I am a poet.
I am an artist.
A lover of words, a shaper of thoughts, a master of feelings;
A player of emotions, a speaker of charms, a thinker of minds.
A giver of taste-and at times, a succulent creator of madness.
Madness outside such lines of timid regularity;
The rules of the common, and the inane believers of sanity.
For to me, sanity is as easy as insanity itself-
On which my life feedeth, and boldly moveth on;
And without insanity, t'ere shan't be either joy-or ecstasy;
As how ecstasy itself, in my mind, is defined by averted uneasiness,
And t'at easiness, reader, is not by any means part of;
And forever detached from, the haunting deities of contemporaneity.
Thus easily, artistry consumeth and spilleth my blood-and my whole entity;
Words floweth in my lungs, mastereth my mind, shapeth my own breath.
And sometimes, I breathest within those words themselves;
And declareth my purity within which, feeleth rejection at whose loss;
Like a princess storming about hysterically at the failure of her roses.
Ah! Poetry! The second lover of my life; the delicacy of my veins.
And I loveth, I doth love-sacredly, intensely, and expressively, all of which;
I loveth poetry as I desire my own breath, and how I loveth the muchness of my fellow nature;
Whose crazes sometimes surroundeth us like our dear lake nearby;
With its souls roaming about with water, t'at chokes and gurgles-
As stray winds collapseth around and strikest a war with which.
And most of the year-I am a star, to my own skies;
But by whose side a moon, to my rainless nights;
On the whole, I am an umbrella to my soul;
So t'at it groweth bitter not, even when t'ere is no imminent rain;
And be its savior, when all is unsaved, and everything else writhest in pain.

Thus I loveth poetry as well as I loveth my dreams;
I am a painter of such scenic phrases, whose miracles bloometh
Next to thunderstorms, and yon subsequent spirited moonbeam.
And t'eir fate is awesome and elegant within my hands;
They oft' sleep placidly against my thumbs;
Asking me, with soft-and decorous breath;
To be stroked by my enigmatic fingers;
And to calm t'eir underestimated literariness, by such ungodly beings, out t'ere.
Ah, poor-poor creatures-what a fiend wouldst but do t'is to aggravate 'em!
As above all, I feeleth but extremely eager about miracles themselves;
and duly witness, my reader-t'at t'is very eagerness shall never be corrupted;
Just as how I am a pure enthusiast of love;
And in my enthusiasm, I shareth love of both men and nature;
And dark sorrows and tears t'at oft' shadowest t'eir decent composures.
When I thirstest for touches, I simply writest 'em down;
When I am hungry for caresses, I tendeth to think them out;
I detailest everything auspiciously, until my surprised conscience cannot help but feeling tired;
But still, the love of thee, poetry, shall outwit me, and despise me deeply-
Should I find not the root, within myself, to challenge and accomplish it, accordingly.
I shall be my own jealousy, and my own failure;
Who to whose private breath feeleth even unsure.
I shall feel scarce, and altogether empty;
I shall have no more essence to be admired;
For everything shall wither within me, and leave me to no energy;
And with my conscience betrayed, I shall face my demise with a heart so despaired.
Ah, my poetry is but my everything!
'Tis my undying wave; and the casual, though perhaps unnatural;
the brother of my own soul, on whose shoulders I placeth my longings;
And on whose mouths I lieth my long-lost kisses!
Ah, how I loveth poetry hideously, but awesomely, thereof!
I loveth poetry greatly-within and outside of my own roof;
And I carest not for others' mock idyll, and adamant reproof;
For I loveth poetry as how as I respectest, and idoliseth love itself;
And when I idoliseth affection, perhaps I shall grow, briefly, into a normal human being-
A real, real human being with curdling weights of unpoetic feelings;
I shall whisper into my ears every intractable falsehood, but the customary normalcy-of creation;
And brash, brash emptiness whom my creative brains canst no longer bear!
Ah, dearest, loveliest poetry, but shall I love him?
Ah-the one whose sighs and shortcomings oft' startlest my dreams;
The one whom I oft' pictureth, and craftest like an insolent statue-
Within my morning colours, and about my petulant midnight hue?
Or, poetry, and tellest me, tellest me-whether needst I to love him more-
The one whose vice was my past-but now wishes to be my virtue,
And t'is time an amiably sober virtue-with eyes so blue and sparkling smiles so true?
Ah, poetry, tellest me, tellest me here-without delay!
In my oneness, thou shalt be my triumph, and everlasting astonishment;
Worthy of my praise and established tightness of endorsement;
But in any doubleness of my life-thou shalt be my saviour, and prompt avidity-
When all but strugglest against their trances, or even falleth silent.
Ah, poetry, thou art the symbol of my virtue thyself;
And thy little soul is my tongue;
A midnight read I hath been composing dearly all along;
My morn play, anecdote, and yet my most captivating song.

I thirstest for thee regularly, and longeth for thee every single day;
I am dead when I hath not words, nor any glittering odes in my mouth to say.
Thou art my immensity, in which everything is gullible, but truth;
And all remarks are bright-though with multiple souls, and roots;
Ah, poetry, in every summer, thou art the adored timeless foliage;
With humorous beauty, and a most intensive sacrifice no other trees canst take!
O poetry, and thy absence-I shall be dead like those others;
I shall be robbed, I shall be like a walking ghost;
I hath no more cores, nor cheers-within me, and shall wander about aimlessly, and feel lost;
Everything shall be blackened, and seen with malicious degrees of absurdity;
I shall be like those who, as days pass, bloometh with no advanced profusion,
And entertaineth their sad souls with no abundant intention!
How precarious, and notorious-shall I look, indeed!
For I shall hath no gravity-nor any sense of, or taste-for glory;
My mind shall be its own corpse, and look but grey;
Grey as if paled seriously by the passage of time;
Grey as if turned mercilessly so-by nothing sublime;
Ah, but in truth-grey over its stolen life, over its stolen breath!
I shall become such greyness, o poetry, over the loss of thee;
And treadeth around like them, whose minds are blocked-by monetary thickness;
A desire for meaningless muchness, and pretentious satire exchanged '**** 'emselves;
I shall be like 'em-who are blind to even t'eir own brutal longings!
Ah, t'ose, whose paths are threatened by avid seriousness;
And adverse tides of ambition, and incomprehensible austerity;
Ah, for to me glory is not eternal, glory is not superb;
For eternity is what matterest most, and t'at relieth not within any absence of serenity.
Ah, but sadly they realiseth, realiseth it not!
For they are never alive themselves, nor prone-to any living realisation;
And termed only by the solemnity of desire, wealthiness, and hovering accusations;
For they breathe within their private-ye' voluptuous, malice, and unabashed prejudice,
For they hath no comprehension; as they hath not even the most barren bliss!
And I wantest not to be any of them, for being such is entirely gruesome;
And I shall die of loneliness, I shall die of feasting on no mindly outcome;
For nothing more shall be fragrant within my torpid soul;
And hath courage not shall I, to fight against any fishy and foul.
My fate is tranquil, and 'tis, indeed-to be a poet;
A poet whenst society is mute, I shall speak out loud;
And whenst humanity is asleep, I wake 't with my shouts;
Ah, poetry! Thy ****** little soul is but everything to me;
And even in my future wifery, I shall still care for, and recur to thee;
And I shall devote myself to thee, and cherish thee more;
Thou hath captured me with love; and such a love is, indeed, like never before.

But too I loveth him still, as every day rises-
When the sun reappeareth, and hazy clouds are again woken so they canst praise the skies.
I loveth him, as sunrays alight our country suburbs;
With a love so wondrous; a love but at times-too ardent and superb.
Ah, and thus tellest me-tellest me once more!
To whose heart shall I benignly succumb, and trust my maidenhood?
To whose soul shall I courteously bow, and be tied-at th' end of my womanhood?
Ah, poetry, I am but now clueless, and thoroughly speechless-about my own love!
Ah, dearest-t'is time but be friendly to me, and award to me a clue!
Lendeth to me thy very genial comprehension, and merit;
Openeth my heart with thy grace, and unmistakable wit!
Drowneth me once more into thy reveries of dreams;
And finally, just finally-burstest my eyes now open, maketh me with clarity see him!

Ah, poetry, t'ose rainbows of thine-are definitely too remarkable;
As how t'ose red lips of thine adore me, and termeth me kindly, as reliable;
And thus I shall rely all my reality on thy very shoulder;
Bless me with the holiness confidentiality, and untamed ****** intelligence;
Maketh me enliven my words with love, and the healthiest, and loveliest, of allegiance.
Bless me with the flavoured showers of thy heart;
So everything foreign canst but be comely-and familiar;
And from whose verdure, and growth-I shall ne'er be apart!
And as t'is happens, holdest my hand tightly-and clutchest at my heart dearly;
Keepest me but safe here, and reachest my breath, securely!
Ah, poetry-be with me, be with me always!
Maketh me even lovelier, and loyal-to my religion;
In my daily taste-and hastes, and all these supreme oddities and evenness of life;
Maketh me but thoughtful, cheerful, and naive;
And in silence maketh me stay civil-but for my years to come;
and similarly helpeth my devotion, taste, and creativity, remain alive.

Ah, poetry, thus I shall be awake in both thy daylight, and slumbers;
And as thou shineth, I knoweth that my dreams shall never fade away;
Once more, I might have gone mad, but still-all the way better;
And whenst I am once more conscious; thou shalt be my darling;
who firmly and genuinely beggeth me t' keep writing, and in the end, beggeth me t' stay.
Leave me not, even whenst days grew dark-and lighted were only my abyss;
Invite my joy, and devour every bit of it-as one thou should neither ignore, or miss.

In the beginning God created the
heaven and earth.
2 And the earth was without form,
and void; and darkness was upon the
face of the deep. And the Spirit of
God moved upon the face of the
waters.
3 And God said, Let there be
light: and there was light.
4 And God saw the light, that it
was good: and God divided the light
from the darkness.
5 And God called the light Day,
and the darkness he called Night. And
the evening and the morning were the
first day.
6 And God said, Let there be a
firmament in the midst of the waters,
and let it divide the waters from the
waters.
7 And God made the firmament,
and divided the waters which were
under the firmament from the waters
which were above the firmament: and
it was so.
8 And God called the firmament
Heaven. And the evening and the
morning were the second day.
9 And God said, Let the waters
under the heaven be gathered
together unto one place, and let the dry
land appear: and it was so.
10 And God called the dry land
Earth; and the gathering together of
waters called he Seas: and God
saw that it was good.
11 And God said, Let the earth
bring forth grass, the herb yielding
seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit
after his kind, whose seed is in itself,
upon the earth: and it was so.
12 And the earth brought forth
grass, and herb yielding seed after his
kind, and tree yielding fruit,
whose seed was in itself, after his
kind: and God saw that it was good.
13 And the evening and the
morning were the third day.
14 And God said, Let there be
lights in the firmament of the heaven
to divide the day from night; and
let them be for signs, and for seasons,
and for days, and years:
15 And let them be for lights in the
firmament of the heaven to give light
upon the earth: and it was so.
16 And God made two great
lights; the greater light to rule the day,
and the lesser light to rule the night:
he made the stars also.
17 And God set them in the
firmament of the heaven to give light upon
the earth.
18 And to rule over the day and
over the night, and to divide the light
from the darkness: and God saw that
it was good.
19 And the evening and the
morning were the fourth day.
20 And God said, Let the waters
bring forth abundantly the moving
creature that hath life, and fowl that
may fly above the earth in the open
firmament of heaven.
21 And God created great
whales, and every living creature that
moveth, which the waters brought
forth abundantly, after their kind, and
every winged fowl after his kind: and
God saw that it was good.
22 And God blessed them, saying,
Be fruitful, and multiply, and fill the
waters in the seas, and let fowl
multiply in the earth.
23 And the evening and the
morning were the fifth day.
24 And God said, Let the earth
bring forth the living creature after his
kind, cattle, and creeping thing, and
beast of the earth after his kind: and
it was so.
25 And God made the beast of the
earth after his kind, and cattle after
their kind, and every thing that
creepeth upon the earth after his kind: and
God saw that it was good.
26 And God said, Let us make
man in our image, after our likeness:
and let them have dominion over the
fish of the sea, and over the fowl of
the air, and over the cattle, and over
all the earth, and over every
creeping thing that creepeth upon the
earth.
27 So God created man in his own
image, in the image of God created
he him; male and female created he
them.
28 And God blessed them, and
God said unto them, Be fruitful, and
multiply, and replenish the earth, nd
subdue it: and have dominion over the
fish of the sea, and over the fowl of
the air, and over every living thing
that moveth upon the earth.
29 And God said, Behold, I have
given you every herb bearing seed,
which is upon the face of all the earth,
and every tree, in the which is the fruit
of a tree yielding seed; to you it shall
be for meat.
30 And to every beast of the earth,
and to every fowl of the air, and to
every thing that creepeth upon the
earth, wherein there is life, I have
given every green herb for meat: and
it was so.
31 And God saw every thing that
he had made, and, behold, it was very
good. And the evening and the
morning were the sixth day.

There was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods;
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.

All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning’s birth;
The grass is bright with rain-drops;—on the moors
The hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.

I was a Traveller then upon the moor,
I saw the hare that raced about with joy;
I heard the woods and distant waters roar;
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy:
The pleasant season did my heart employ:
My old remembrances went from me wholly;
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joy in minds that can no further go,
As high as we have mounted in delight
In our dejection do we sink as low;
To me that morning did it happen so;
And fears and fancies thick upon me came;
Dim sadness—and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name.

I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky;
And I bethought me of the playful hare:
Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
But there may come another day to me—
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life’s business were a summer mood;
As if all needful things would come unsought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good;
But how can He expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;
Of Him who walked in glory and in joy
Following his plough, along the mountain-side:
By our own spirits are we deified:
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;
But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,
Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place,
When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven
I saw a Man before me unawares:
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie
Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
Wonder to all who do the same espy,
By what means it could thither come, and whence;
So that it seems a thing endued with sense:
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead,
Nor all asleep—in his extreme old age:
His body was bent double, feet and head
Coming together in life’s pilgrimage;
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
Of sickness felt by him in times long past,
A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.

Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face,
Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood:
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,
Upon the margin of that moorish flood
Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood,
That heareth not the loud winds when they call
And moveth all together, if it move at all.

At length, himself unsettling, he the pond
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look
Upon the muddy water, which he conned,
As if he had been reading in a book:
And now a stranger’s privilege I took;
And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
“This morning gives us promise of a glorious day.”

A gentle answer did the old Man make,
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:
And him with further words I thus bespake,
“What occupation do you there pursue?
This is a lonesome place for one like you.”
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes,

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
But each in solemn order followed each,
With something of a lofty utterance drest—
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach
Of ordinary men; a stately speech;
Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,
Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.

He told, that to these waters he had come
To gather leeches, being old and poor:
Employment hazardous and wearisome!
And he had many hardships to endure:
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor;
Housing, with God’s good help, by choice or chance,
And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.

The old Man still stood talking by my side;
But now his voice to me was like a stream
Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;
And the whole body of the Man did seem
Like one whom I had met with in a dream;
Or like a man from some far region sent,
To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.

My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;
And hope that is unwilling to be fed;
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
—Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,
My question eagerly did I renew,
“How is it that you live, and what is it you do?”

He with a smile did then his words repeat;
And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide
He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
The waters of the pools where they abide.
“Once I could meet with them on every side;
But they have dwindled long by slow decay;
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may.”

While he was talking thus, the lonely place,
The old Man’s shape, and speech—all troubled me:
In my mind’s eye I seemed to see him pace
About the weary moors continually,
Wandering about alone and silently.
While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.

And soon with this he other matter blended,
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
But stately in the main; and when he ended,
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.
“God,” said I, “be my help and stay secure;
I’ll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!”

“Whilst smiling to my face thou
Hast plucked the ****** from thy boneless gums”
Thus spake the venomous she,
When querying the quandary
Of “The Milk of Human Kindness.”

That altruism,
Proffered by many as sincerity
In a charity bequeathed
To the disposessed and less fortunate.
Is an act which may be, in fact,
Obliquely or brazenly,
A lure to enhancement
Of personal nobility sought.

“But the quality of mercy is not strained
It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven.
Twice blest… It blesses he that gives and he that takes.”

Thus so, is ****** upon the truly altruistic…
An interminable questioning
Of the Impetus Behind the Act ??
In order to mitigate
THE JUSTICE OF THE PLEA.

How stands Thee?

Marshalg
25 July 2015

In fields where roses fade as finite flowers should
He watches from his mountain; mindfully morose.
Full of sound and fury; sad and surley.
As if made of wood.
He moveth not as a man might move
rather he gather a stretch of wind
and with it work a while, that he may prove.
He is free and clear, he has not sinned.
Yet lost to in trepidation
and filled for five years or more
he is. The child of every nation,
being but a borrower among the poor.
Carry no comforts nor glee
while whistling workers are whimpering;
their pain, an ease to see.
The game is paved with suffering
and always played so thoughtlessly.

As I think back on what took this squandered wanderer
To the nethermost pitfalls of hell,
Only the wickedness of mere existence can be adequate enough to delineate such misery.
A brute, stuck in a trap of one’s own making
With its stone walls, one’s lament echoes through the hallow chambers,
made of anguish & possibilities.
Shadows of what has been and what could’ve been,
Dance around to the cacophony of ones regret.
But what took this wretched man,
belonging to the heights of heaven,
into the nomad land of a melancholic sufferer?


Erstwhile, all pure and innocent with a fire,
Blazing bright with the desire to
Grasp and cling on to this abyss of dashing hopes
Called life.
In a realm where shadows sway in despair, and the air is filled with whispers of sorrow,
how can the flickering flame of one’s essence endure?
While Discovering peace within the realm of thoughts,
A journey embarked to the world concealed.
The path unknown, where mysteries abide
At the end of this journey

Was the triumph of knowing oneself.
He moveth upon the earth, through uncharted territories
Where spirits roam, and the monsters groan.
At the end of his path, shines a bright star, which he crawls to
His bright star blinks as it bespeaks eternal bliss
And the fire within him shines bright, beaming a lurid light
Both losing themselves to the rhythm of the universe
As the earth spins and spins in its cosmic loneliness.
The solitary nomad, crafting his own path in a realm shaped by the power divine
Moved in perfect synchrony with the universal

rhythm, while the flames of passion blazed inside him.
A budding sorcerer, weaving his artistry with the mystical alchemy of life.
With the ethereal melodies guiding his every step and the rhythm of life being his sanctuary,
He delved into the boundless opportunities that life had to offer, through his enchanting artistry.
He stood amidst the inky blackness, as it devoured him
The longing to know the unknown
And to know what detests to be known.
His fiery passion and his radiant guiding light,
Growing fainter with each passing moment.
The symphony of existence now reduced to a mere murmur


He had expanded the tapestry of the unknown to the edge of the world
And now he is a piece of the obscure, evading recognition.
Yet, how can a soul ensnared in the vast expanse of cosmic solitude,
a solitude it shares with the universe,
do anything but merge with the enigmatic essence of the divine?
A vast realm of endless possibilities and untold wonders
Makes one dance to the rhythm of
The almighty divinity,
A strict father, guiding the beloved child into the shadows,

And into the chaos of his own being.
Under the cloak that veils the world in mystery, where depths allure,
Subsume the unknown, while it beckons with a seductive luminance
bidding the conscience to explore,
To plunge within, seeking solace bright,
Amidst the darkness, finding pathways of light.

The most dim and horrid of all truth's in amour sometimes;

I seeith so many couple's, wherein there's always one lover
Who telleth the other lover " I loveth thee hunny "
And the one who was told their loved,
Replies back " O thank's...............
Such a sad horrid Truth,
Though the one's who told the one's they loveth
That they loveth them and yet got none response
But an ' O thank's, still continueth to loveth that other person
Because that's what true love is............
Yet also, sometime's, the person who sayeth they loveth the other
Some time's wilt just moveth on, from the pain of not ever hearing the same word's and action's back of true amour',
Because fact is, one canst not waisteth time
Giving all their love to one who canst even sayeth it back!!!!
And canst even showeth it back,
Though the person who moved on
Still loveth the other person;
Tis they've realized
Someone else just might sayeth it back
Since the other couldn't say it....
Love is a duo, not a one way street
And if a one way street;
It's not truest amour' on the other person's behalf......
And sadly I seeith this alot to;
That when the person who never saidst those words back
To the one who loveth them
They regret never saying the three word's to the one they do loveth, and they realize at that last moment
How much they loved the other person all along;
Yet were to afraid to sayeth it at the time
Out of fear of being hurt........
Amour's harsh truth sometimes.......

A lithe monarch
In the willowy meadow;
Ourn phalanxes sutured
As seducer's of plush marshmallow pillow's.

Avow I shalt, one's high name
I'll be burned for her safety;
Taking her grazing
Drying her in the rain.

Anon her hand, to be on mine wrist
Apostle's of kinship, succulent wish;
None Asp's to swallow in, forgiveness of sin
Assenting in espousal, one letting me in.

To beget her, to giveth her a simper
beggarly I am, as beseeching get's bigger;
Since I'm losing all hope, placeth me on the bier
Moveth mine carrion, into the flame of tear's..



©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poet's poetry

i.

This life,
But a quick moment's flash;
We withereth as flower's
We dissapeareth like grass.

ii.

Born into the next eternity
Rebirthed into living;
I shalt giveth every last breath
Because the time is verily leaving.

iii.

I won't taketh thou for granted
I wilt giveth all mine love;
To thee mine queen,
To thee mine jane-
Mine own being
And dove.

iv.

O' we art here but for
A second, O' we cometh
To learn, then moveth on;
I shalt loveth thee in the morn
And dusk, in dying sun's, and
Mournful song's.

v.

And even when I passeth
On, I'll findeth thou then
To, mine spirit's lively, it
Knoweth what it needeth,
Not undeciding- for I am
Thou, meaning I am you.



©Brandon Nagley
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
©Lonesome poet's poetry

Is there a difference  between seventy  and two hundred?
Does a man accomplish  more  with a sick body and addled mind
Old like a tortoise or
methuselah  from biblical times
Does he seek destiny  in a cup of tea
Hoping for a spark
To see
And and and
Time moveth along
How long in the tooth or
Deep in the bone
To  the marrow ?
The crushing of the soul
How many stacked?

Bodies are  totalled ?
How many have passed..
Besides
My mother and father
Who will remember?
Who is there to recall
The endless tasks and
Hours
Like stacked bricks
In a wall
Time may not be the  villain
Procrastination
And things taken for granted
I will walk upon  the soil
When this earth is a dark dead planet

Poet jalopy to ride the temptest,
Squall of shallow
Moon apprentice
Wooden's of hollow
Doctor or dentist
To Ride away mine fears!!!!

Judge or gust
Backbone of theorist
Turns pen into sandstone miracle
Dumplings are lyrical
Nursery's are terrential
As the downpoor
Is riddled by puke!!!!!!

Shutters of fine drape
Tis
The black hat,
And veiled cape
Wherein the black Cat
Finishes his plate

To the whistlemen who pouts his charisma

Plasmid instigma!!

Plateau of morinsa
Chateau of  bornisa
Plato of dorita
Dawn to thy dusk

Elephant tusk shally
Moveth on tallies
Wherein the breach is far rallied,

To the pushers of what's good to come!!

In death's dark tunnel
When one's spirit passeth through their faded brawn,
There when making it to that dusk black hole,
There art naf's who Bob carelessly
To the overcàst of what is
Not what was.......
They just are!!!!

They linger as string's being held by God. .
But see,
This blackness is comfortable to them...
Though some refuseth to moveth on knowing their destination....
Other's move ahead to the glory throne.....
Though the ones in the in-between,

Just like being...
They just are......
A comfortable darkness.......
Held on God's string's........

he moveth
every
mountains
when
the
mountains
stand still
the
patience of
God's will

what moveth
this
heaven
and
earth
be it
redemption's light
when
we make
our
journey quest
we
feel
the
frosty winds
burrow deep
inside our chests
through
every breath
we take
but
somehow
our
distant souls
leave
nothing else
straight down
to our feet
and
glory be
unto
thyself
forever and ever
hallelujah amen

Bright light
Ray of sunshine
Beneath your eyes
It falleth thereof
Attacking your vision

Slammeth thy will
On thee
Runneth its free will
Your body cries
Free me now
Let me lose

Pointed straight at thee
Balancing on your skin
An epitome
Of dark complexion
Light complexion
Crieth for help

Moveth as you move
My predicament
It favours others
Yet I bow at
It sights
Seeing nothing

Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson

what moveth
this
heaven
and
earth
be it
redemption's light
when
we make
our
journey quest
we
feel
the
frosty winds
burrow deep
inside our chests
through
every breath
we take
but
somehow
our
distant souls
leave
nothing else
straight down
to our feet
and
glory be
unto
thyself
forever and ever
hallelujah amen

what moveth
this
heaven
and
earth
be it

when
we make
our
journey quest
we
feel
the
frosty winds
burrow deep
inside our chests
through
every breath
we take
but
somehow
our
distant souls
leave
nothing else
straight down
to our feet
and
glory be
unto
thyself
redemption's light
forever and ever
hallelujah amen

**** Head
The **** led off a perk
lead through the comfort of the home all alone
my inside phrase is clear
want to shed a single tear
led through a sparkle in your hair
shade of grass...

there he moveth sprinkled magic dust in mirror
in the street below the Chinese verb;
clear spear in the notion of bad breath
love...love me do,

**** head, followed in the dinner close to french a way of mission
Chinese man now old peed on the wall
move to stand up ten feet tall
sharp to whisper sorrow down the middle

**** head..***** the canopy in what its worth
**** head...law a hold of a ****** smile
**** head....cruise by the miracle mile
**** head.....compare the window

Upon what lonely star thy gaze is writ
Behind what clouds, or what, in dead of night
Moveth through the trees by moonlight lit
With monstrous beauty, racing like the blight
Of lovers strewn beneath the empty skies
Below the fresh and frothing hell that burns
Through time's blank pages, echoing the cries
Of infant souls stuck, screaming from the urns
Within which their cursed memory is kept
By blind and blessed mourners, holding tight
To endless nothing, souring the light
Upon which, from the heavens once was swept
Forgotten glory, lost unflinching eyes
Riding like a plague upon the skies
Crashing like a dream into the world
With awesome, long black sails unfurled
There, and only there, may spirits wake
To thine soft shapeless beauty, and remake
This unreal place, with glowing hands alike
And, only there, may lost souls pass the night.

oh
what
deep baritone voice of God
what
maketh
His voice
moveth mountains
thus
hallow out
the
green pastures
every word a creation