"sacramental" poems
Dear diabolic debutante / Spawn of the unfathomable abyss of blackness / Daughter of dreadful dead desire / Black-shrouded sinister sister of celestial gloom before whose imperious gaze the heavens fall silent / Whip-lash girl-child of the graves whose pallid visage kindles the myriad infernal fires / Autocratic vampiress of lunar doom whose winding-cloth enfolds the thousand horrors of blood-drenched nightmare / Thou that wanderest the cypress-crested hills of funereal necropolises / Whose icy glance cracks the ungraven tombstones of utter desolation / Empress of night and madness / Who stalks the locked and shadowed hallways of unhallowed thought / Whose burial-boat glides the still waters over Lethe’s silent depths to the unglimpsed isle of eternal mourning / Whose parapets tower above the fiefdoms of quotidian banality / Whose flying buttresses overlook the Stygian waters of the forgotten drowned denizens of damnation / Whose unshackled dungeons open to worlds of regal splendor / Whose spires pierce dark skies where oblivion buries the ruined cities of revelry under the drifting clouds of leaden time / Oh maiden of melancholic alchemy whose petrified passions transmute base metal into pure gold…
May the gibbous moon of equinox shine its baleful eye upon you; may you tread in sacramental calm the winding starlit paths of somnolent cemeteries; may my unmixed metaphors unveil in delirium their parabolic mysteries before the smoldering altar of your uninterpretable allegory; may the favor of your scorn forever lay me out, embalmed, undead, on the cold stone of merciless reality. Behold: in cryptic script of spectral apparition, in tracery of coded illumination, amidst the dawning rays of torment I write thine unknown name on the threshold of daylight. And from within the mortared wall of self I speak forth from my sepulcher the Sibylline utterance,
unsought, unheard, undreamt:
JUST WANTED TO SAY ‘HI’ !
☻
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
Her warm words wash over me like a dope fiend daze... other voices boorishly buzz a cackle cacophony. At best they are the background noise of your existence.
bit players (endless layers) as she comes my way
**Your body pixilates in an ******* focus**, it bends, projects all else slowly into your frame, the deja vu of ****** tunnel vision. I struggle to speak as I stand before you.
All others condemned, reduced to extras in a celluloid daydream
they are arrayed for your adornment
set pieces that surround you in the cinema that is your daily divine saunter
body sacramental (those around you incidental) as she walks away
The subtext, the reflex, the ambivalent, ambient lighting
means nothing without you
**my arc, my carnal ******
any other epilogue is dystopian
cdh
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 5:25 AM UTC
In the drawer were folded fine
batiste slips embroidered with scrolls
and posies, edged with handmade
lace too good for her to wear.
Daily she put on shmattehs
fit only to wash the car
or the windows, rags
that had never been pretty
even when new: somewhere
such dresses are sold only
to women without money to waste
on themselves, on pleasure,
to women who hate their bodies,
to women whose lives close on them.
Such dresses come bleached by tears,
packed in salt like herring.
Yet she put the good things away
for the good day that must surely
come, when promises would open
like tulips their satin cups
for her to drink the sweet
sacramental wine of fulfillment.
The story shone in her as through
tinted glass, how the mother
gave up and did without
and was in the end crowned
with what? scallions? crowned
queen of the dead place
in the heart where old dreams
whistle on bone flutes
where run-over pets are forgotten,
where lost stockings go?
In the coffin she was beautiful
not because of the undertaker's
garish cosmetics but because
that face at eighty was still
her face at eighteen peering
over the drab long dress
of poverty, clutching a book.
Where did you read your dreams, Mother?
Because her expression softened
from the pucker of disappointment,
the grimace of swallowed rage,
she looked a white-haired girl.
The anger turned inward, the anger
turned inward, where
could it go except to make pain?
It flowed into me with her milk.
Her anger annealed me.
I was dipped into the cauldron
of boiling rage and rose
a warrior and a witch
but still vulnerable
there where she held me.
She could always wound me
for she knew the secret places.
She could always touch me
for she knew the pressure
points of pleasure and pain.
Our minds were woven together.
I gave her presents and she hid
them away, wrapped in plastic.
Too good, she said, too good.
I'm saving them. So after her death
I sort them, the ugly things
that were sufficient for every
day and the pretty things for which
no day of hers was ever good enough.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 6:24 PM UTC
Standing upon a hill, I.
Under black & purple sunwheel.
Standing with sword in right hand, representing morality and righteousness.
Standing with mine own decapitated head in left hand, represting violent and sudden removal of Ego &&& it's prompt reclaimation.
Standing soaked in the blood of the wound as my sacramental rebirth offering and cleansing.
My own next level of Apotheosis.
Kept alive by sheer will & & & magicks.
Headless mystic standing akin to an Autosacrifical Kali Ma.
Standing as Ego.
Standing as Godhead.
I.A.O.
Standing as Headless Warrior.
Omnia et Nihil.
I am become The Other, the Ritual Evolution.
Hail.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
Physician Nature! Let my spirit blood!
O ease my heart of verse and let me rest;
Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood
Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast.
A theme! a theme! great nature! give a theme;
Let me begin my dream.
I come -- I see thee, as thou standest there,
Beckon me not into the wintry air.
Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears,
And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries, --
To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears
A smile of such delight,
As brilliant and as bright,
As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes,
Lost in soft amaze,
I gaze, I gaze!
Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast?
What stare outfaces now my silver moon!
Ah! keep that hand unravished at the least;
Let, let, the amorous burn --
But pr'ythee, do not turn
The current of your heart from me so soon.
O! save, in charity,
The quickest pulse for me.
Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe
Voluptuous visions into the warm air;
Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath,
Be like an April day,
Smiling and cold and gay,
A temperate lilly, temperate as fair;
Then, Heaven! there will be
A warmer June for me.
Why, this, you'll say, my ***** is not true:
Put your soft hand upon your snowy side,
Where the heart beats: confess -- 'tis nothing new --
Must not a woman be
A feather on the sea,
Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide?
Of as uncertain speed
As blow-ball from the mead?
I know it -- and to know it is despair
To one who loves you as I love, sweet *****
Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where,
Nor, when away you roam,
Dare keep its wretched home,
Love, love alone, his pains severe and many:
Then, loveliest! keep me free,
From torturing jealousy.
Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above
The poor, the fading, brief, pride of an hour;
Let none profane my Holy See of love,
Or with a rude hand break
The sacramental cake:
Let none else touch the just new-budded flower;
If not -- may my eyes close,
Love! on their lost repose.
2.4k
Cooking up a blizzard.
Lost and unguided tendrils of space hold me captive,
the trebles of your heart beating
leads me back to my my Home.
That infinite gaze of yours into my dilapidated eyes,
is like a portal to you to look into my soul.
You blanket all my darkness
With your semi-pixie cut.
You’re my tree of knowledge
I bask in it’s shade.
Powdered Sugar coating on cupcakes.
Your silk armour protects your vulnerability,
My sincere apologies to all the arrows that gaped through.
Cover me under your angel wings,
Dab away my streaming reservoirs and replace them
with pollen and sweet nectar.
Your wishbone sacramental daydreams and dreams.
I feel so lost without you.
Bandage my old wounds with your tender hands,
Kiss me with your lush lips
sending jolts of star dust upstream,
within my veins dancing with yours palpitating feet.
My shot of euphoria and bleeding antidote.
My poetry.
You, Kalon.
Let’s raise a toast to your
beauté remarquable éternel, mon soleil
your free spirit,
your beauty of a ghost,
your heart racing with joy,
your heart steaming up with reticent sadness,
build up anger that come crashing down
like a typhoon detaching from the human perspecta.
I miss you.
Your emotional mess and literal mess,
I’m your magic broom.
You, my inspiration.
You, my groove.
You, my you.
You. My everyone and everything.
You’re fun filled supressed omnipresent electric feel.
You, The only Solis in my galaxy.
I love you.
Sharing your grandoise orangy tinge yellow light.
Bottling up a few star
in a bottle of red wine,
For her Luna.
Solis is 21 a (000,000,000) today.
You’re irreplacable.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
Anyone can enter your church
No matter what their age
Mine, well, you have to be legal
At least in the section that doesn't serve food
Yours smells of incense and candle wax
The air smells of wood polish
Mine has stale beer and on humid days
Remnants of cigars and cigarettes from years ago
We have windows that can open
But, most times they are painted shut
Yours, beautiful colors of glass
Images from the bible, glorious
You have a choir singing the grace of God
My place of worship has live bands once a month
Karaoke on Fridays with wanna be singers
Making us pray to God for it to end
You have pictures of Saints on your windows
And tapestries on the walls
The closest we have is posters of sports teams
And The St. Pauli girl promoting beer
You will never find me at your church
But, we may find you in ours on occasion
We don't have sacramental wine like you
But, we do have a larger drink menu for all
People come to your church to wash away their sins
Then a few hail Mary's and a Lord's Prayer
With us, they come to drown their sorrows
And our hail Mary's have bacon, 2 for 1 on Sunday
Our sky pilot will listen like your pastor
He doesn't judge unless you get too drunk
But, that's on him, not you
Your pastor won't judge, but, still gives penance
I know where I am Sunday
I know where you are too
Your church is not always open
Mine's good from 10 till 2
Apr 18, 2022
Apr 18, 2022 at 7:14 PM UTC
I see the sad color of racism not every other day
But every second of the hour, all minutes of the day
I see the serious mental and physical damages
That this cancer has done throughout the ages
And is still doing to our beloved human beings
The others treat our People like they are leftover beans
On a petty pet's plate. Our people deserve respect
Fairness, justice, equality, acknowledgement
Compassion, credit and better treatment
Our sisters are tired of being left out on the deck
Our siblings are often harassed senselessly, persecuted
Falsely accused and relentlessly prosecuted
At one time, they were hunted and hounded by the system
At other time, hindered and haunted by an organized medium
Created to attack, destroy, burn, ravage and annihilate
To embarrass, marginalize, ridicule, punish and discriminate
I see the color of racism, when the police for no apparent reasons
Stopped, frisked and handcuffed our homeless, our elderlies
Or our law abiding citizens, like it was open seasons
To hunt for mule deer or bears, who behave like enemies
Of the civilized society. I see the sick color of racism
When our people are not hired not for being unqualified
But because of their skin color; they're quickly disqualified
Dismissed, fired or terminated. I see the monster of cynicism
All golly minutes of the day. The arrogance is unparalleled
Beyond belief. The racists forgot that God only created one race
One human race, one human race, one **** human race.
Their false pride, their fake supremacy, their ignorance is unleveled
And their audacity is incomparable. I see the colors of racism
Not that I want to search for them, not that I want to find them
Most of the time, I simply cannot elude, evade or escape them
It is not easy to ignore the litanies of bad or negative mannerisms
The bigots easily function like virulent or venomous vipers
That **** out the emotions, and that destroy all positive characters
Our lives, Black lives, like other lives, are sacramental and important
And our contributions to the world are significant
I see the ugly and surly color of racism not every other day
But every second of the hour, every minute of the **** day.
Copyright © February 24,2015, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 1:07 AM UTC
*Sacramental Elixir & Illuminated Blues,
Experimental Flauntings Of Her Midsummer Hues,
Radioactive Eyes & Her Fairytale Lies,
Seductive Abuses Across The New Divide,
Vivid Intersections In Her Phenomenal Rage,
Shatterproof Reflections Splattered Upstage,
Midnight Passions Of Her Perplexed Lust,
Starlight Rains Glittering Hybrid Dusts,
Transitional Paradigms & Engineered Moans,
Theatrical Concoctions In Her Symphonic Tones,
Flirtatious Illuminations Under The Darkest Light,
Stained Animations Igniting Kryptonite,
Palisades Of Her Collated Reflections,
Cascades Emitting Her Sedated Projections,
Contraband Infatuation Resonating Magnetic Love,
Raving Constellations Provocating Atomic Dove,
Divine Catharsis Of Her Cupid Amour Eternity,
Valentine Bliss Mystifying Her Restrained Insanity,
Charismatic Futility & ****** Binge,
Cinematic Tranquility Emanating From Her Bulletproof Sins,
Neon Subways & Fragile Foreplays,
Sensual Arrays Of Her Red-Light Decays.
- 03:53AM -*
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 6:30 PM UTC
[Dedicated to Horace Sheridan-Bickers]
A vision of flushed faces, shining limbs,
The madness of the music that entrances
All life in its delirium of dances!
The white world glitters in the void, and swims
Through the infinite seas of transcendental trances.
Yea! all the hoarded seed of all my fancies
Bursts in a shower of suns! The wine-cup brims
And bubbles over; I drink deep hymns
Of sorceries, of spells, of necromancies;
And all my spirit shudders; dew bedims
My sight -these girls and their alluring glances!
Their eyes that burn like dawn's lascivious lances
Walking all earth to love -to love! Life skims
The cream of joy. If God could see what man sees,
(Intoxicating Nellies, Mauds and Nances!)
I see Him leave the sapphrine expanses,
The choir serene and the celestial air
To swoon into their sacramental hair!
1.9k
Seasoned Love's silent discourse,
Dusk of the long distance,
Beneath the mantle of lament
The peak bloom, gnawing decay,
Obscure
The weight of favor;
Annealing fire, moulded by
Winds of duration
Unfastening the raw surf of sorrow.
Incipient caprice, theft of occlusion
Colored by common defiance,
Vile tremors of privation-
Native enclave,
The province of
Vacant, age-eaten elucidation.
The tangled weave, pathos and ethos
Vested
Interior acquisition,
Furrowed paths of countenance
Evincive and drawn,
Affinity found, inhabiting the palisades
Of Immersion.
A furtive glance harbors
The trained gaze whose
Immanent flame-
Emergent
Serous source,
Imbued piercing latency;
A taste of
The fountainhead.
Unprobed theater of the absolute.
Thin supple pith
Identity sealed in skin
Perambulator of meaning and
Lineaments of cure.
Bearing the image of ubiquity
Perceives in the other,
Immortality.
Sacramental Eros,
Subsumes the
Capacity to treasure.
©2013 W.S. Warner
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
wonderful wall of sound
poly rhythms weave and dance
moves the trajectory of motion
vibrations of the earth
water meets the sky
don't listen, just hear
what business of celebration
sacramental liquid sunshine
and the kiss of the Goddess
how many forms can you take?
a whisper into infinity
and the void whispered back
calling me forth and changing, healing
growing and building new paths
rebuilding the constructs of self
collective visions of love
give up on belief itself
all is relative
beware of absolutes
belief restricts us from accepting all things as they are
the black hole mirror- the moon of narcissus
pointing toward another centre
come sit by the fire instead
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
Can you tell me have I lost my mind?
Seeking other lonely to be my guide.
Streetlight prophets have all your answers for a price
Turning all your coppers into fortified signs.
I keep on dreaming of you and of you only
Speaking your name as though it's something I hold holy
But can you tell me does the sky get lonely
.. Siting all alone up there
Sing me songs of love and revolution
In a rage of fury and absolution
The alley oracles keep searching for solutions
To find fortune in hearts weakened by contusions.
They sing...
Find me love sweet like sacramental wine
For my penance I'd pay any price
Give me strength to pursue my paradise
And the wisdom when I find it to recognize
That the only thing missing in my life
Was someone to walk beside.
They sing...
Can you tell us have we lost our minds
Seeking other lonely to be our guides
To navigate and hide us in the streetlights
As we lay awake looking for a sign.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 8:56 PM UTC
steamed broccoli calls me
its scent a melodious accompaniment
to the dance of
nitrogen and oxygen we call air
next I will torch
the dead silent flesh
of some sinless bovine beast
a sacramental conflagration
whose rich vapors will
add strings and woodwinds
to the wafting symphony
tickling my snout
my salivary will weep
in effortless anticipation
of jubilant mastication
of the flora and fauna
of my own culinary killing fields
that allow me
a few more waltzes
in this soundless song of air
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
Naked pink and ebony feet
brush the slimy grass filled path
Through the tea fields elephants retreat
After a night of jaded mud bath
Armored with sack and gunny weight
Enter the frost covered fields in drowsy rest
Wake up the greens to a gentle fright
And pluck under care of enchanting *******
The supervisor mackintosh
Walking with a bend and a toss
Shout at those Cinderellas
Who look for shoes and umbrellas
Even before its time to knock off
The tin covered temple of olfactory auditory deity,
the holy Garden tea
The chanting enchanting to a coma hot mesmerizing wafts of aroma
fills the air, capture the sense of all devotees who belong to the Orthodox commune TEA or CTC.
The sirens bugle the devotees into fits
They come in shifts for worship.
The tender hearts freshly plucked before they attain mature Tea
Spread to wither under a hell
of a hot air with care.
crushed and torn and curled,
the souls are put into a purgatory rotary drum to pause to meditate
on the ephemeral color change
To cover the green with copper red
Garment to ferment before being sent
to the fluid fire dance
To attire in black and retire
in packages
for a last plunge in to a boiling cauldron
The finale
Endgame
A sacramental service,
a self sacrifice to energize the tired souls
In cups of tea..
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 1:07 PM UTC
Emergent and forming I feel a storm is imploring that soon without any warning you beg to cross a line
Every time, nothing is sacred but sacramental complacence is marked as roles of the shameless
Mean to skip a line another time? Is this too rough and obtuse for a cutie like you to boost the power line?
Number 9, completion is power and stricken chords every hour proceed to timeline devour those daily entities
I do decree that opposition to me is free and withered beatings to meetings, detours and dealings
understanding demands of variable plans is held by the hand that feeds the depleted need
I see it from every angle, the tangle, the multishifted frame though it dangles, I can't be stuck in my own head when
I see the reflections of me in the treasure it jangles, brings into focus where my head fell to float in the
moments set to wrangle, pull it in, dwell upon the good and discard where it hampers new fangled notions like
truth effusions of love and devotion are swallowed up in the daily ocean of noise traffic, the more verbose,
Graphic dispatches matches blasted disasters dashed and rash past distractions amass magic attacks balanced
Secular motion entwined with metaphysical potions, divided what is your quotient? It doesn't add up in this
moment.
Interpersonal, intergalactic, universal assertions disturbed by verbage of outrance
Message mismanaged mischief mallaeble mayhem managed maganamously mallicous mannered when I
would proclaim them. Members materialized meriting masturbatory movements and monetized
malappropriation I have no patience nor pathos for indiscriminant egos demonstrating a tangent as canon and
paralyzing progressions toward psychic visions of heaven, eyes as the cosmos, and pressures upended.
I'll cope with associations disastrous and tainted, but keep in my visage all that scratches my lenses
I know far too much to be content with the situation, but far too little to shatter falsehood's intitiation
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:53 AM UTC
Secrets drowning in blood
steeped depictions,
cunningly smothered
of familial tied executions,
heredity oft an unkind
sacramental entanglement,
deeply rooted in
disparaging divisions,
disintegrated 'neath ashes
of unresolved deliverance
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
My silence echoes across the chasms of Hades, where rabid entities claw at my soul with eyes like splintered rocks and a presence of tangible blackness.
Deafening is this sight of transformation, and I am unable to resist the aroma of tactile experience.
Unfortunately, I am ignorant as I have never metamorphosed nor spread my wings from the shell of the cocoon.
However, madness of the central nervous system is a condition which can result in hydrophobia, especially where sacramental water is concerned.
Therefore, how relative is time in this black hole of confirmed epistemological doubt?
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
Uneasy eyes comprehend the easy lines of the minds who dine and constantly define all sacramental chimes without a whimper or whine I decline,
To be invited reunited I decided to combust without a rush might find a crush more than trust isn’t lust tho we do tend to touch less than enough,
Belief to be discreet the preacher falls to his feet help the man stand or pass again without demand now am banned from their gospel, am without welcome to their church, reached the spiritual out come that can praise without a book.
Shepard’s crook has created a nook of who play with the for play, my forte no pay do the doomed approve, or wether sentence you to a private room where all disapproved can go loose as is pleased, feel the ease then recklessly leave believers grieve.
Feigning teachers relentlessly fail as they see their fallen students have trials on bail, as unborn babies wail no need to be ail is a chance of good tales unreasonable detail of all hail, praise the male, position fail while grows frail as have said..He bled, the sermonizer not to seem mean but he has dreamed to wean off the unseen, ruining the light hearted beam he forgets to bring.
Evangelist is common type unless it brings a bible fight of heaven’s fright the right delight a fearful night in believer’s sight they might reunite, domestic might be what we need the preacher pleads ‘Oh please believe’ we don’t take heed we simply need to take the lead and set again demons pretend all sacrilegious men, do forgive of what we do, faithful to you, do not approve of what we choose to loose is You.
Oct 10, 2011
Oct 10, 2011 at 10:49 PM UTC
Oriental paper cranes
and waterfalls of lemonade.
A sunshine-scented, smoky haze
covers candy-coated everglades
while whispers waltz with time and space
and raindrops roll down ceiling drains.
Sacramental epitaphs
and water streams on sassafras.
A dismal, dark decrepit path
mourning missing morning's sunlight laugh;
singing songs so sweet at last
and flying free oe'r breaking glass.
Artificial floating clocks
and water droplets burning hot.
A million, melting mountain tops
shadow somber sunken river rocks
as amber ash advances spots
and transverse travel never stops.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
you
were following the leader
trusting him,
hardy figure of man
in a colorless world
with trees dead to the eye
thanatos thickets thick with quiet
that thrashed and slashed you
along the way
but you followed, sometimes
in sacramental silence,
other times crying out in penitent pain
did he not hear you
as he juggernauted through
those gnarled dead wooded webs
like he was steel?
and man of steel
is what you called him
when you grew to know him
was he too not flesh and bones
could he not hear your cries?
even deaf, could he not see
your man-child skin being bloodied
in this land of thorns?
how long could he keep marching
expecting you to keep up
like some soldier on an unholy quest
rather than his lost child
who could find no path
through this wretched plain of pain?
you could see only his back
as you ran to keep up
you could not have known,
though you are his legacy,
he has no face to bear scars
and when will you,
the innocent, discover
steel has no soul?
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 12:26 PM UTC
Your sacramental slant;
Surrender to pleasure,
The oblique and understated; love.
You kind of should begin,
Our nerve end's hesitation,
Blue hesitation, resonant,
Where I couldn't miss
Surrender to pleasure,
Ship-wrecked
Understated
Under-rated
Jul 24, 2010
Jul 24, 2010 at 5:02 PM UTC
I stand before the walls of a glorified failure as it tumbles beneath itself.
The nature of a grave danger, labored with a dire wager.
Plunges and crumple, into a pile of rubble
and to continue forth into a hidden tunnel.
Dirt stain fingers and my inner winner;
The only tools left to dig a way out of our rapidly crumbling puzzle.
You delivered me my unfathomable killer-
A ineradicable form of justice.
My sacramental, misjudgment of
a thrill gone astray.
Leaving me feeding the birds which prey on saints most days.
I stand before the wall as a simple thrall.
Dirt and grime painting my nails.
I stand in my hellish pit readying to climb.
Ready to rise from the plague surrounding me.
To fill my lunges with air, not lingering with death.
I am ready.
The bringer on the rise.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
*With Wings Of Mayhem Covered In September Dew,
She Flies Under The Autumn Sun On An Holiday Overdue,
Through Holographic Designs & Trumpeting Ecstasy,
She Transmutes Her Photographic Lusts Into Riveting Intimacy,
Lightning Visions In Her Empyrean Eyes,
Dreamscaping She Drifts Through Ethereal Skies,
Of Toxic Sanctums & Pulsating Screams,
She Titillates The Trance Up In Her ****** Schemes,
Myriad Stories Of Her Sonnets Divine,
Constructing Fluidic Reveries In Her Comic Design,
Like Chemical Dispersals Veiled In Her Digital Stains,
She Formulates Aphrodisiacal Elixir In Her Lyrical Rain,
Through Dimensional Shifts Of The Fractal Waves,
Her Cosmic Prophecies Actualize Into Sacramental Raves,
A Genomic Felony Concealed Inside Her Superficial Caves,
With Acoustic Muteness In Her Green Shaded Eyes,
As She Gleams Through The Millennial Skies,
In Melodious Echoes, She Whispers Of Arcane Lies.
- 05:28 AM*
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
*This Is The Story Of Her, New-Fangled Eyes,
Filling Up In Valiant High,
A Sacramental Anticipation,
Victim Of Her Addiction,
Specter Amour Ensemble,
She Kisses So Gentle,
A New Found Glory,
Like What’s The Morning Story?
An Ark Of Optimism,
An Immortal Prism,
A Scope Of Life,
Enslaved To Her Emphatic Hive,
Imbibed Inside Her Metamorphosing Dive,
Eternal Sunshine Of A Spotless High,
Twinkling Fireworks Into The Duskiest Night,
Like The Sprightliest Light,
Painting Me In All Her Colors Of Life,
A Gorgeous Cognizance Blossoming Transcendence Of 90’s Summer,
As She Discos Like A Junior In Spring Summer,
Myriad Instants Of Her Untamable Beliefs
Driving Me In Her Upbeat Beats,
Infinitely Running On Repeat,
Scorching With Her Heartbeat,
An Amour So Sanctified,
Thrills Out All The Unrefined,
Cause To Major Redesign
A Cryptic Princess From Tomorrow Land,
Glued To Her Hand In Hand,
A Wish Of Hazel Eyes,
Relentlessly Every Night,
Cranberry Delights,
Mystical Highlights,
Etched With Infinite Scars Of Her Amours
Into Transcendent Clusters Of Her Own,
Engulfed In Her Moans In Rome,
Surrendered To Her Cryptic Heart,
She’s A Symphony To Mozart,
All She Gives Are Premature Ventricular Constrictions Every Infinite,
Till The Rest Of Her Lives*
- 04:21AM
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 5:53 PM UTC