"sophist" poems
Good-by, proud world, I'm going home,
Thou'rt not my friend, and I'm not thine;
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam,
But now, proud world, I'm going home.
Good-by to Flattery's fawning face,
To Grandeur, with his wise grimace,
To upstart Wealth's averted eye,
To supple Office low and high,
To crowded halls, to court, and street,
To frozen hearts, and hasting feet,
To those who go, and those who come,
Good-by, proud world, I'm going home.
I'm going to my own hearth-stone
Bosomed in yon green hills, alone,
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green the livelong day
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,
And ****** feet have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.
Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet.
14.4k
How dull the wretch, whose philosophic mind
Disdains the pleasures of fantastic kind;
Whose prosy thoughts the joys of life exclude,
And wreck the solace of the poet's mood!
Young Zeno, practis'd in the Stoic's art,
Rejects the language of the glowing heart;
Dissolves sweet Nature to a mess of laws;
Condemns th' effect whilst looking for the cause;
Freezes poor Ovid in an iced review,
And sneers because his fables are untrue!
In search of hope the hopeful zealot goes,
But all the sadder tums, the more he knows!
Stay! Vandal sophist, whose deep lore would blast
The grateful legends of the storied past;
Whose tongue in censure flays th' embellish'd page,
And scorns the comforts of a dreary age:
Wouldst strip the foliage from the vital bough
Till all men grow as wisely dull as thou?
Happy the man whose fresh, untainted eye
Discerns a Pantheon in the spangled sky;
Finds sylphs and dryads in the waving trees,
And spies soft Notus in the southern breeze
For whom the stream a cheering carol sings,
While reedy music by the fountain rings;
To whom the waves a Nereid tale confide
Till friendly presence fills the rising tide.
Happy is he, who void of learning's woes,
Th' ethereal life of bodied Nature knows;
I scorn the sage that tells me it but seems,
And flout his gravity in sunlight dreams!
7.9k
/ the aesthete...
and the athlete,
i.e.
the "sophist",
and the "philosopher"?
ah... phonetics, rather linguistics:
former: as-feet...
but the latter?
ancient greek
in french:
a(h)'f'lé'té.
people should, really introduce
a chemistry-style subscript for surds,
most notably H,
hay'chch,
when dealing with such deviations
from classicaly philosophy
metaphysical concerns,
and modern, orthography:
this, the, now,
types of "philosophical" inquiries:
and i mean that
as "philosophical":
because i actualy mean...
the favours of pedantry akin to
being entertained by
the intricacies of Versailles;
you'd get more good-luck wishes
in the form of horse-shoes
hanging over your door in a small
village in the ***** of gascony.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
Anything you said is consequent to other declamation .
but i thought is symmetric to our own reflection .
our declaring prelude the inmost extend of our action .
with all but grim and glee of necessary life partition .
learn how to hold your tongue or you may dull your mission .
so let our thought have weight upon any of our every eruption .
cause morrow Sophist will dart light upon all our conclusion .
and for our name's sake let the blaze glow to its fullest elevation .
here and there ; nothing but cheap hick town pluck delusion .
phenomenon to blame and frail wont reach at any situation .
side-long-way , matter of rear pie but notwithstanding altercation .
the sage nut is not the one that proffers at all event ; citations .
but measure with all time honored a thought irreversible as motion .
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
No, do dread my glance ,im Helen.
im the purest creature of rage ****
a lapse glance alas , a doom .
a dream of Luth's sealed gloom.
sinister glare of Gomorrah bright.
soured sight of sere flower blight.
im venomous kiss of sweetest lips.
deadliest breath of daughter of Rappicini.
come fair son of light and beauty.
date me with naive lurking desire.
receive my poisonous breath satire .
i will sail thee near a pestilent fountain.
im the sinister Titania and Bottom and more i contain.
behold you not with my innocent beauty .
perverse is my nature intend but my name holy.
dost cross the path to purity on mount Sinai.
cause i shall rule and Helen the offspring of my ****
is lure untamed fiend,feed her she behold with leech.
no, one of my breath is a blast to thy life to leash.
my glare is illuminated like azure Vegas.
my nectar Pompeii larva of past .
my beauty is heaven flame it charms .
come; rich, beauty ,savant and fame.
for thou dost not behold with immortal Ichor.
sip deep my breath.
and meddle you with my luring glare.
im Titania i hang over my head a dagger.
upon which thy blood stream to the Bottom.
thou thinkest to entwine me ?
no,lo King Cophetua and the beggar maid.
and my judgement hell fire .
Thebes is in rout but Capaneus bid dust.
what dost thou want ,thou Sophist ?
no the sojourn of thee is Zeus Kirma.
beset for worst as the writ Apocrypha.
come thee savant ,come thee poet.
bekneel before the sacred attire .
heaven bow before the holy Dionysus.
for we beset you with frenzy ,ecstasy, and drama.
all behold the same destiny.
but elixir yonder in Kimmerian trinity.
try not you for eternal bloom .
cause error at Achille right heel.
but Maqueros, Lazarus , and Leviticus.
all will queenly glance at our Caduceus.
behold you not my beauty.
but behold you with our Pow wow.
behold you ! say Amen RA.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
the social imperative is to
get drunk
ok let's
get drunk
and today
there are so many ways
idlers watch
flickering shadows
of color in boxes
impatient inebriates
burn through
leaf or fuel
innamorati
drown each other
in each other
intelligentsia
drink deep
sophist poetry
not enough
never enough
not to feel the burden
of time and space
two in one
inseparable restraint
to touch what is
beyond
all things in one
Great Name
the divine imperative is to
get drunk
amen let's
get drunk
and to die
to the slavery of any way
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC
You wanted to write her a love poem.
You wanted to make her feel like she was a brick of gold,
Forgetfully delicate and so pure, to hold her
would be the perfect example of effort and reward
But you were never very good at writing those.
So to keep yourself from getting bored, you're writing a poem about yourself.
Its still not a love poem though, You were never very good at writing those.
You are your own worst enemy.
Its pathetic really, denying that she was your lover,
But you are NOT her ******* mother.
So let her dig her own graves.
Now rob them.
Sometimes its hard to be a poets friend, because you know they'll twist your words and spit them back at you.
Their dark sides are the tiny spiders you left in the corner of the room to shrivel up and hang themselves in cobwebs made from old mistakes.
You don't expect them to bite.
Last night you heard her laugh and laughed louder to try to drown out the sounds of your own heart breaking.
Sometimes, it hurts to be strong.
Sometimes the smiles are fake and and the lines are all wrong, but you
Honey, you are an actress
Live in method, mistake stage light for the sun, inhale dust of memories like air,
its not like you can breath without her anyway.
Sometimes, its hard to be your own friend.
Because you are a poet and a poet is a sophist and a sophist is the worst thing you can call a person,
you drown in words and no one wants to save you because it looks like your a competitive swimmer.
Sometimes, its hard to be a poets friend. There are so many of you.
7 billion poets of their own craft. 7 billion.
And she will learn to love all of them. Call them darling.
Hold them away from ledges, pry knives from their hands.
Drain the bath tubs over and over.
She does not need you to feel loved.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 8:25 PM UTC
Would that I knew you better;
your face like a smooth mask
and dark eyes so remote;
one glance,
can start me shivering.
The sophist siren symphonies
of unrequited love and desire
tempt me beyond measure;
who knows,
maybe you feel the same.
The plant on the windowsill
has bloomed its last bud
and trails sad, brown vines,
flung wide,
in the indignity of death.
Inches below its dry fingers,
above gleaming porcelain,
squats a dripping faucet;
hard reality,
to shrivel so close to life.
My mind wanders this truth
as my heart curls and browns,
I feel thirst consume me;
tell me,
will I die for want of you?
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 4:52 PM UTC
I still just can't forget the burning of garden in spring
Would I be able to get someone to interpret my dream
My vision carries all the pain of my life to bring in string
Beams of light pave way for my eternal little life stream
Love is not ordinary wine be taken from a shop of wine
It carries the essence and fragrance of hand of beloved
Lover in sheer trance cries that you are mine, you are mine
And in intoxication takes the entire bottle by opening lid
The priest deals with exterior while sophist deals interior
Love is what tinkles in clean heart and is not sunburst
Faith is matter of heart hence remains eternal and superior
Surface be damaged while remains intact the submersed
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2017 Golden Gold
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 3:55 AM UTC
[Author's Note: These are song lyrics.]
When I'm pining for the power to yield
Breaking all the branches I seize
Acres for the taking in a forest of mistakes
I can't see for the trees
I level
With the shallow playing field
Dreaming up a blueprint to floor you
Delicately drafting
Inconspicuously crafting
The grand facade before you
Where my art lies
The best is underwhelming
When it comes to helping
How I promised I woul...
So I'm peeking past the pitch of my prime
Modeling the modern stage
Perforating patience with a paradox
In place of where the sophist meets the sage
I level
With the hallowed bottom line
Hopeful like the point of a nail
Architecture fractures
In apocalyptic rapture
Where false frameworks prevail
There my heart lies
The beat is overwhelming
When it comes to helping
How I swore I could
I guess I'm knocking on wood
Knock knock knocking on wood
Excess
Will not lead to progress
Will not let me access
What I learned I should
Rid me of
Termites
Crawling into airtight
Trademarks of my disguise
Make me decide I'm good
When I'm just knocking on wood
Knock knock knocking on wood
Knock knock knocking on wood
© Michal Czechak 2016
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 1:56 PM UTC
(with apologies to Elizabeth Barret Browning)
Arrogant
Book Soldier
Conceited
Con Artist
Covetous
Cunning
Deceitful
Disingenuous
Egoist
Egregious
Envious
Entitled
Evil
Haughty
Hypocritical
Ignominious
Immoral
Jealous
Jumped Up
Machiavellian
Martinet
Mendacious
Nit Picky
Obsessed
Peck Sniff
Perfidious
Persnickety
Pompous
Popinjay
Predatory
****
Rapacious
Regimental
Sanctimonious
Self Important
Shylock
Smarmy
Sophist
Supercilious
Unctuous
Unethical
Vile
Vicious
Zealot
ljm
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 1:52 PM UTC
I am a kaleidoscope—shapelessly shifting, and
dominated by colors that I cannot change
without some sort of grandiose outside force
granting me a helping hand. I might as well be water.
But my reflection insists on creating dissonance. She
and I, although we look the same, do not coincide
as neatly as
yin and yang
Adam and Eve
my hand in his. Perhaps because
thoughts and feelings generally
do not mix like paint.
Human beings are full of hypocrisies; I am merely
one of seven billion. My doppelganger knows that
I will never be harmonious, and I am but an echo
of Sisyphus, yet still I wonder if she also knows how
sanctimonious I can be at even the best of times; how
wolfish my attitude can turn; how
downright wicked I can become.
(Perhaps she is overlooking it.)
Oftentimes, I find myself wondering if those ugly,
impulse actions I grudgingly stomach are really my
own choices, or if they are hers. I am the analytical
one of us, and she, the fervent, the hot-blooded prima donna;
I think of how easily I lay down my neck to her will, how often I
throw my frontal lobe at her, belly up,
as if to say, “this is my
white flag.”
I allow my duplicate’s hands to twist and turn my paths.
She makes me self-conscious of the
coffee splotch birthmark on my shin,
my flummoxed feet that flounder about;
the mausoleum I keep buried
six-feet-under in my backyard. Her sentiment
bleeds into me and permanently dyes my bones red
like the red meat I am; she tries to coalesce us.
Perhaps it’s idiosyncratic of me to
rip myself in two, but being made of water
makes it hard for oil to blend into place; it makes it
hard for logic to have any room for a
seemingly clairvoyant heart, though
sometimes I wonder if my sophist thoughts could
possibly have any consideration for my twin’s
sibylline yet affectionate disposition. I
wonder what the
secret is to being whole, what the
secret is to ending civil wars, and what the
secret is to placidity—
I wonder why all my answers are kept under lock and key.
The internal bloodshed within myself might not
be as abnormal as I think it to be, but if it’s not me who
I see when I look into the mirror,
what is it that others see?
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
Wistfulness is the state of my existence..constantly returning to the place I come from..always feeling like a soul floating on a star ceiling watching over my surroundings..blended in a distant place that doesn’t bend to the measure of time..in quiet detachment from the world true to my being..as realities shift condensing together at once..as if I already experienced reality in an incomprehensible, hypnotic stream away from my immediate present & all my five senses rendered surreal living in a constant dream..a concentrated flow to the center of my cerebrum..a view from the Rose window in the dark cathedral of my mind..where the tiny light particles in the sun beam passing through pulsate in my sight and the deep waves of silence echoing in the corners ring in my ear..where even darkness speaks dancing specs of iridescence..and colours weep intricate opaque gleams..concealed in an omnipotent and brimful beauty that passes never captured or understood..an unfathomed sacred language I can only feel..with fey farseeing eyes and a tranquil faint smile..like a scenic sophist..where everything in a word has a world and weight as real as anything else I can overwhelmingly see & touch..and everything around me becomes one with my own soul..
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 8:42 PM UTC
27th. August. 2014
Once, a promise..
Stronger, kinder and wiser..
A silent seeker..
Today, a creed..
Tenacious, gracious and sagest..
A singing sophist..
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 8:41 PM UTC
Thy dream !
i hope you strive to its realm .
for it will be a sad emblem ,
at the last night your own sight to blame .
though the grit and gut abide you than mum .
if the Psyche drives thought but you cant confirm .
cause the tide most governs your palm .
but its your choice to comply and raise dim .
to swerve the Sophist story as unlike grime .
it can be a fancy yet upon your nature ist a crime .
to dream with the crow and have sight cast ; slim .
for my dream i behold and its my nature holy affirm .
there is cleft , Draco , Petra , but i care not then for grim .
my soul fain for the noble art of my life's humble theme .
im a dreamer , high spirited but i want one thing my life's claim.
oh ! i never dream twice but to live the token of my time .
if a name should last ; Columbus ,Malcolm ,
have only prithee their own life rhythm .
as for lore past , and drags in as in its prime .
the memory of their graves is ever for reclaim .
i hope you strive to its realm ,
thy dream !
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
does the youth of today realise
it doesn't run a monopoly
of internet content?
do they? really?!
with the context of internet
banking... and online shopping...
can youth of today please **** off
with their belitteling chants
and, please use the playground?
it's become a bit like giving
an aged psychopath a red button,
to launch a nuclear weapon...
oh wait: here comes the nation
getting all paranoid... being the sole
powehouse to have... actually detonated
it on a civilian area!
yeah... russia is bad... no no tommy,
no no jim...
they're like germans...
they imploded... and felt guilty...
but instead of producing great machines
of the 4 wheels... they decided upon great
movies... guilt is internalised in many
shapes and sizes...
the french were reasonable
though...
it's a bit like that fire-cracker story...
set of a petard in your hand when it's
open... you'll get a scratch...
but set off the fire-cracker (petard)
while your hand is clenched...
boom! try waving after that...
the french were reasonable
in that they did their nuclear tests
in aquatic environments...
natural insulators...
that's actually not reasonable
in the puritan sense of the words...
where was the japanese army bombing
the **** out of the tsunami wave of
2011 tōhoku?
i swear the army could have intervened...
bombed the **** out of the massive wave
and stopping it by dividing it...
where was the *** army?
oh right... nowhere... there was a helicopter with
a reporter going: oh ha! nagasaki!
kimono sa ka!
i swear... if they bombed the **** out of
that wave, it wouldn't have travelled inland and
ever had done the damage... that it had done...
so much for the army... and so much
for the *** emperor...
eh?
you bomb the tsunami wave...
the wave doesn't travel inland...
1 + 1 = 2?
really? was that the time to consider
the question as a rhetorical ambiguity?
by the way? there's no such thing as a rhetorical question...
not in the way the phrase is dropped...
you really can't ask a "rhetorical question"
if you're rhetorically sound, i.e. readied to
blah blah for the next half hour...
who asks a rhetorical question
is not someone already performing the sophist art
of performance speech that goes: on and on, on and on...
if someone says: that was a rhetorical question...
it's just covert tactic for them to keep on talking...
what the **** is a rhetorical question?
answer? the person asking that question,
keeping up with their monologue.
a rhetorical question doesn't endorse
a dialogue... a rhetorical question, as a phrase
is a solipsistic / sophist tactic: the two
ought to be synonymous...
for the person talking... to just keep on talking
(you can do that pigeon neck movement
speaking the italics... yeah... like you're
head-banging).
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 2:37 PM UTC
THE RHETORIC IS FALLACIOUS, DOESN'T RING TRUE,
BUT SEEMS GENUINE WITH STRANGE REASONING TOO,
DECEPTIVELY PLAUSIBLE, THE EYEBROWS ARE RAISED,
NO MATTER WHAT YOU MIGHT SAY, HE'S NEVER FAZED;
WHEN PHAEDRUS CAME ALONG, HE SCURRIED AWAY,
HE KNEW THAT HE WOULD BE 'SHOT DOWN' ON THAT DAY,
HE STOOD BEFORE THE GREAT SCHOLARS - SOCRATES,
ARISTOTLE AND PLATO WHO TOLD HIM TO GET DOWN ON HIS KNEES,
WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH THIS MAN? EDUCATE ANEW,
OR LET HIM CARRY ON - WHAT WOULD BE YOUR VIEW?
BUT WHAT IS THIS - HE ROSE FROM THE BARREN GROUND,
HE LEFT HIS ACCUSERS MUTTERING, WITHOUT A SOUND,
NOTHING HAD CHANGED, EVEN WHEN DAY TURNED INTO NIGHT,
WHATEVER THEY SAID, HE KNEW THAT HE WAS RIGHT.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 8:40 PM UTC
On the tides I ride
Black water splashing on my mind
This ocean I surf is endless
Pain and joy are separated with seconds
Earth was meant to be all water
I surf with a camera
Its black and white filter will portray the truth
I surf with a pen and a brush
The black canvas of my brain is a portrait of truth
Earth was meant to be all water
And sometimes I wish I could let myself drown
Instead of convincing myself to be a sophist with sophistry
I have not a death wish
But how easy it is to be sleeping forever under the sheets
Earth was a flaming ball before it became all water
Will I live to see the same salvation for my flaming soul?
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 9:41 PM UTC
Blighted by loneliness,
And a rankling in my heart,
I earnestly sought ways to attain love,
Soliciting the advice of a sagacious spirit.
Cupid,
A clever charlatan,
Speciously deceived me into believing
He possessed these secrets.
“Be bold,” he giggled,
Releasing his grip on his bowstring.
An arrow pierced me in the chest,
Rendering jubilation in my heart.
Blinded by the prospect of emotional opulence,
I approached my love,
And let my feelings flood from within me.
Depicting me to be desperate,
She fled,
Reprimanding my imprudence.
Cupid,
Feeding on my dejection,
Continued his machination,
Reciting to me yet another sophist claim.
“Be nonchalant,” he giggled,
Coaxing me to woo another.
My courage swelled,
And I obeyed fervently.
Circumspect and unconcerned,
I withheld my feelings to my love,
Hoping to avoid yet another debacle.
But the more I waited,
The more my love’s patience faded,
And her teetering feelings receded.
Realizing Cupid’s skulduggery,
I cursed him in animosity,
Clinched my fists and abandoned him.
Alas, it was to no avail.
I could not escape his arrows.
In that moment, I finally understood;
I was nothing more than Cupid's toy;
Nothing more than a source of amusement.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 9:22 PM UTC
well, sure, philosophers argue against the sophists,
or what they deem: the art of rhetoric,
the act of speaking persuasively -
and that's grand, it really is... but then
some sophist comes along, say antiphon,
and he says: i have an argument against
the anti-rhetoric of philosophers,
i have an answer against thinkers.
a sophist's argument against philosophers is tiny,
like an atom, it's tiny, because it's but a single word;
now words are atoms, and letters aren't,
in the same way that chemists see elements
as if atoms, and do not go beyond Fe (iron), Pb (lead),
Xe (xeron) N (nitrogen) -
because then their main endeavour is lost,
as would be the case in metallurgy -
i.e. there's nothing practical to do with the concept
atom in their field; given the chemical alphabet of
concerns and mandible parts is based on the system of
elements -
e.g. a + b + e + g + i = being
alt. c + h + o (quantity of each) = ethanol (2c, 6h, 1o);
oh i'm pretty sure sophists have an argument against
philosophers, because what that argument is?
a fucking thesaurus;
that's what i've noticed philosophers do,
they engage in applying thesaurus rex in their
rhetoric... a sophist would apply rhetoric to mean one
thing, but actually another, which is called subversion
rather than rhetoric...
he'll say one thing, but mean another, that's beyond
rhetoric, that's subversion -
that's how sophistry evolved over the years,
rhetoric (a), sure, but "rhetoric" (b)? that's the art of subverting
your eloquence at a persuasive argument;
which leads into: **** sapiens? really? such a thing exists?
i'm inclined into **** schizoi* - a split man,
a multiplication of gemini.
but why philosophers and a ****** thesaurus?
well, they're using a rhetorical approach based on that ****** book,
they're juggling their arguments via synonyms,
they're not exactly genius alchemists in that respect,
first they say concept, then they say idea, then they might
say inspiration, or they then might say idealisation,
and then they go bonkers and say talk about a chair,
and say: chairness or chairiness
they go beyond standard adjectives -
and given that, look at the close proximity of what they're
trying to say, and the nearest possible "puzzle", like the word:
cheeriness;
cheer, chair, cherry!
trying to expand on the word chair can be
rather misguiding, considering you can very literally have oak,
and that's it!
there really have to be literal cul de sac
moments in philosophy, where a proper use of coherent language
can become manifest; which alligns itself with the zeitgeist
debacle of "proper" pronoun usage.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 11:32 AM UTC
in mid-augusts breadth
the last gasps of doomed stars
like lions lacking breath
he is watching
as history repeats itself;
damns itself
the solipsist; the progeny
who cries under his mother's wing
the exodist
to exist
unfortunately, in shortage of sleep
where asphodels crouch
long cut from life's thicket
free from time's gouge
painless, from the thick of it
cast into tartaros
on the cape of ouranos
to fall from his ipseity
so long was serendipity
his father's testament;
the panegyric on death
his debt, his deficit
of what he is bereft
summer feet cross the border
to touch the winter sleet in its corner
and skin meets skin
the solipsist's gravest sin;
the sophist, where he sits,
sips on the blood of collision
more sure of "self"
than his mothers hands
the solipsist, to exist
in the shade of earth,
who inhibits
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 1:47 AM UTC
L’amour fluerit ici
I loved.
I loved against reason,
against wrath, against doubt, against betrayal,
against the sun, against the sky,
against the stars, against heavens,
against curse and bless.
I loved against eternity.
I loved through god, through reckoning,
through creation and rebellion.
My love..they killed my love.
Killed my love.
My love.
Your rib.
My heart in your ribs.
I was your rib.
Your heart
in my ribs.
My broken ribs.
Your broken ribs.
My soul,
my sophist soul,
my dancing soul
and bleeding feet
dance in worship;
prayers and pleas,
poems and pardons
at our grave.
At dust.
Your ashes and dust
seep through my hands,
seep through my soul
from water through my eyes,
from wounds through my skin,
from words through my lips,
from your ashes and dust;
from a grain of sand;
A cherry blossom tree..
your dreaming tree
blooming in my skin;
the amber in my bones;
the roots in my veins;
Oh my love.
My divine love.
L’amour fluerit ici;
Love blooms here.
Heaven is here.
Your soul is here;
Eternal.
Your soul eternal.
Grass is not greener on the other side;
grass is a holy tree;
an eternal tree;
a holy tree.
Oh holy,
my holy,
my holy angel,
my angel Gabriel;
stillness answers wrath,
faith answers doubt,
love answers betrayal,
and trees are eternity.
Oh holy tree;
my holy tree;
I pray to thee.
L’amour fluerit ici.
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC