anti herbicide of language and of incarnation as in the Empyrean the medieval sky in the highest of heavens. It is likewise in the place of the physical presence of God, where angels and souls reside in Paradise between caltrops and Rosas towards the alimentary plane of conventual voice, and tonics of the glycogenic Milky Way sipping third-grade milk to curdle in the children who have not been a Messiah yet. Paths of thorns will guide visitors to this gallery of flowers and plants through the Panagia monkish for the holy homily with the Lilies and through low valleys, where no more Lilies can escape from their chains of the Liliorum genome in the valleys of the galactogenic virtue. Like Mother Rosette and son Lirium, being the mother of everyone and of that…, there… your son, “Myself in the path of the three Mary’s”. Over there in the desolate place, a columbine carries me imprisoned on my heels as a bond of a son who makes my steps with the Columbine of my saving feet” At 320 meters of altitude Still, Life appeared concealed behind the Vas Áuric descending…, here everyone approached the auric circle of Moral that made them authors of the proximity of the Universe falling on Greece, and the Herbolaria that fell with all its reliable structure in the foliage where many more species appeared such as thilts, Laurel, Olive, Linen, Grenade in a simple and nuanced devotional with the pro status of the delegate; the same Hexagonal Primogeniture to make the cinnabar fistulas that were elemental by the different associated colors, and by Grail tutorials that looked indigo on top of some Rhododendrons. If it is eschatological, it is in the mystical nets of the Empyrean further from a form that is said to be called a form of antagonism, between Cardinals and their dead Lilies. As first among the last, the bulbous and clayey Tulip of the orbital and basilica symbology, peacemaker and philosophical Eritrean for spiritual quests that toil outpourings from the Empyrium, reaching the Messiah on his Colt on his way to Bethany. Around the Monastery, everyone could be seen as they arrived to the beat of the cymbals and aulós, among lyres that prowled tickling the inquiry to rest their fingers, or perhaps dressed by some Trojan villain augur in those of "Daedalus". Being the latter, here a tulip with flames of a true seeker trying to sacrifice subsistence daring over the risk of the resole of salvific death or perhaps dressed by some Trojan villain augur in those of "Daedalus".
Daedalus says: “After the incident with Perdix, I Daedalus was expelled from Athens. I then went to Crete, and in the kingdom of Minos I was placed in the service of the monarch. One of his tasks was the creation of Thalos, an animated bronze giant who defended the island from invasions. By order of Minos, I built the labyrinth to enclose the monster; the labyrinth was a building with countless corridors and winding streets opening into each other, which seemed to have no beginning and no end. Minos locked me up with my son Icarus, whose mother was Naucrate, a slave of Minos in the same building. The reason for the confinement was the collaboration of Daedalus in the escape of Theseus from the labyrinth, I have to lament for the ****** of Perdix, now turned into Partridge who now carries in his claws the creation of the Universe-Duoverse, turned into his own, and myself in envy neither harassing me about my endings, and neither starting nor finishing. That is why I appear here coming from Crete, to wrap myself in the garden and its mystery closing all the madrigals and hedges, like a world that has created me, in its splendor, seeing the humility fragrant with violets grafted onto lavender with my soul now, of a somewhat syncretism Hebrew-Hellenic and Mythological sub-Mythological, like a nobleman who walks free and without chains… passing through the Parthenon to put on tiaras in dresses that are adorned with Linens, but of evangelical lineage here in Kimolo.

In Kimolos; Helleniká Necropolis, Etréstles was suspended in a columbarium equivalent near the lapidem of the necropolis. There was a great amount of accumulated air enclosed in the musty cinerary walls, with the translucent specters that fluttered through other metropolises that transited inconsistently in their proto-masonry, and some resembled pink jaspers on some grooved slabs, letting pale dovecote rhizomes slip away under an oblique columbarium domain that manifested itself meagerly on an unstable podium of Folegandros. Adhering to this enormous exteriorization were Kanti, and Etréstles in their hydrothermal genesis, lying as a petra forms at a wide range of heat towards periodic effluvia of their Devonian geology, manifesting discreetly until a carbonization of sedimentary rocks attributing their curiosity when they continued to remain in areas favorable climatic conditions, simulating to be exordiums on thermal hydro sediments, leading to the carbonization of the surface of the necropolis with micas and serpentines, to cool down in the selfless natural fields that resisted the effect of the heat generated by the ZigZag Universe, etching each other on pyrites and graphite’s with the compactness that increases, and extends the widening of the mournful enclosure attentive to channeling emanations and traces, that will be the first loads of exegesis from Tsambika for prompt elucidation from Mount Hymettus in Athens, and continue to proliferate in hives of bees libating in its thickness towards the good-smelling necropolis causing its magnificent flowers and herbs to steam; so much so, that from the paved lipoids of honey astragalus and spectra will come out deposing to be toxic, yearning the strigilas or curved striaeons (reverse or straight), imitated from pagan sarcophagi.

Thousands after Thousands of Centuries after centuries, adorning themselves in the lapidem glossaries on the exterior fronts of tymbos that were embedded in the tholons, almost as in outright Constantine-Hellenic brilliance towards an unarmed cenotaph with their flat covers, pouring over them the devastated trisomy of Kaitelka, of whose diploid organism extras, aberrated by being parity triplicates of their greatest chromosomal and homologous hereditary complement. The vestiges of fossil whales here were generating disproportions of execrable variation, being destined to the patio of fall on them in three additional courtyards of marbles at the rate of inverted strata, revealing only some of their extremities appreciating them with semi-covered figures, and on reliefs filling again by genetic trisomy for gentile practices and lead them to the Christian Vas Auric. Faced with such a famous disproportion of fossil reliefs, they turn to the scourges of the Universe.

Panagia Theoskepasti Parapsychological regression Etréstles in Kímolos: The church of Theoskepasti, due to its position could be easily recognized by the invaders during their raids. However, according to a legend the church was veiled by dark clouds of mist and became invisible as soon as the assailants approached. Due to this legend the church received the name "Theoskepasti" from the Greek words "Theos" and "skepazo" meaning "God" and "watch" respectively. So, the name is 'God Veiled'. According to another tradition, when once a foreigner managed to get into the church and tried to steal the golden candle divine power cut off his hands. Also if it is watched over by God, so it is divine for the Creation that it will begin with the synchronization between both latitudes of the Cyclades and the Dodecanese. Etrestles After staying together with Kanti, they went from Theoskepasti to Hellenika, located in Dekas Bay on the west coast of Kimolos, here in the necropolis there are ruins of ancient tombs that would form part of the new humanity in the creation of the Duoverse, existing since Mycenae and the Cyclades next to the small islet of Agiоs Аndreas, also being part of the city. Many ruined tombs can be seen from the hill on the edge of Elliniká with some stones still in the sea between Kimol and Milil, in the vicinity of Psathi on this island located on the southeast coast. Kímolоs to Chοrá is 1 km away on the hill above the Psathi port from here the foreign ships trying to come to the Bay area sighted, for the advent of the Cinnabar on the scapulae that hold the Gates of the Necropolis for the effect avant-garde, and regenerator of souls that will resurface with more universal chromosome tints mutated from trisomy, more of extreme longevity. In the homily, an archpriest of the regional deanery will make a pastoral criterion for this gesture by virtue of eminence, and guide them through the orthodoxy of the chapel to the Episcopal organizational procession of the Vas Auric. It was already twilight and Etrestles was climbing onto Kanti's pony clutching the utensils of the homily, in the customary ritual before incensing and setting fire to the laurel and rosemary in the fords of Leto and Koumeterium of Messolonghi, it rotated in ellipses sprinkling crumbs of the purest loaf from Arcadia on a gray Monday with hummus to attract sour souls that they were in a catatonic state making them more esthetic or aesthesis, of reactionary rebellious natural aesthetics with nuances, then reincorporate them into the three courtyards in a magnificent concordance with Rhodes. When the Archpriest begins the talk, he derives his prayers from semi-inert materials that were made in communion with the chromosomal dyes; with the worms with absentmindedness of progenitor snakes that were grafted undulating, being in reality only worms that were amazed at the exhortation of the Archpriest in the ritual, circulating universals destined for his elegies and celebrating from an ambo or pulpit with classical Latin pronouncing the archpriest the way it died lunae, mutating it ****** to dies lunis by analogy with dies, on a dark Monday day but full of grace for the assistants doing the sermons to interpret the alabaster patios that will lead to Tsambika. The first worms were persecuted by Kanti, he believed that they were scatterings that emerged from the ground, such an earthly ecosystem was beginning to disown him due to the metamorphosis of annelids which seemed to increase their ultra-grave texture with the same remains of an irresolution without a sarcophagus, turned into sharp curves intestinal that were depressed breathing autonomously on consistent folds of the dermis of the oldest caste of the subsoil of Helleniká. Preexisting the distant origin of the Arcadias and they're dissected that silently followed the hummus and bobota, not to digest them with their suckers, but rather surround them and delegate them to explore the surroundings that would encapsulate the ground with the proximity of the transfigured universe to Vernarth's Duoverse, to phosphorus and emit the will-o'-the-wisp nitrogenous fires before the Archpriest, Etréstles and Kanti disquieting by an arcane movement. Being a full act of the herbaceous phagocytosis, they continued ascending in the curvilinear procession with their traces weaving moment without time, which was added to the sub-mythology and a finite sub-time, like unicellular procreating others that accelerated their physiognomy detached from their immateriality, towards a longer intake of the organic material on the hummus and exudation of propolis rhizomes. In this way, they resign when falling with serious cramps cleared of the digestive world, which no cell has tasted ******, but rather direct when breathing from Hellinika's lung lobes, comprised mostly by the alabaster sheepskin that was suspended to other colonies of worms that sailed to lean out towards the surface of the altar where they regenerated from the flow of the annelids. Archpriest says: “The frame of the Vas Áuric arises from the nuclei of the medallion, pending a high presence of insulation. With high mobility between the tissues and amino acids of the annelids, new basal cell functions even being visible for Etréstles and not totally for all yet. The image of the medal had a classified functionality and concrete information, but imperceptible chronological possibly being the first function of the icon in its justification with religious symbols and manifestations of the divine, and semantic still removed from a theoretical auto-iconic. When reading in Vas Auric, "What two men do not see, a man sees who does not see..., what the creeping animal sees, self-prisoner of his lack of vanity..., He will see it". Being epistemic images that provide more distant knowledge of the sub-divisible organic matter in finite mortality towards the other eternal inorganic, contributing to the super complex neuronal development, in a veiled sensation that is lost between itself and its own bodies, being able to take them with its own differentiations”

Panagia Tsambika Monastery - Channeling Cinnabar: Vernarth commanded the three architectural courtyards of Tsambika for the Cinnabar layout. They climb the steps that lead to this monastery at the top of one and to the very connection of the homily with Helleniká. In this monastery they will have to censor three courtyards, all pointing towards the west of Mandraki Bay, on some pine trees all surrounding the virtual stained glass window of the portal that joins the main avenue with the ascent of the monastery, until very close to the Virginal Marianus icon and very close to the dividing wall from where Lindos can be seen. The Tsambika Monastery is four kilometers from the city of Archangelo, the height of the monastery is leveled with pebbles on its bare floor that led everyone barefoot, towards the three nearby patios. Cinnabar as a polygonal crystal would be specially used for the perpendicular ceremony of Mercury, to sensitize the climatologically the variation that would be appreciated once it began to sponsor the bones that would spread in the extreme longevity of annelids exchanged from the moldy alabaster arcades, and carried by alluviums of crystallized mercury, granting together with the Panagia of Tsambika fertility, and parental conception for the new Universe-Duoverse of Vernarth, extending life farther than the first-born descendant's first ancestor, being the cinnabar the diversity of versed uses now been given in the upright channeling with ultra vital extensions with Helleniká. The alabaster and the three columns of these sulfated stones form compact would dare to hydrate in the silos where the windows will be poured, this is where the sub-mythological specimens detached from any temporal dimension will be used, leaving sapiens annelids free will recombining the diploid chromosomes, and profiting from molds of exact erratic aberrations to be vindicated in the dispensaries of Saint John the apostle. Thus adorning the perfumed areas intervened three cinnabar patios, for the sermon of the Vas Áuric. Thus inspiring the chair with the verses of Saint John on the immanence after the fifty days of the Messiah in epistolary verses and the evangelizations, elaborating vessels of the low rank of Faith to opt for expectations of moldings with new consciences of selenite clay, and refine them in messianic faith. Middle-range pebbles were subtracted for the interior and extramural floor of the Monastery, being rather Biblical Calcite for the Egyptian-Hellenic Alabastron psalmody praise perfume. This typology will be the quilt for the magistracy with a canopy glass exhibited near the tulip lamps, and ceiling lights of the monastery for the use of the diamantine sphere of the opaque panels that flamed from the intersection of the arachnids re sprouting from the current wind of cinnabar. Vernarth says: “Suitable for our consciences, we will open the channels in Kímolos before our subtle bodies that will make us divided just as we parabolize ourselves, before the airs of St. John the Apostle in the headdress of mediumship to reach the wavelength to Helleniká, the interactive vibrations will leave with the expression of deep reasoning after pontificating the Mandylion with the Vas Áuric, for the effect of its icon and idiomatic monologues for the edges of San Judas Tadeo and Veronica, for such a faced event in foreign forces before the Messiah, a coherent gadget will be made in the intermittence variants. The channeling to the Cyclades will go from east to west wading the Aegean and Mediterranean waters, through the channel of the Universe-Duoverse for inter consciousness between the Hexagonal Primogen in Tsambika, and the triad of Etréstles, Kanti, and the Archpriest in Helleniká, with high degrees of the light consciousness and conclaves between both synchronous homilies. With drowsiness before the Anemoi winds that will be crossing near the voyages of the Trojan chthonic ships, and before the fateful chthonic divinities for such deities in the Mediterranean substratum identifying more obviously with Anatolia which since prehistory has followed to the site of Troy, in a cheesy union plan for Agamemnon's loyalists, to defeat Hector between farms and revolutions of agriculture, and Akkadian worlds b.C., in peripheral outposts to influence the central regions of Greece and its maritime trade. Hydro-physical influences, for the cycles of the solstice and nature with life and survival after death that is at the center of concerns that are not translated. In Crete, the supposed cult of great Gods is transformed during the second millennium BC as new actors appear: various animals, plants, etc. Given the consciousness, it will be the channeled light in the three courtyards of alabaster and between the cinnabar by bending the re-fertilization of the Cyclades channels, which go from Rhodes and Kimolos, for discernment. Sometimes it is more gratifying to hear what you want to hear and not the real message, the egotistical mind that does not come from a series of daunted egos..., or signs of the technological shamanism, intervening artificial intelligence from maniacal administered consciences, being shrill for worlds of appearances and illusions. I Vernarth with our own Khaire Fíle…, in my mind I go to the vessels that sail through the landscapes of the elusive identity, trapping her in the totemic stratum, and tracking psychology, but a seer of her present ego. Today I will wear my Leonatus cap, to separate his anger from such a shadow that clouds my grief, and my own victimhood of reduced and meekness which spurns violence, blaming it on a ruthless kind of depression and excluding shame from everyone's own fear of everything. I will bandage my eyes against diseases that will heal after three days, to straighten the ecstasy that thickens towards the scaffold, staying in Golgotha with nothing, I will create the framework of cinnabar for the pain of the skull that trembles in my claws, until sleep becomes vaporous with anger and the harmless destroying itself before your egos, colorful throbbing towards your alien beings and scarified host. I will be waking up from my subtle and anthropomorphic subconscious dreams, with sentences that hurt my worst self-destructive delinquencies before the new memorial, on the veil of Theoskepasti with its science sheltering itself by giving in on the vanquished springs and inaugurating new miraculous courses where I will surrender, full of forgiveness and more distant from the veil that does not act as a viewer.

Duet time, Duet space, one with the other illusion unreal elements and epistemic images ignoring them in expeditions crackle my Duoverse, and temples of Tsambika with the decoded annelids mutating in trisomy with flat doors towards the Olives Berna. We look at what gratifies basting and plotting the positions of the stars of the universe that are attached like sheets worthy of almighty serials, and redoubled humor on the chthonic embracing tridents, before skewing Xyston as an original replica of the dream of a night in Tel Gomel. The counterweight of the message of light lagged behind the high astral like the little bear, bustards, and her angelic breath retreated in dissolution..., now if diva emotion I have my daring, and courage towards the binge of my omniscient prosopon, similar to omniscient telepathy, my soul lies and my emotion too because in this way I will treasure the value of panic by surrounding myself with the fears of resting, against the poles and sights of a peaceful energetic confrontation that will make them in Rhodes and Kimolos, channel the consumed human finitude and not eternal ad portas of his Áspis Koilé.

Unconsciously they will continue halfway with their bouquets of flowers for Valekiria, and may they never really take the time to tell her what time of eternity will make them more crowded for her, and her reliquary poem bursting into flame with its insidious outbreak and fear of telling him that if they revive they will be other Hellenic Hetairoi towards the vermilion light of the embodied sacrificed loop state as a "Being of Light". Oh ghost phenomenon that doesn't scare me... rather disappoints, clinging to the skins that die in the unexpected female muses in Gaia, with my burning and hypertensive ballast, still frequent in me... As conjecture and presence of Greek life..., having to be promoted and involved where they should be tempered to the contribution of biodiverse, and species for island life and its balance in the Aegean. The theorem will enunciate in the image of the Vas Auric as sounds of homeostasis in classrooms, properties of intervened annelids consistent, capable of maintaining them in a certain internal and stable condition, compensating for the changes of the explosion of the intervened patios, towards an environment through regulated exchange of matter and energy with the outside towards its (comparative metabolism), in the case of a form of dynamic balance with properties of Cinnabar brilliance, as a self-regulated biosphere in the conditions of the planet to make its environment (especially temperature and atmospheric chemistry) nobler with the species that make up life in the compass of two unmanned islands by beings from Gaia, rather as entropy in physical magnitude for a thermodynamic system in equilibrium, inhabited by dynamic beings that associate nobly for adaptations of worlds that are not born. It segregates them towards a departure measuring them from heightened numbers in states of zero compatible with the laws of that physics for the purposes of watchful guardians if Gaia's engine is turned on before this psychic and spiritual combustion. The laws of this system with closed circuits and brought will tend to maximize the entropy expiring inhibitory reactions for the traces of oxygen and nitrogen of the worms, making a sign of the levitated carbon dioxide to take it from Tsambika in two converged energies of Leviathan and Saint John the Apostle in moles of carbonate dioxide, battling surviving the impostor necromancers adverse to their conditions and reproduction, keeping these habitable for many who do not they enjoyed the life-death-life cycle. Greece, as it will now look regenerated and appropriate of laws and extensive fibers concerning moles of molecules said to be equal of said Vernarth hypotheses by way of sub-mythology, rather perching on the growing ivy and strangling the signs of satiety of life with properties in consonance with severities that hurt even to the sound of the rattles before the passing of the millennia! Fear, insecurity, and frustration did not fit because they will cut the Diospyros abenuz, with its stamens usually sixteen more hypogynous or inserted at the base of the corolla; as female flowers being greened or being converted into staminodes, Diospyros with generally tetra-locular ovaries or with eight locules due to false divisions, will make us channel by inseminating Itheoi demigods, under the staff of sub-mythology with Zefián, before the migrations in Helleniká begin, just as in this pact with silence and meditation and a burning flame, below the vulnerable and high insolated frequencies..., waking up in Gaia as a dozing fairy. Shamanic vested will grade synergy and simple science.
The Homily in the natural lassitude of the created, the Duoverse presented IHΣ, falling in the eighteenth letter of the Greek alphabet and in the duo hundred changes of physical remembrance. The PH (Hexagonal Primogeniture), is conceived in the presence of the Crismón, more Hellenic with the Vexillum banner and the Kantabroi to rescind the tired depressed zephyrs, since the quantum of memory was lost in the integrity of an earth acrophobia for the subsequent it would be air-water for this reason, preceded by the ceremonial that begins with the trimming of the abenuz Diospyros with its stamens usually sixteen plus it's hypogynous or inserted at the base of the corolla; like those of the female flowers having part of the gynoecium in the part of Tsambika, and of the androecium that will be of the Diospyros in Theoskepasti; usually tetra-ocular ovaries adapted to be inseminated for the raids of the demigods Itheoi and Duoverso, with the monogram HDD (Horcondising-Duoverso), tracing the bifurcations with Zefián; the chaos ordering up to modulated Theoskepasti. The changes have to be reborn in the stamen, being almost sterile and aborting in the chronicles of Galilee personifying the pollination benefit of the Diospyros resprouting in the same stem of the whorl even more so in each stigmatized part of Vernarth and Etréstles, carrying the IHS candles with the monogram and the Mandylion-Vas Auric, pointing to the Olives Bern. Before the seams of the carved heels and the canals of the annelids rise up through the alabaster up to the calyxes with the Chrismon hat. Filling the warehouse of Anemoi himself struggling with the roof, and forgetting his deposit of the breath on synaptic abbreviations continuing to argue with Saint John the Apostle in the network of Rhodes and Kimolos, in the bark of the sensory past and consequence of fallen gushes, and affecting being restored on the basis of oxygen-nitrogenated Nemo-genetic activation to summarize loss and gain of channeling between the Cyclades and the Dodecanese. The memories of the stuck Vernarth cerebellum will be loaded, trembling towards the marsh of the hippocampus where Zoroaster led the Magi to the end of the span and first-last border in the vicinity of Ein Karem. This evolutionary scale fluctuated in weak air masses with the increasing rise of the Meltemi over the Aegean taking them to Dekas Bay, on the knees of the colossus that cursed to avoid some delirium that could replace it's joint, remaining like this on a scale of reminiscent and unspoken emptiness..., it continues to be stated and not occupied and not, but raised towards the colossus from the ground of Vernarth which had unfolded bipartite from Rhodes to Kimolos, by way of the Verthian neuroscience whose prose emanated in the submissive glaciers of hyper-intuitive meditation (as a technique of knowledge and abstraction for functional links of improvisation, purgative discernment and yogic memory). All the nonsense is alluded to infringing the rationality of the Vas Áuric ceremonial in its phenomenology making curvilinear pauses to re-captivate phraseological, and diminished keys in the condensed equivalents to approximately ten terabytes from a homologous half surrendering almost when exhausted before both scholars, and their debts exchanged by driving..., thus recovering wave descents before reaching the bay of Dekas; Kímolos and final in the necropolis of Hellenika..., and vice versa before re-climbing in the middle of Mandraki, Archangelos and Filerimos to finish in Tsambika, Rhodes. As a parallel response to the archpriest not to alter the IHS monogram of the homily and the association in remembrance can affect the conduction of the mediate trance, almost prostrating it in the house of omission and frenzy, if it has to recover unstabilized. The sulfurous mercury component of the Cinnabar, came acidifying from the essences of the Vas Auric, already prospering in the tutelage of each auric conductor..., Archpriest and Saint John the Apostle, each one with the sulfurous of the Greek mountain and the arch of the Aegean Sea as a former karstic foundation for its diametric towards a change of reaction of chemical prisms up to the multi-angular of the topaz that Saint John the Apostle carried in his bag near the reliquary, hanging off some fringes of the Vexillum that had been placed near Vernarth. Immediately from the banks of the monastery, Raeder was walking with a lantern looking for those who might try to enter, he believed that it was his father from Kalymnos who came on another mission to be taken to the cinnabar, more on top of an encourage observing the quarters stationed in the sandbanks of Rhodes, Petrobus the pelican circling the ledges of the monastery, marking out the apparent slackness of his body and entreaties in case they ventured into Kalymnos for a good portent, in waters for tenth seeds and for all the rodines. From the cloister with one of its necessary dependencies, all were with white candles aggravated between the steps of each cell and attached friars they made an antechamber in the nave near the church on the hexagonal floor, being screened by the center of the garden where everything was dominated by the limits of the alabaster arcades, which only now pointed to the closet of the books, this time with plenty and saved voices with devotion. Chapter by chapter it was won..., for each cell, identifying each portion in identity up to the scriptorium and refectory, where this ceremony books were distributed to the infinite world of the Duoverse near the locutory to witness where Saint George and the Dragon raged, souring winepresses for the missal wine.

Sequence shot in Kimolos, Panagia Theoskepasti- Etréstles says: “according to what has to be said in this dimension, the word will be the Duoverse. Synchronically it will be aligned with the monastery in the Tsambika for the third hour after noon, reflecting on the unrevealed walls of the chapel on all the radiosities of the cinnabar, entering in electromagnetic lassitude through the trusses of the pulpit anchored in the Vox and mystical vortex, towards those who entered and left thousands of times through the counter shutters of the chapel, which collided crashing many times until by the glow of Cinnabar somewhat sulfurous, was mixed with the interlocking of some novas which also acted as a decoy for the Chrismón that Kanti carried the steed adjusted in the saddle on his back, as a mount in syntactic esotericism speaking with intangible brown colors of the Cinnabar.
Vas Auric
June West Oct 2013
People are over
More, I want more
A handful...

I still feel so empty.
20 more texts sent.
Body to body we stand
awkwardly talk.
Pushed into corners.

I'm still so distant.
So empty.
so far from where I'm currently standing,
uttering and murmuring.
Pouring in pouring out.
All these faces blurring,
looking the ******* same...

Same small talk
same story
about how they are
where they go to school.

BlaBlaBlaBla
YapYapYapYap

How does it feel to be a ******* puppet? I say.
How does it feel to be nothing special? I say.
How does it feel to ******* feel??

Oh, the weather?
yeah,
it's as inconsistently consistent as this
ever so bland cup of
coffee conversation.

Wow Me.
Make me want to turn my lights on.
Taylor Stein Jan 2013
I woke one morning and could not see
My eyes were shut
Then to my astonishment
My sight came rushing back, surprising my hopeless life

For a moment in time, after my new outlook
Darkness came back
And I was much afraid
That it had returned, forever to bind me again

This burning question
Then possessed me
Can those in darkness truly come to light
If they still have flashes of their night?

I turned this over and over
Finally concluding they could
For Stockholm Syndrome
Is a reality

Those who live in darkness
For so long, are bound
To be shortly plunged back, inconsistently
Though they are free

I then realized
My fear in this troubling return
Had only existed for a time so short
And that I need not be afraid

For this is the cunning of the darkness
To make minutes, days
And hours, centuries
To twist the mind in an effort for control

For the darkness runs in deep rivers of the heart
And when light overwhelms
It is not eager to relent
But reluctant to loosen its grasp.

(theinkthatspeaks.blogspot.com)
Andrew McGinnis Sep 2013
My thoughts, unable together to piece, are left
          drip drop dripping away no! no!
Scattered? Scattered discovery inconsistently applied
          and forgotten, yes.
They all go insane, Brothers of Icarus, driven on;
          please stop, too much; to ask that is.
The broken heart is blind
but the broken mind can't close its eye.
Julia Mae Dec 2016
-
i am so exhausted by consistently loving you while you inconsistently "love" me
"your love is such a swamp, you don't think before you jump"
Isaac Sands Nov 2012
There is, or perhaps was, always,
And forever, quite invariably,
Yet inconsistently, as if sporadically
A thought that I once won over.
Or did I get one over in a thought?
The idea of greatness, un-sought
Never dirtied by the eyes of those
Who want only, horrifically,
Most terribly, quite incomparably,
My inner most
A ponderous place, that I abhor
Fleeing ever quicker,
On feet made of lead.
Perhaps just one look back?
They'll never know,
Until my salt-pillar body they find
In later days.
I picture us falling down a bottomless pit
And we're nearing a section with a divergence in it

We can hold each other as close as we want in the minutes we have left
But that does not change the reality that the divider will show up

And split us in two

Let us imitate intimacy
While we're still in each other's vicinity
And though I've inconsistently felt your proximity,
I know that, for now, you're here with me

A day before she goes, it feels like it could snow
It's so cold out

A day before she goes, I find myself below
Just crying out

Our hearts, heavy, worn, ignorant of what to do
They cling to each other and wish that the two
Could once again become one
And that this all would be done
a sad girl Nov 2013
I yearn for the day when I will not think of you, smile, and ache.
This aching creeps up out of nothing, unprovoked and unwarranted.
I smile, I am released; happy for a moment,
before your dormant essence stirs about to muddy my clear well of joy.
I am clouded by you.
Clout.

You are already gone
You were never really here
I felt you
You came and went, inconsistently with no rhyme or reason
Because you didn't deeply care for me, as you must for her
She has absorbed your capacity to love another
I thought with time, my flames would catch and spread to you, ensnaring us both.
Only I burned.
BMG Jun 2018
Your tide rolled in
Your tide rolled out
The best way to describe us,
Our love,
To define what happened
Is to compare it to the ocean,
My sanity the sand.
Your love became a tide to me.

Consistent in only one way,
The way it never
Never ceased to exist
Yet inconsistently  
Constantly changing.
Your waves cascaded over me,
across my shoreline
swallowing every bit
of who I once was.  

All the while I was gasping for air.
Your water filling every crack
Your tide rolled in
Your tide rolled out
Each passing time
disturbing my sand
My sanity
Taking away the smallest pieces
Every time the tide rolled in
Until finally
Nothing that was once there
Still existed.
Annie Nolan May 2015
Me
Long hair
hair that covers my wishfully bony shoulders inconsistently

Inconsistent eyes
eyes that flash here and there, eyes that cover up a part that is unfinished

Unfinished body
body that is easily forgettable

Forgettable laugh
laugh that erupts with annoyance until it goes slow

Slow tongue
tongue that savors and starves and tricks and lies

Lying mind
mind that wants to know minds yet it deceives me; not controllable

Controllable heart
heart that wants to stand strong on something, anything, yet perishes in hibernating

Hibernating sleep
sleep walking through the day, waiting for time to be recycled

Recycled thoughts
thoughts that stick like mud, filling empty cracks and suffocating new birth bitterly

Bitter skin
skin that holds in the creepy crawling stinging

Stinging fear
fear that I cannot and will not be me

Me
My dreams come
In different shapes.
And different sizes.
In different colors.
And different disguises.

My dreams come
Sporadically.
Inconsistently.
Without rhyme.
Without reason.
Random.

My dreams come
When I wake.
When I sleep.
In the day.
In the night.
When I read.
And when I write.

My dreams come.
And my dreams go.
But in my heart
I know,
My future is my own.

— The End —