8AM strikes like a *****,
And romping the losing street -
The engineered reptile stalks the hound we are.

The soldiered army, oozing molten pride,
Spike me in the side with their knees
Lifted to caution, so-so below the chin

The cold, dead breath bullies like a child
Never been taught, never have they ought;
I give them pity like spit, the drool reared.

The glands of my sodden state are nucleic
They spark and fizz and pop at the slightest fix
And they mount the green turf as they say the things they say

They say them in spite
Their eyes to register a flat-line, the pulse of my eyelid
Froths staring into their granite granules, you call them eyes

I do despise, I do despise,
The heartless range of those hunter-deers,
The wet pathos that criminals invoke

And then, I woke, the rage, the rage!
A mountainous affair, cracked into your skin
You wished I were dead so you could be thin.

And when I am not hot,
Risen, aired by the microwaved Monday dawning,
I can almost laugh about the spaces between your eyes

The slight disgust, the frozen musk
Awns over me, little fist tight of pink
Ears rabbited off -- a sharp, twisted empale

And then, you are there--
Frozen and dominating, your coffin spooks to me
A spoken longing and then all we know wilts

A running red cloak of tartan regrets
Jades the illicit wail bespoken after the instrumental twist
The torture device you call your words is broken out

I ask for one thing, beg for it, screech it
To the solars like I am owed.
Knowing Death, if not heed, the spited greed--

Give me strength, for the thoughts
The thoughts, that blow through me
Windswept, gliding the dead human ash through my marsh

Do not upturn the limped greyed grass
And blow through, a harmless storm,
With nothing to say about how I carry my day.

Move on to your homeward-bound, your
Concentration plantation, reeling off dead spinners
Like your words, your cold ******* words.

You slimy *******, you ****,
I have spoken, one million syllables,
For your satisfaction.

You lord it over me like a raw-meat hand
Of the disciples. Well, well, Judas, Judas --
I bite my tongue. I bite it so it jades.

Each word was heavier then the next

Punctuations were blackholes

Trapping solars through the text

Translations read "I am not afraid of death"

I am however petrified of a timeline

Terrified of an algorithm trying to define the textures of my rhymes

And the tendencies of the contingencies that disorientate the frequencies of the bell chimes

Pitches that were left to malnourish in these chambers

In the same crucible that replaced its rudimentary nature

With walls of foam that absorb the most infinitesimal of vibrations

Along with windows with shades that annihilate rays of the most miniscule of molecules of the nights constellations

I continue mediating

Eternally Waiting

Forever Creating

Until I hear a voice

It slices through the vapors

Telling me to trek and claim terrain

To march to a candice on clay

Even though grass was my choice

Now Im Forced to grow the green In my psyches Elysian fields  

Because as a man dress in all orange  

The color of Freedom will always systematically appeal

Faceless reapers come to visit dressed in business suits for a deal

A contract drawn in blood to harvest my crops for their sacrificial meals

I signed knowing whats to come

And at the time I wished to leave with the skeletons

Hold their robes of night

Dance my digits along their scythe

Because I see the beauty in every one of them

And I would too

That's the purest of truths

If I only knew the right numbers to dial

But I have no clue

So I'll dance in limbo for awhile

Until Deja vu

Because I was promised as a child

That they'll give me a call when its my time

I just hope thats true

Three teenagers
Standing
Like young solars
Up to no go
But under that orange sky
They have a cold one
What
Happens if they get caught
On this fine night.

The Moon loved the Sun so deep
She died daily for their love to reap
A celestial seraphic marriage arise
On rags of time in hastening skies

A woman clad with Sun in solars
Bolombos carved an ethereal seat
Her crown a dome of twelve stars
The pious Moon was under her feet

In the wilderness the woman suffice
To nourish a child for a 1,260 days
The Uraeus child was called Chalice
The medieval light one race into rays

∴ Lyna Salman