Every time I walketh into mine restroom at night
The creepiest little feeling
Is knowing one of those lilliputian shaytan's
Art piercing through me with their snake like vision's,

As wherein they'll scratch me
As I feeleth their burning sting.....

I say a benediction prayer to God
And light a little native sage around the house....
And they always dissapear,

As tis
I know its not all just the sage smoke that makes them disperse
But the prayer that makes them scurry like rats....

For they canst stand God!!!!



******* DEMON'S!!!!!

where
does
poetry
dwell
in
a
lilliputian
red log cabin
in
the
pinewood forest

Upon his glottal’s larynx spreads a lingual deformity. Isolation as a result from tuggo disaffiliates. Misshapen promontory in the direction of upper-body inflammation. Not only above torso alone, location;head/injury;mouth/main informative;tongue.
The boy’s tongue was permanently horned. A horn of 18 inches shy, where taste buds formulate, he owned a lone spike. He wasn’t abraded by the unfoldment of onlookers around. His irregular attachment was a main confidant. Criticized, he was not welcomed by towns near. Citizen’s were baffled and disgusted, ridiculing him daily, he did not impale with grieve over appearance. Enmity he wanted and craved. Among the works of flesh, square inch niches, repugnance revealed. Revenge, revenge. Vindictive spirit shelled so timely and calm. Remaining this state of sumptuous integrity made him stronger each go about. These goes were so stimulus, adding to the *** of hatred. Deep into the tundra’s most vile he intruded. Went so every month or few, for weeks at a time. For this sheet of rigid earth so contiguous to the town made the worried weary, the skeptical seared, and the nautical not so knitted with directional sense. This was his consummation of gathering. The place of being a being. The dry winter amid eight months was restricted, so the moment a due mustn’t be bothered. He had his reason of validness for course. A rich succulent from the bearings of plant life on cliffs. Repelling an obstacle such as was ludicrous for even one born the ever so adequate and society defined norm. Now having a tongue with a horn, some sought might as well die to be reborn. He had to, to stay alive. The liquid, which sit so treacherous, was the mold to mouth medicine. To speak at all it must be attained. Not only a curdling death trap waiting to swallow, the boy had to get a plentiful amount for the hard hitting winters collied. His tongue could swell like the storms, loud crimson on the esophagus. To die of asphyxiation was his dodge of ultimatum.
While passing by a local television in a thrift shop-
“Today’s Newscast: Blizzards, moving in at speeds of 94 mph. Predicted to cover like a blanket for 12 months. Ice Age relative people, this one is gonna be big! Stay indoors at night, the barometric’s indicate that from 9PM to 4AM temperatures as low as 28- will stouten for the next year. Once again people, stay indoors at these hours, get your needs when available. Back to you Ronda with the quintuplets birth today!”
Plucked and grit witted he stood. He felt the trepidation of abhorrence swaying in orbit around him. How to emanate from this delay? At least five clones of self did not exist for him. Merriment struct pro, while the cons derived from which they know. Exultation when despondent, how greatly that gift could gab. Despoilment of that, he weighed options out. To altercate thick snow or simply, let it go. Afraid to die unrivaled, the off cutting is wisest. Since his first second to now he’s flourished with his horn. Obliteration to the occulted manifestation mannered as an antique replica of anyone catching him by twice by day. Remove it, remove it, remove if you want life in your years that follow. Remove it, ever so. Remove it, cut and sew. Cut and sew. Remove.
This plateau poisoned place stay calm, anticipating climate of tempest bold reaches, anyone who was anyone was not so. Negative degrees. How could he retaliate the opposite, while acquiring a surgeon field hay day buck builder? Eruption turns the wave of cons. An only equal precision, deciding, tonight is the night. To assemble the tools, publicly was questionable, no more, through. He will emerge to the lands and people a new man, sustained, and hornless. No more. From scratch he will vender what’s needed. Wood was chiseled under the last moon viewed for three sixty three days ahead. Uprooted vines of old pine will hold the bark tight. Breath revealing around the outsides of his appendage. Like a fork in the road, which way can you go, for him air strides both. Scuffling fearful towards the pike of the tundra, he is where wanted by none. A be all end all as you could alleviate ones slightest sympathy, the courage it takes, ****** immense. His sweat was not seen, but there it consists. One hand grappled around his earthly dagger, tongue positioned in an outward arrangement. Travail glowing all over him as an aura unlanguid with no disruption veering. Abound now, without great weight on his shoulders, he’s lived. Ascending keen eyes towards the blood bath around his feet, going both ways around the fork and road. After relinquishing his steady gavel, the checking of his pulse is counted. 5, 6, 7, 8, seconds, still life to live. For the very first ritual to come, placed in his mouth, the tongue. The rigid roof so unfamiliar and new he bestowed in his joy of such a common flank. The tundra felt warm as he inside let over pour. Once more a milder gasp as he vociferates to the last moon for the year. On his peak, and favored place of being, he let out his tongue. Sharp inclement so hawkish and frosted he felt. The lilliputian of no pain, heeded by first snow to wane.

Dear Papa,
Yesterday I saw something that I didn’t understand.
They were walking a little ahead of me.
But walking isn't the right word,
because there were two people
and only two feet.
It sounds like a math problem,
But nothing added up in my head.
It sounds like Vikram Vetal, papa,
But unlike the story you told me the other day,
there was no strong king or sly demon.
I saw, however, one ***** underfed boy of eight
dragging his crippled mother across the street.
Adhunik Shravan bal.
A Lilliputian on a Herculean task.
I couldn't decipher her age.
When you're that poor, does age matter?
Do they keep count of the days that pass by
when their aim is to survive just one?
Do they have a mirror to look into
and count the wrinkles on their face?
What does age matter to an eight year old boy
who, instead of attending school,
is hauling his handicapped mother across the road
on a seating board with wheels?
When I was that age, papa,
you bought me a skateboard
that was the exact leaf green
from my 50 colours oil pastels set.
I couldn't see the colour of their clothes.
There was the dark of the night,
yellow of the street lights
and everything was in sepia
like the picture you showed me
of your childhood.
You once told me you were raised in poverty too, papa.
Are there different kinds of poverty?
Did you get toys to play with
or were your clothes in sepia too?
I told you this sounds like a math problem, papa,
And here’s what doesn't add up.
Isn't a parent supposed to hold their child's hand
and show them how to cross the road?
I remember holding your hand,
looking left-right-left
and matching my steps
with your strides.
Fast, but never run.
Who taught him, papa?
Did he have his own papa to teach him?
How did he learn to walk fast enough
and pull hard enough
so that he and his mom made it across the road in time?
How did he find the strength if he was underfed?
He truly reminds me of Shravan bal,
because who else would carry his mother
across such distances.
I told you it sounds like Vikram Vetal, papa,
and now that I think about it, it really does.
Maybe this little boy is a young king.
Maybe he brings his vetal back home every day.
Maybe he hears her talk about her day.
And maybe, papa,
when he succeeds every night,
she saves him from an evil tantric.
An evil tantric called hunger.

“Since pain is a totally subjective mental experience"
"we do not have direct access"
"to anyone or anything’s pain"

"but our own;"
"and even just the principles"
"by which we can infer"

"that others experience pain"
"and have a legitimate interest in not feeling pain"
"involve hard-core philosophy—"

"metaphysics, epistemology, value theory, ethics.”*

- From Consider the Lobster by David Foster Wallace

David I've considered it and
I think she might laugh if she read
that a version of her
briny and spined
pint sized
now resides in the depths of my mind,
She might laugh
at my comparison of her
to a hideous sea spider

but it’s because, as you say,
one can neither comprehend the pain
of an exquisitely tactile lobster in a *** of boiling water,
nor walk a mile in it's eight lilliputian shoes

So I am left to wonder
what it might mean or not mean to her
in her armoured yet acute exoskeleton
to have quit school and
be back to her fathers house
on Prince Edward Island.
and what I'd want to tell her is:

They might try to butter you up,
bridle your anger with blue rubber bands,
Use their wooden spoons
to nudge your thrashing, clinging arms
back into the ***,

but as we know,
lobsters can live to be over one hundred years old
and grow to be over twenty pounds in size
which is very large for an aquatic insect
and they are marine crustaceans of the family Homaridae,
characterized by five pairs of jointed legs,
the first pair terminating in large pincerish claws

I know she knows how to use them.
Which reminds me of something else you said:
"Everything I've ever let go of has claw marks on it."
A feeling I can understand
Though I'm no more lobster
than she

Can we please have a moment of silence? shhh! That is for shame
The consciousness of impropriety and dishonour, a soul eating emotion, an inner burning flame.
Disembarked and render anaemic by a queen dark and evil, for with her, shame is non-existence
Blame her not, her wicked soul is the caprice of affinity with being an outcast and unlove

For before her heart became embroiled with dark powers and all the ingenious gore that accompany an unrepentant soul,
She had the lassitude of the perfect woman, a languid ease, the obeisance, lovable heart and knew nothing foul

But deep inside her aching heart, all that she suffered silently, she could enlighten no one, from her devastated childhood,
the sheer indescribable horror of neglect, unreturned love, the treachery, the villainy, melancholy motherhood

And castigation made her seek power even into the maelstrom of the blackest tempest of the darkest part of hell.
Her hunger for power and macabre mode of it acquisition, renders the thought of her been shameful, lilliputian

As she journeyed towards the castle, her conscience wasn't pricked by volatile outbursts of her sins from the angry crowd
she knew what she wanted, she sold her soul for this, she knew this was what she has to go through to get it.

A rite of passage stolen by lucifer from the Saviour of the world
Let them strip, beat, and mock you.Let them make you walk through there crowd disgraced,
but be rest assured that when all is done, you'll be the ruler of all

For too many a time, the story has been told,
be you good or evil, fortune only favours the bold.

The castle was her own Golgotha, the throne was her own cross
beyond that castle wall lies all that she needs to rule and have dominion
for there in that castle live the old man and others waiting to make her there queen

I was swift to condemn her for all, but after a retrospective thinking, my judgement became ambivalent.
wasn't it judgements and condemnations that made her felt sequestered, separated, segregated and all other equivalent?

To be continued......

I was born and raised in cement.
only slightly porous and pigmented grey
with mold and mildew seeping into unsuspecting cracks
and flowers and lilliputian trees sprouting here and there

the sunshine caused the heat to rise
and my skin burned soles and souls to touch
making me undesirable
making me poisonous  

the snow caused my skin to freeze
causing backs to breaks and people to die
making me hated
making me alone

and yet I cannot escape my home
I have grown to love its lethal walls
its sinister and dangerous pout
its hard and familiar structure

I am one within the cement
I am stronger than bone
I am indestructible
I can survive and I will outlast all

By: Cedric McClester

The days of servile darkies
Pickin’ cotton from a field
With its underlyin’ racism
Has cache and appeal
For some Lilliputian minds
If we’re gonna keep it real
So they keep questionin him
Like we don’t know the deal

Been there done that before
We had the right to vote
Some would like to take us back
Or hang us from a rope
If it’s not based on race then what is it
That keeps the birthers goin’
They make it up from whole cloth
And yet their lies keep growin’

They’re good at spreadin’ vermin
And their own insanity
But who are they to determine
Our humanity
If by chance they really think
They can turn time back
Cap’n that ain’t hapnin
And that’s simply is a fact

Cap’n that ain’t hapnin
Cap’n that ain’t hapnin

The whole world’s lookin at us
Wondrin’ what’s the problem
We used to take on challenges
And find a way to solve ‘em
But racism seems so ingrained
That it remains a problem
And sayin’ that is not the case
In no way will absolve ‘em

They’re good at spreadin’ vermin
And their own insanity
But who are they to determine
Our humanity
If by chance they really think
They can turn time back
Cap’n that ain’t hapnin
And that’s simply is a fact

Cap’n that ain’t hapnin
Cap’n that ain’t hapnin

The days of servile darkies
Pickin’ cotton from a field
With its underlyin’ racism
Has cache and appeal
For some Lilliputian minds
If we’re gonna keep it real
So they keep questionin' him
Like we don’t know the deal



(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.

Island in gathered
Lavender sheets
Lilliputian dregs congeal
- Missed shots in the dark

Slack-mouth “no”
Echoes in peeling paint

Globules of restrained ***
Hollow my form

I touch my own lips
Not consenting to their last
Tryst.

Marlboro reds cling to
Salivary memory
Turning in my tongue –
Tucked along the
Cusp of my teeth

Pressing
Trying to expel the taste
I spit

Flecks spatter amidst
His-release…

Cats stuck to window sills as languid as the rolling hills and craggy like the rocky tors
sheep sleeping underneath a portcullis of a sky
as steel grey clouds disguised as prison bars soothe
them gently with the Lakeland lullaby

I saw no Viking
but I did see hikers by the score
up the scree
scrambling up the tor

being me,
I wondered
what you doing that for?

Boats across the lake
too much
Kendal mint cake
and your jaws ache
take the Lilliputian train
we're toddlers
toddling off again

Such fun.

Raw
Flesh collision
Hews the body
Lilliputian flecks coalesce
Dust motes cling
In dilapidated spheres
Dawn’s menagerie
Enunciating their form
In blatant form and elongated shadow

peter hated the house on mckinley street
in his eight-year-old brain it was a hot mess

since his parents moved there
all he heard were complaints and yelling

his mother was always moaning about the small rooms,
the lousy closet space, the faulty plumbing, the leaky roof

and the mice

they were everywhere - in closets, in pantries, in drawers,
behind the heater, under the radiators

they were in nooks and crannies, behind the refrigerator,
in the laundry room, even in the crawl space

they were almost always in hiding, rarely seen in daytime
except when they were found dead in a trap - also a rarity

traps were set methodically, enticing hors d'oeuvres were created
laced with cheese and peanut butter but still nothing worked

his mother would religiously check the traps every morning
and every time she'd mutter "those little ******* *******!"

the sly moves of mice to avoid the guillotine snap of a mousetrap
as they nibbled around a flap of cheese amazed everyone

besides traps his parents bought sticky cheese pads where the
tiny monsters would get their heads and bodies stuck permanently

one time peter observed a black mouse lying - and dying - on
a cheese pad...he pushed a second pad over its face

"i suffocated the little ****!" he exclaimed and when he told
his parents they bought him a gift card from the lego store

but every now and then one of the lilliputian invaders would
make a live unscheduled appearance

one october when the nights began to get colder his mother saw
a gray mouse climb up a cord leading to the microwave

she almost had a heart attack right there on the spot and there
was the time his father was looking in the refrigerator and

heard a strange scratchy noise behind him - he sensed
a sudden descent; a baby mouse had scurried off a shelf and

fell into a small trash can so his father immediately picked
up the can and hurled it out the back door

ultimately the parents decided to move to a swanky apartment
house and the night before peter had his last "mouse dream"

it featured a giant white mouse's head that was the size of
a billboard so big so menacing it scared him awake

finally he fell back into a gentle state of dreamless slumber...
and when he woke up his parents were taking down pictures

he looked out his window and saw a moving van pull up and
for the first time in a long time he was happy

‪They play. ‬
The fingers when they slip into your hands, snuggling gently into their warmth reminding why touch isn’t always a screen that turns bright with fever, yet never turns on.

They feel.
The fingers when they slide into the countless caresses rippling down your pretty head, only parting so gently to reveal the forehead glistening with sweat and love.

They tease
The fingers when they ski over your naked skin revealing the tender pores in the slow shiverings and infinitesimal bumps that raise their Lilliputian heads and come alive.

They sing
The fingers when they feel your flirty lips and the tongue looking to mate darts out, to speak of stories that lie hidden behind the brightest shades stroked to life with perfumed wax.

They mate
The fingers when they feel your shivering thighs and explore the depth of your love making you moan in disbelief, figuring out what makes you love who you love and spill it all over.

Why is it easy to put on the pounds
But so **** hard to lose?
It's always a breeze to pass on the peas,
But ice cream is hard to refuse.

Often we catch ourselves driving too fast;
Are we ever driving too slow?
Our brains are less like a Rafael
And more like a Vincent van Gogh.

Time plods along when we're waiting in line
But races when we're having fun.
As hard as we try to stick to a budget,
There's usually cost overrun!

Medical costs are so Brobdingnagian;
Why can't they be Lilliputian?
It's easy to make but tough to keep
A New Year's resolution.

Doesn't it also seem easy to sink
Yet hard to stay afloat?
Finding the exact words is a challenge;
It's a cinch to misquote.

Love--it seems--should be so simple.
Why is there so much hate?
Being early is usually good,
But sometimes you want to be late.

Life's little inconsistencies:
Always a daily test…
All we can do is go with the flow
And try to do our best.

- by Bob B

₁Peering into my eyes in a darkened room
Your dog curled up, lilliputian,
Quietened behind the wall across from us
Your hands cradle my face as if I am crumbling marble
₅Venusian statue that you've finished carving
Delicacy and care reside in your fingers

I cannot see you, your everything is blurred
You are a frustratingly unfinished masterpiece
You are an out-of-focus black and white Kodak photo
Candid snapshot a girl has taken with her camera phone
Wordless and soundless,
Silent in an equally soundless room

I hear our syncopated breathing,
Softened, pulsing rhythm, cadence of your breath
Fanning across my bottom lip
You open your mouth
A sliver of light from your window
Curtains, diaphanous, like gossamer silk
Flutter in the stream of your quiet fan

You speak
My eyelids flit like moth's wings on a Spring evening
You speak
There's approximately four striations of shades
In your irises,
Flecks of opaque peridot and ochre
God drizzled in spools of honey
Swirled in the colors of crisp autumn leaves and sun-dappled orange
Called it done

I press my face against your cheek
Leave a lasting imprint of you there
Your touch will be ghost-like
I'll feel it on my skin seven months later

“You are so pretty you know that?”
Your eyes split me open
Like a cadaver whose bones were strung
With pearls and fitted with chains
Beauty in the macabre
Beauty in a breakdown

Our grandfather was a grandfather you would draw
He would make pennies appear from our ears and remove his thumb for our delight
He whistled to say hello, and had a voice that made green grow the rushes
He embodied the joy of a child and so the fairies came to live in his garden to whisper messages to us

Our grandfather greeted us with an apple or pear or cucumber or something of Bob’s best
He would dress for our arrival making a belt of string and show us the latest marvel in his treasure trove garden
Our grandfather hugged like a bear and gave kisses so freely that you would never forget how deeply you were loved

A man of principle, a man of courage, a man who fought the titans for the Lilliputian’s of this world
A man who did not live on his knees, but stood and looked you in the eye, respected you and with compassion put forward his truth
Our grandfather taught us right from wrong in front of his fire, as the clock chimed and the chandelier shivered and the scarlet chaise longue told you how far this man had come

Our grandfather withstood pain in his life, sang songs with prisoners of war, made great machines and dreams for his grandchildren
His soul shone out and people loved him, not just for who he was but for how he made us feel

Oh How I loveth thee
A quite quaint angel in my own eyes.
With dark and white broken wings.
Und'r ****** falls.

I shall waiteth, and comf'rt thee.
Liekth thee loveth thy beareth.
Until the endeth of p'riod.
A hoarse voice with angelic tone.
Haer like the colours of my chameleon.

The tend tender lips of loveth.
A smileth and mind of ambivalence.
I shall loveth with nay judgment.
A halo as bright as the mistress
Possesseth in humans death's-head.

The lukewarm blue chopt lips.
The sleep chamber the lady did lie upon.
H'r ilness, but I accepteth death.
I can kisseth with green valor breath.
The strength of a giant.
The nimbleness of a lilliputian fairy.
Thee can doth aught.

Yon can crustheth and slipeth.
Through the cracks of timeth.
Thee can beest fell'r joyous.
Liketh the visage of a monst'r
I loveth thee f'r who is't thou art.

Thee can beest the wild animal with scars.
mine own canine ears ope to hark.
Thee can has't warts liketh a toad.
A belly as big as the univ'rse.
I shalt beest a fath'r.
thee can has't barb'd wire on thy corse.
My chivalrous armour does not mind thy pain.

Thee believeth chivalry is gone.
Somewh're on the planet, 'r in the heavens above.
Sickl'd by the grim reap'rs ploy.
The apparition 'r man you love.
I'm the pap'r thee loveth at which hour thy depress'd
The smileth thee misseth.
I am thy sir'r knave at heart.
I'm the knight thee wanteth me to best.
The lasteth sir standing at the edge of the w'rld with thee.
Thy the only ***** I protecteth, and loveth f'rev'r.
I give you can seeth how I loveth thee.





This poem was written by Shane Michael Cleary at 12:42 2017 on June 30th.

it is the little things
that consume me...
the daily minutea
that others miss...
or deem discardable.
it is these.....
small moments
i am drawn to..
that.. i focus on......
as the big picture sails by
piccolo thoughts
and lilliputian dreams...
.... engage me.
encouraging me to ..
flights of fancy....  
expansive in expression...
....snatches of conversation
half finished gestures.....
are bread and butter
.... sustaining me.
...tiny bits of tree twiglet,
when they grow...
what stories could they tell.
a christmas stamp stuck to the
cement pavement...
i would hate to pay
the postage on sending that package.
always...and always
in the back of my mind....
the sea....
full of teeming....
tiny floaty things for me...
to inadeaquately... describe
and love... i write love  well....
then there are....
.... the familys forgotten moments
...gathered by my quill
we..... as poets... are life's truest horder's .....inscribing life on sky and tree.....
we see and hold....
....and feel and scry.
the minikens... of all .....mankind
with little.. splot, spotches..? of inkspots ..joined to form a line.
of words to open hearts...
..and free encumbered mind

Half moon high
In a deepening sky
The clouds like spider cotton,
Like blue ivory husks betwixt
Umber grey misty fog,
The diablerie of dusk
Dark sky and stars

The streets flooded,
a river of headlights, flashlights,
Sidewalks’ pedestrian traffic,
An Armada of munchkins, crowds
Strolling by Chinatown’s
Crisp neon plazas,
A necropolis bright with
Cartoon sharp signage
Accessorizing restaurants with
Jade And gold, foot spas
And red doors…
Horrors of hangings
Roast ducks and pigs decapitated…

Yet the evening is dressed finely still
All eyes lurking
Shadows floating by
Not to be forgotten tonight
Dias de las Muertos
En espanol…

While down the road
Neighborhood way
Skitters Lilliputian creatures
In shells of Saver’s costumes
As squeals of laughter festoons
Boulevard life with
Tiny tintinnabulations
Like baby rattlers
Against the dark
(Maracas for chupacabras)

Timorous parent folk
Encouragement as company,
They Scurry past
Down dim spatial street
In demand of what is given freely
From each and every door
Treat and sweets
Caries galore
All their tricks cached in grins
Of baby teeth
turn candy corn…

Mischievously the meek milk
All Hallows' Eve For
Hallowed be the glee
Even tho' beneath
The web of grey cloudy sky
Life is precious
To deny
The thirsty as it rains

Misery’s loss deep dismal graves,
We should live in celebration
Childlike everyday
Sing and dance
In the October rain
In this wonder
Like rattlers against the dark

Far from wastes of
Hollow wind and pain,
Chilling cries, bleeding eyes,
Undead the unseen
From this cirque city of sins
Offsprings on the strip
Fearless on the boulevard
Treating & tricking
With ole candied lies…

All done up in bright disguise
Happy Halloween.

When we look out beyond stars
beyond city lights that interfere
we see vast expanses of black velvet
storing up gigawatts of static electrons
waiting to release a supernova
leaving us as hint of lilliputian ozone

-cec

have you ever felt your body?


have you ever felt your body?
a mellow clay mold sitting in the
bathroom, filled with pops and
quick ticks, i've often searched my
veins for pains, and they manifest
when I do, so I wonder--

about that.


and when I think about it too much
my belly starts to buzz and my chest
thickens with a warm afterglow, yeast
rising in a far clavicle, in my kidneys
and spleen--when I focus on the sounds
I can hear the pin drop of my soul, a tiny
bead on a string, a group of pink seashells
on Newton's cradle in a room shadowed in
broken evening, clicking against each other
softly, a lilliputian clock keeping time from
another century--

lost in twilight, in dawn, skipping the day,
my spirit always sinks into the everglades
a flighty anachronism, a homing pigeon
caught in telephone wires, beneath bus
wheels and modern dating--

ah,

out there?
hello?
forward message.  
I am here.

That's a jumping spider
I told you that it wants to be left alone
But still you persist
Because who can resist
Its lilliputian beauty
So exquisite
So fragile
And it would certainly meet doom
At your equally
Exquisitely
Lilliputian fingers

I spare the spider your brutal curiosity
Like how I wish
Life would spare your innocence
From the groping, grubby
Fingers of this broken world
Ignorant to your transcendence
This filthy world
Eager to offer you gilded trinkets
In exchange for your radiance
Pure joy unsullied
By the taint of human guile
It's foie gras to them
Though there are higher things
We are called to

I'll show you

By the dawn of day
This parson pilfers
The tongue of its prey
And flutters it at will
Till the shades of evening turn grey
And if fact is there,
All the way into caves of twilight.
It deals with opposition
Quite different way:
A sudden wit, a swift play
Followed by hypersonic heed
And that's it
The enemy is shed
And maintained by lightning whips
Or sweet succession of
Lilliputian leaps.
Don't oppose its sermon for too long
For it stuns the breath
Heaven's assigned it a sign
Lovers can read
And beasts endeavor to destroy it
Welcome its weightless landings
For it never rests
Until nestled by fate.

“How it is noted that metals can tell time,
Seagulls sparkle as they soar up above,
God’s creatures soar and ride the crests of waves,
People have a wind that eviscerates their souls,

Seagulls have leaded many to their sea of destiny,
In fields of dried wheat and soaring clouds,
Many born with lack of visioning stars above,
Could those be the souls that are lost at sea?

Moonlight shining on her skin like lemon flowers,  
Inebriated with fragrance of sweet lemon plants,
Lives on in a lemon light of the moon cling to brine,
In their subtle matter a bouquet scent of age,

Love is a journey through waters and stars,
Love is such a war of thunder and wavy brines,
Two bodies annexed by a single sweet aged odor,
Entwine fruitage lovers lilliputian forged as one,
Topace riding the droplet shrines of aromatic guise”
     By Andrew Guzaldo © 09/07/2018