"mythological" poems
I love my country: India , but
I hate many of its rulers, as
they speak for the poor and
act for tycoons bellicose, and-
Diversity sighs in armed Unity;
The selfish corrupted in unity
March ahead on graves crafty.
I love my country: India , but
August fifteenth : with freedom,
opened all devilish forces
out of Hell to fell all virtues.
Grim faced Buddha smiles
Like a nuclear Phantom ,his
tears drip on tomb of Peace.
No white dove sits on dome
It bleeds in the lap of Buddha.
If birth is the cause of gloom.
who stops one from bloom?
Dearth of berth clamour for
Death of birth at the womb.
I love my country: India , but
Souls are free on lovely Earth
Lay bodies strain to survive.
A nominal word equanimity
Gushes in landslide infirmity.
Service becomes self –service,
In black ink sleeps Socialism.
Fear Neurosis like King Kamsa
Keeps Liberty behind the bars.
Healthy, wealthy Bharat Matha
Groans in labour room for Santi.
Note: 1). August fifteenth= 15 August 1947 when India became free from Briton. 2).Buddha=Gutham Buddha(Prince Sidhardha) who established Buddhism.3).Kamsa= The mythological character , uncle of Lord Krishna who chained even his sister Devaki out of the fear psychosis. 4),Bharat Matha= Indians consider Bharat/India as their Mother(Matha)-so it is Mother land not Fatherland for them .Santi/Shanti=a Sanskrit word used in Vedas and Upanishads of India which means Peace or Islam.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
Think of the first moment you knew. Think of the diagnosis. The strings of meaningless letters - OCD, Bipolar disorder, Xanax, Lamictal. Think of the year you wasted confirming that, yes, you are, in fact, sad. Think of the year after that that it took to get help. Think of the time you could’ve spent teaching or running or doing anything but telling yourself that you’d leave your room in just five more minutes. Think of all the times you tried to cut yourself but couldn’t because you “aren’t that person anymore.” Tell me, would someone who’s “not that person” need to constantly remind themselves? Think of the happiest moment of your life. Now, realize that Bipolar Disorder gets worse as you get older. Think of that happiest moment and realize that you may never feel that good again. Think of the songs you tried to write. Think of the poems and screenplays and suicide notes you tried to write. Think of your mom, think of your dad. Think of your mom and dad crying. Think of your mom and dad moving on. Think of them not thinking about you much anymore. Realize that dead is dead no matter how much someone thinks about you. Think about killing yourself anyway. Think of it often. Shine the idea like your favorite ******* mirror. Think about taking medication. Anxiety makes it so hard to use your telephone which makes it almost impossible to get medication. Think of medication like you think of death: permanent. Think of permanence like you think of a brick. The brick you always see smashing your face attached to a disembodied hand. Think, ******* think of sunlight. Your brain will try to make it burn you but just think of sunlight. Fall in love with it daily, even when you can’t see it. Even when it’s just a mythological creature your mother told you about so you’d sleep. Think about sleep. How asleep, you are perfect just like the child you were and still are. Think about the stories you tell yourself so next year doesn’t seem so far away. Think about the story. Think about the story of the sun if you die. It dies too.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
*"So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."*
Shall I compare thee...
...to the Iguazú Falls River, where legend serves that a serpent; Boi, demanded a sacrifice each year of a young female, and the day two lovers; Tarobá and his beautiful maid Naipí, took to escape, and in revenge of such an act, Boi exuded such anger that he parted the river, thus forming the Iguazú Falls, splitting the river and condemning to two lovers to the falls.
or
...to Cristo Redentor; Christ the Redeemer, the Art Deco statue, protecting and looking over the city of Rio de Janeiro, to whom in all its glory cannot escape the force of nature, struck by lightning, causing damage irreplaceable.
or
…to The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, hundreds of metres into the sky, a place that to this day is unknown, myth being that King Nebuchadnezzar recreated the homeland of his precious wife Amyitis, who was deeply depressed and homesick, allowing her to find comfort and happiness.
or
…the Taj Mahal, of Pradesh, constructed using marble by the emperor Shah Jahan, in loving memory of his third wife; Mumtaz Mahal, the jewel of Muslim art, a calligraphy written Great Gate reading; "O Soul, thou art at rest. Return to the Lord at peace with Him, and He at peace with you.
or
…the Temple of Artemis; Istambul, on sacred land in honour of the Greek goddess Artemis, the most apotheosized of Greek deities, the supposed daughter of Zeus and Leto, the temple also known as Diana, one of the goddesses who vouched never to marry; alongside Minerva and Vesta.
or
… the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, of the Persian Empire, whereby Mausolus ornamented four sculptures created in relief for his wife (and also his sister); Artemisia II of Caria, generating an above ground tomb that would become to be listed as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.
But of all,
I compare thee to the Goddess of Love, Beauty and Sexuality; Aphrodite
arising from the sea, floating ashore on a shell;
Venus rising from the sea,
a lover of many,
later depicted as a painting of the Birth of Venus,
by the sufferer of unrequited love; Botticelli,
using his muse Simonetta Vespucci as a model.
© Sia Jane
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
[PART 1]
**** everyone that’s ever been a friend of mine
Everyone that I ever loved until the end of time
So sick of sunshine, nothing but black clouds in my mind
I Sit seeing signs knowing that sometime soon it’s time
Seems we find a man stained with blood, spinning insane ****
Disaster’s in my lane but like Tech I pin and frame it
Don’t blame it on me when you embrace the inner furry
Spitting hurried words in a flurry, speaking absurdly
Has it occurred to thee, none of you could ever hurt me?
Absurdity, I feast on emcees, no obstacles for me
Illogical, living life like a beast, it’s mythological
Must be biological, the way I ****** methodical
Psychological warfare from one who never fought fair
Pathological nightmare, drops bodies without a care
Dare any soul to try and comprehend, this is the end
Once I begin, they all cry and slowly die from within
[PART 2]
**** everybody who ever passed anywhere near me
Everybody from my past who cared and yet still feared me
Nobody shed tears for me, or ever lent an ear to me
So now it’s clear to me, none of you are sincere to me
I disappear into madness filling my words with a blackness
No amount of cannabis can ever undo this sadness
Don’t ask me about my past; don’t think you’ll get past the mask
This just might be the last time you’ll EVER hear from my ***
Demons in mass and alas, I’m tangled within their grasp
Surpassed my peers and alas, I got no angels to ask
I’m mangled in my mind and it’s worse now that I’m all grown
Evilness in my bones plus I gets no rest in my dome
But I’m home at last with this pent up anger being shown
I’m alone; not a gang banger but I still hold the chrome
Come off my throne and try and comprehend, this is the end
Once I begin, they all cry and slowly die from within
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 9:02 PM UTC
<•>
BusBusNYC (A Live Love Bus App)
•<>•
if you made it this far, so fare one,
be undressed with thyself and impressed as well,
for thou joints me in holy matrimony upon a living map
where our presences can meet
in virtual real time as if eye new what that meant
but that blue dot is where this body possessed can be located by the nearest satellite finger snaking down from the heavens to Cain mark my foreheads location,
just like on Game of Thrones
don't you desire me, or rather,
the knowledge of mine
whereabouts?
the who of me, that very useful information, can best be
seen moving crosstown on the M72,
which is a mythological bus for in twenty years eye never
seen it come, go, though all its stops clearly marked
see me moving in fits and spurts of bursts of movement,
leaping streets and avenues in a single
unbounded, unstoppable superbus leap
in a city of anonymity where all who walk it streets,
ride the tides of its buses,
all ask a single Job-like question,
regardless of age,
"I am desirable, do you want me?"
eye say the ayes have it,
no,
this is not a great poem
but!
this live bus map app is the dating site ever created by
geeky human cells
alll this virtual meeting possibly leading to coitus
with a stranger while Pandora serenades
with perfect synchronicity, playing and plying us with
Romance for a Violin and Orchestra in F Minor,
a combination musical **** work of
Dvorak-Mehta-Midori
this bus app is
the social media's most immediate,
so meet me on the bus
at Broadway and 86 Street
where our metro cards can be
merged and we will be recognized
as a legal couple(ing)
in the eyes of MTA,
a multi-state agency and be bound in bustrimony
(legally married when riding on a city bus, only)
jeez, a crazy poem, not just, not a good one
but a true tale from the one who rides the buses and only
alights and delights with regaling tales and tellings
of love sortie sorrow maybe tomorrow the busbusNYC
app wil apply itself a smidgen better and
let me love you even with
a good under the hood
bus poem
but!
someday we will,
this, thy poet,
who does desire youalone,
will hijack you and a NYC bus,
and visit the poets from India and
the Great Northwest
won't that be a fabulous poem!
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC
There is a certain mystique about Essex County where Wiccan boutiques smite the eyes with linguistic confusion.
Salaam reminds me of cold meat and Shalom reminds me of Welsh breakfasts even though the 1700s knew nothing of peace.
So, now that we almost reach the threshold of Spring Aequus Nox, I commend Julius Caesar for his respect towards atmospheric refraction.
We need to talk.
Come on, and let us delve into classical and mythological philosophies where games of death are an aphrodisiac with a sprinkling of risqué.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
The Creator
The original
Aboriginal
Indigenous
Australians
In their Dreaming
Uncreated Baiame
The Sky Father
Creator of everything
But who created
This creator God
Mythological
Theological
Like everyones
Too similar and
Geographically
Universally spread
To be explained by
One Big Bang
But still I ask
Who created
The uncreated
Creator
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 4:09 AM UTC
Who would wear such a thing?
Who would be so despised?
So pathetic to a jeering crowd?
So utterly cursed?
So utterly shamed?
So utterly broken?
A foolish one, you say?
A liar?
A crazy one?
A sucker for punishment?
A mythological man?
How about this?
A man who would lay down his life for a friend
One who would take the place of others who really deserve what he got instead
One who demonstrates that the works of weakness truly outweigh the brutality of the mighty
One who is willing to connect the Divine to a suffering world
I say that is One who would wear a crown of thorns
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 12:03 PM UTC
I am not yet defiled; O hear me.
Let not the crazed hornets or serpents or ophidian or the
buzzard bee come near me.
I am not yet defiled; console me.
I fear that the snake charmer may with rhythmic body clocks clock me,
with predatory hissing paralyze me, with authoritative power anger me,
on wicker constraints constrain me, in bamboo-patches pierce me.
I am not yet defiled; provide me
With beauty to free me, dressage to cover me, silence to come
to me, souls to save me, charmers and angels
in my wandering existence seeking fights to waver the war within me.
I am not yet defiled; forgive me
For the provocative glances in me, my presence when womanity holds me,
my mythological beauty by deities beyond me,
my head held high when they slay by means of my
crossbow, my addiction when they poison me.
I am not yet defiled; rehearse me
In the dreams and the prayers I must take when
art interrupts me, material disturbs me, splintered souls
gaze at me, smiles fade at me, the knifes edge
stains me and everlasting scars pain
me to shame and the shames taints
my skin and my heart abandons me.
I am not yet defiled; O hear me,
Let not Perseus who is warrior or who thinks he is King
or a rival to me.
I am not yet defiled; O fill me
With gasoline against those who would inhabit my
bones, would sink me into empty caverns,
would make me a prisoner locked, a monster with
blood dripping, a monster, and a passer of dis-ease
who would execute my self, would
flush me like ***** oozing and
***** and ooze and *****
like alcohol seeping in the
pores would drown me.
Let Poseidan not make me defiled and let him not **** me.
Otherwise **** me.
© Sia Jane
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
Yeah, I know all about your people
How they worship drunken image
How they've exalted you to the status
Of a hero, a legend
A mythological god
Bacchus best buddy
You keep good company
but swine follow you
Different as day and night
Yet they all clamor for a good seat
They fight and swing fists
For a place in the front row
For the chance that a stream of gin-soaked spittle might splat on one of their faces
a soothing balm
a gob of stench and sputum
They gather it up
They mix it with mud
Thicken it into gel
and bow down to a snot green idol
a pus dripping idol
They'll worship it at the foot of the mountain
The towering landfill where you've brought them
Or they'll bring it to your ceremonies
They wave your banner in the air
A colorful representation of the Beefeater
Proud of their devotion
Proud of their status as "The Chosen"
Not necessarily
Sure
Of the WHYS or the WHEREFORES
You just seemed to be worth the trouble
Worth a laugh to watch you
To see you falling down
To hear your words of wisdom
(True wise words they are, too)
Slurred into gibberish
You are their man
Whose oracles remain silent
Lost in a deep dream that swirls through your sleep-dizzy mind
Whose glory and honor
Fall down
From your pulpit
In the center of a room full of people
99% of whom see YOU
Not as a profit
Not as a beatnik
Not as a poet
Not as a sage
Not as a seeker
Not as an asgst ridden agnostic
No idol
No god
99% know exactly
What you are
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 6:55 AM UTC
I could drown myself in cups of coffee, in nicotine, old books, and whiskey.
But that won't make me crave you any less.
I could immerse myself in the deepest of enthralling literature, poems, a sea of colloquy,
Waves, strangling the current of my mind.
But you'd still be the resonant word.
I could listen to the sweetest of voices on repeat, golden like honey, sticky,
But my ears would only ever truly answer to yours.
Serpents tend to bite their own tails, a mythological and alchemic symbol of the cyclic nature of the universe: creation out of destruction.
But I'm not breaking my heart, loving you.
Swollen, yearning, daydreamed astray, gathered fast by night.
Curiosity deniable no more, innocence lost, hands wandered exploratory below.
Clambering desperate over themselves, those hands fell over folds of warmed flesh, over forgotten nooks and unfound crevasses, over trembling thighs and aching calves.
Astounded by the vast array of fresh delicacies, of unencountered sensations and deepest pleasures, she stood by loyal as those hands swiftly accustomed themselves to pursuing true ecstasy.
What divine rapture. What soaring heights of pleasure to ascend to. And what a delicious revelation to encounter such unimaginable ecstasy.
That twelfth year become a fourteenth, a fifteenth, a sixteenth.
And with the passing of each came a series of ever more adventurous trysts, the sorts of which Cousteau, Armstrong, and even Columbus could all be truly proud of.
Depths sounded, crevasses plundered, self’s nectars tasted and devoured, the pleasures of the flesh went unearthed.
Elaborate constructions lovingly shaped, waxed and honed, years of heady experimentation, trial and errors, fantasy and dreaming, all in the pursuit of even harder, better, faster, stronger ******* Perhaps it was that, or was it more a case of welcomed companionship? Ambidextrous frustration? A carnal appetite, most terrifying in its magnitude?
Isn’t it time then, you tried a little tenderness?
Be good to you.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
Dancing in the praise of deities
The Devil ; being the envious
Cold matter gathers around
While the Sirens of war surround
The Devil talks profanity
God stands in a dilemma
staring
at
his
CREATION !
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
Perfection doesn’t exist
It’s a non-existing standard we can define by nothing more than our desperation and pursuit of completion
It’s deluding and is painful to bare, in fact letting of go of it opens up so many pores of acceptance and contentment without hindering ones ambition of aspiration
One shouldn’t go with the other
Perfection is not meant to go hand in hand with ambition
In fact the healthiest more achievable form of ambition is that which exist without the *********** of perfection in its walls and foundation
Ambition is healthy, the idea of perfection on the other hand is dangerous and so mythological that it causes a great deal of inadequacy to those that still hold on to its empty promises.
Let us produce great results, great being the profound collective exchange between good and bad, happy and sad, what is positive and what is negative
These are not opposing forces, that’s what perfection has convinced us of, they are parallel systems of reality that make and break it equally, as one cannot exist without the other in specific instance
Belief in perfection is as dangerous in a mentally ill person’s conviction to jump off a sky scrapper believing he can fly, it’s becomes more damaging the more we believe in it.
Perfection is not peaceful it is stagnant, it’s monotonous and deceptive
In fact perfection is cruel because it convinces is of a reality we seek and pursue when we can’t even imagine
It has no beginning nor an ending because that’d process and progress
Meaning perfection in a reality of progress never was and will never be but doesn’t want you to believe that, in fact the only thing that brought perfection into conception and gave it the nerve to even exist in our reality as the theory it exists on is the falsehood it’s made a home of in our hearts and in our souls, that’s why it’s hard to imagine but even harder to get rid of and eradicate.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 4:13 AM UTC
Nine realms, stood still
Connected by the tree of life
Or as known to the mortals
By the name of Yggdrasil
In the kingdom of the thunderer
Deep beneath the shadows
Standing still at the heaven of the goddess
Gazed by the half-brother
Yggdrasil, or the tree of life
So be it
A mythological expression of life
That will hold on forever
|AB|
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 11:06 PM UTC
In our mythological mechanism of the senses, let us reach beyond the guardians of the night.
Teach me your wisdom oh spirit of paraphiliac and psychopathic depravity, and help me to differentiate between those various entities.
Oh, reptilian god of majnu, I can feel the enveloping uncertainty of your sensual and dark licentiousness.
Your Goetic sexuality is ceremonially bewitching, whilst the season of darkness lingers before us.
I embrace your possession of madness.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
God-King of the Heavens;
usurper of the throne of Saturn-
his Father,
the Titan-God of Time and Agriculture.
Saturn:
the personification of Time.
Also known as Chronos; Odin.
But, back to Jove-
that is to say, Jupiter:
archetype for Masculinity.
To some, the true Patriarch.
He's said to have once called himself YHWH,
but some know him as Yahweh, Jehovah, or Allah.
Others swear he goes by Zeus or Ammon,
and yet others, by Thor.
Or, perhaps
that name brings to mind
the largest planet in our Solar System.
The fifth from the Sun,
and largest by mass and volume:
Jupiter alone has 2.5 times the mass
of all the other planets combined.
It has a diameter of roughly 11 times that of Earth,
or about a 1/10th of that of the Sun.
I venture to say
that the Scientific and Mythological namesakes
both tend to have a similar temperament
and gravity
for they who are caught
within his sphere of influence.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel
Like a tethered titian
Of sorts
Tied to and underneath the
Footsteps of morals
Above me on earth
Angry with no shoes
I stomp around with my thunderous feet
Because no tailor would tie
String around my arches and leather beneath my soles
To protect me from the hot coals that line
The carpet of my cage.
A mythological beast of old is what I feel like
Some days
And in many ways
I feel like
A god of flight
Not confined to the barriers of night
But to the endless blue hued sky
That my golden wings contrast against
So sharply they cut through the air
Propelling me in circles around a bigger circle
That the mortals below me still think to be flat
My heels clasped with wings confining me
To the jail of myself where I am
The warden of one and exact my
Revenge on my prisoner daily
With the force of a titans foot
Tricked into thinking wings could
Be shoes.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 5:15 PM UTC
‘What a piece of work is a man!’
……… ………
And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust’
From Shakespeare, through Hamlet
It rings down to generations
And falls heavily on my ears too
In vain, I attempt to probe into the mystery
Nay, the enigma called man
Both in the silence of my solitude
And in the learned circle of pundits
(Fool…..
Unable to find who you are
Can you venture to say who the other man is?)
Man is a jumble of contradictions,
I know….A hard nut to crack!
So unfathomable, so mysterious
At once a Satan and an angel
To the outer world I am someone
But in the well guarded cellars of my privacy
Aren’t I different?
Hiding my innards to light
As every other man
At times, I feel so proud
Excessively in love with my own image
Like Narcissus, the poor hunter boy
Fated by gods to languish
On the bank of a pond,
Over his own floating image!
However with all my strength within
Do I not feel as helpless as Prometheus bound?
Waiting for a Hercules to come
And save me from my plight
If Prometheus’ ******* was God willed
Mine is self willed…! Is the difference so very crucial?
Sometimes I feel I am Janus
Looking backward and forward
Into my past and my future
Never living in the present
Or am I more a Sisyphus
Eternally rolling a rock over to the hill
From where it keeps falling down
Sometimes I wonder
Amid the splendor, do I not starve?
Like Tantalus of Greece in the pool
Beneath the tree, with the low lying branches of fruits
Constantly eluding his grasp
And the water, ever receding before
He could take a drink!
As a poet how I wish I could
Equate myself with Calliope
Carving my mind on the wax tablet
With stylus, my pen and coloring it with my fancy
Or Orpheus, so skilled in music
That with my sad musings
I can make even Hades weep
And the rocks fall in line
I shudder to be a Medusa
Turning everyone to a stone
With my sinister glance!
Instead, I want to be one of the Graces
And never one among the Gorgons
Pitched in this gallery
Of queer mythological entities
I wonder how I appear to others
And whom I resemble more!
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 7:27 AM UTC
Your hand fits in mine like it's made just for me,
But bear this in mind, it is meant to be
Since you've dreamed a vision of us together
And I'll love us, you and I, always and forever.
Cause when I'm with you, my world is so different from any hell I'm living
And when you're around me, your eyes light up like the stars have been spilled out along with all the suns of heaven into your eyes
You're the one who seems to love this wildflower so she feels as lovely as the sweetest camelias, and strong enough to push the planets out of orbit
As for you, I only know what you've said to me;
That my kisses are oxygen when you can't breath, and that
You feel such an intense desire to protect me from any potential harm
That you plan to marry and live with me for years to come.
But I know with less certainty than you that we'll be together forever to come
All I know is you love me and you make me feel so loved
More loved than the moon is loved by the sun, chased endlessly and almost futilely for a mere glimpse of her silver face
And I know this is a scientifically proven-to-be-incorrect metaphor, but I still love you
And will love you, until the sun falls into the sea of milk, the knees of those arthritic elephants shake and kneel with feebleness, and the great sea turtle turns belly-up, drowning the world in the Milky Way
And even past then
Past the time where men and spirits fade into ghostly memories, forgotten because there's no one to remember them
Past the time that the sun is finally swallowed and held in the sea, past King Arthur's return, and when the giant serpent finally kills Ra
Past the time when the gods grow tired of their human games, and fall asleep at their chessboards, one hand dipped in the Adriatic and a finger spinning the galaxies ever slower as dust and cobwebs of invisible spiders come to blanket the universe
And even past then, past all these mythological improbabilities, past Death's abandonment of his duties and his scythe while sand no longer runs in glasses and he reaps himself
Past then will I love you and think of the spilled out flaming stars in your eyes and the velvety sparks in your fingertips and lips.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
As flowing and beautiful as
waves on the shore,
their voices sweet like the birds
yet deadly as a tsunami.
In my mind,
I am a siren.
I belong to no one
devouring men as I see them.
My voice as sweet as symphonies,
I lure you in
waiting for my attack.
In a perfect world
I would be as deadly as mermaids
in the Greek tales.
I would rip you apart with my
melodic Debussy enchantment.
To be a mermaid,
strong and fearless.
I would not resemble
the head strong adolescent of Walt.
I would decorate the rocks on the shore
with withered bones.
Yet, my dreams of depredation
fall short.
For in my fairy tale,
you were the one to devour me,
spitting out my bones in front
of the world
and leaving me empty.
The beautiful song rapidly increases
as my heart begins to race.
You pull me in
my eyes turn the darkest shade of black.
I have received my fate
I am not the beautiful mythological creature
I am the foolish sailor.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
In senior year of highschool a fellow classmate called me a myth.
I felt this was an accurate title for what I was turning into.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 2:18 AM UTC
Having borne witness to the attachment of wires around lunar geographical parameters, I am curious about the voltage limits of electric chicken.
In its southern-fried condition, I now draw your attention to celebratory flutterings around the Maypole whilst masticating upon ancient crop circles.
Apollo may be affiliated with Grecian mythological ancestry, but I have found harmony within the branches of dendrology.
As the seas of our sovereign forefathers cry aloud from palaeolithic runways, a multitude of timeless deities cluck amidst the hay of eclectic Kentucky.
It is only one minute to midnight.
We must depart now.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC