The quiet shuffle of
Those two people in the hall.
The sound of the chalk pieces falling
As my teacher grinds it
Into the board.
The shouting of the man teaching next door.
The ruffling of papers when my teacher tells us to take one out.
The jangling of keys out in the hall.
The clicking of calculator keys
(Even though I'm in Chemistry).
The squeaking of various doors.
The three people who all just cleared their throats
At the same time.
The unevenness of the bell tones
(One's a concert A).
The flower resting in it's
Bunsen burner vase.

I love being an
Introvert
And noticing.

The loneliness permeate down into the toes, walking along the sidewalk
The streets seem empty, vacant faces, hurried bodies avoiding the solace of a simple hello, their trifling stares stabbing at their incompleteness

Write pain only because the voice cannot verbalize it. We don't understand it. We don't want to
Trifling affairs taking us up, consuming us, completing us, then draining us
Walking life avoiding others, their daring greetings, their trifling

They, too, walk along the sidewalks and the gutters, getting tripped up on their own despairs Listen not to Dante's doom, that abandonment is futile
Futile fallacies, our trifling forays, our misfortunes
Street along, you masses, you unforgettable, delving into yourselves, forgetting

You cannot understand it, those trifling friendships
How do they compare to the miseries you trudge through, swamped in that which hold you back, slows you down, drowns you, chokes you

Your only connect is the carelessness of your incompleteness, contagious of complaints

That cracked sidewalk, tripping you up in its unevenness
Your shoes have rubbed out their souls, toes slamming their unending pressures
You feel defeated and oppressed. Yet you walk on

Why do you not just stop and rest? The lonely road does not end, it continues on and on unceasingly, its seasons one big blur
Year in and year out your days numbered as nothing but trifling affairs, your greetings to fellow walkers rare as encouragement from within. You have become swollen in refusing refuge from those that share that uncaring sidewalk
You balk at accepting a hand to take that lonely walk with you, it is just another pair of loneliness who seeks companionship, who only seeks to cease their own trifling affairs

Lend not your own complaints, but console and be consoled in the greeting of a walk together

Brushing through mindless white specks.
Soaring between jagged decks.

Pudgy trembling little pillows.
We've left the lithosphere down below.
Wishing I could run my hands through these marshmallows
Like I ran my fingers through his deep brown hair.

Swiveling, shriveling, ascending
I breathe the sharp cabin air in.

Layers and layers of cottony mounds
Can I just spoon them on to my lips now
The way his caressed my pout?
I'm so unaware.

As the messy streaks became distant,
The déjà vu in pattern had me stunned.

Illegible madness at the very bottom,
Transforming into something more figurative going above.
Like I was lost and consumed to begin with
But graduated to understanding love.

I smile wide from ear to ear; we may have lost chemistry,
But in every walk of life, our sparks will remain an untold story.

Pounding in my head were the gunshots,
And in my heart were the bullet wounds.
Yet I survived, and now I'm happy.
Courage does soothe.

I have one wish and one wish only,
To hug him tight, even if it lasts a second slowly.

He was my world, my universe.
But I've let him go and I've realized
That the universe is out there
And he's only a pair of bright eyes.

Yes we had plans, yes we had dreams.
But dreams can be ruined and plans- unaccomplished.

New plans can be figured
New dreams can be birthed.
A journey can be restarted
And a heart can be returned.

A little turbulence does come along,
A little silence can do wrong.

Much like this journey I'm on,
An expedition to learn the wonders unknown,
To hear the beat drop
And feel my heart throb.

And now I see a seamless sheet of white
Soft, silken, yet unevenly bright.

Distant cities- visible from high above,
Blocking out the push and shove.
Though I'm 20000 feet in the air,
I can still feel the love.

I feel the energy that lies underneath,
I feel the smile of a little child standing beneath.

And suddenly the unevenness disappears,
The sunlight blazes in here.
Should I pull down the blind?
Or should I let the light blind?

(And there goes my pattern of rhyme)

Funny how the same word can mean two different things.
Comical how most of us don't make any sense.

We don't fight a mystery,
We are the mystery.
We don't feel alive,
We are alive.

And the pilot makes a sharp turn
For a moment I'm uncertain.

It's like when you're so involved in something,
And you lose control, slipping and crashing,
But you get up, dust yourself,
And carry on walking.

I feel like I could go on forever with this poem,
But life won't go on anywhere close to forever.

You live everyday, even when you feel broken.
You breathe in the air, even when you feel suffocated.
You try to understand the patterns,
But you won't have all the time, because death comes once- and it's permanent.

Face it with courage,
Face it with pride.
Feel the moment,
Watch the wonders of the sky.

I had to stop writing for two months because of my leg but then Addy's sister died unexpectedly so I wrote through my pain for her she is my friend from my other writing site.

The Silence of Heaven Speaks
Dedicated to Addy and Kathleen

In Pacific Grove there is a secret cove from these sheltered waters God would draw two out two sisters
To them he would bestow voices like the sea breeze enchanting as you listen cottages grow on wind
Swept bluffs rapture filled their souls this would flow from gifted pens on paper treated saturated
With softest tears from which their combined poetic senses grew like flowers of yellow and orange
With boldest red they fed the readers mind stirred the mist to open on fields that held their words
Like tender plants though fragile when plucked they held wonder that fell from these up rooted
Roots did they not favor the silver crested moon ghostly thoughts that float down streets that have
Amber lights reaching out of windows they instill all open space like eves of houses they hang so straight
They divide the green grass where softest walking is done from the blue sky where flying is devised
Here their words were as white and grey seagulls the completing of a sea side hamlet nestled between
The blues of water and skies and spiking thoughts of greenest pine cover this inland coast completing
The scene that sweetly sings gorgeous is your climes steadfastly each morning they shine not twins
But together by family they are entwined if one should slip away surly the blustering Barbary coast
Would live up to its name but only briefly would pain rule because by the undying spirit of the absent
Would return the one who remained would then be enriched and become a singular voice but now
A soothing is found uncommon because it stands with one foot on earth and one in the great beyond
And from heady sights it shares truths that seem more like dreams but are heavily flushed with stirrings
She has learned from streets that feet excitedly walk on that are transparent gold does not the soul glow
As sunlight but more it carries the reverberations of the very Son of God thus exposed she bows back
Down to earth and sweetly her voice caresses her earth bound sister with riches profound her sister
Too is released to drift among the stars at her beloved sister side as her guide for a season this will be
And then the curtain will rise and they will be forever together without the unevenness of flesh
And spirit they will walk in rapture and be in comfort as if they were clothed in clouded gowns
Weep not little one just believe


There are great nurses and doctors healing our bodies I know some personally this my trying to heal Wounded souls

if I walk for a while
I can get out of the city,
the chaotic place
echoing from the causality
of all of the wire skeletons
and every silhouetted structure
painted against the sky.
the night burns a brighter dark
than the shadows of skyscrapers,
and the architecture is an oily black
droning a metallic buzz
that sticks to the road
and the people that cross it
with cars and shoes
so they remember where they are;
drop their inspiration
down storm drains and gutters
and forget the words
they worked so hard to find again,
searching their closets and dressers
for eloquence they can't remember
tucking carefully under their pillows
just the night before
or was it a month?

I can keep going for hours
watching mile signs pass--
reading them with no reason:
mile 337, 338, 339--
feeling the road beneath my feet
writhe like snakes in its unevenness
and turn to dirt and pebbles
that keep pace with my steps,
******* into boulders
that roll slowly forward--
but I leave them behind
in whirling eddies and clouds of dust
kicked up by my trudging
and the sighs of wind.

the signs are becoming infrequent.
they skip numbers now as I pass -
surely 764 doesn't come after 749 -
I can't see the old buildings anymore
and all of the buzzing people
are safe in sound, far away
too far from the mile 764 sign
to hear my heaving breath
or my beating heart,
but I can hear them both.
the last mile sign is scratched off,
the number on it replaced by silver:
crisscrosses and a crude, scrawling zero.
below the mile sign is nothing -
a steep drop ends the ground,
swallows the snowball boulders
and signals my rest.

here I sit and dangle my legs;
I lean against mile zero
and stare into whatever it is
stretching out forever before me.
this is where the storm drains empty
and all of the inspiration pours out,
I've decided, like surging rainwater.
beyond the last mile is an ocean,
troubled, violent waters in the distance
but almost mirror-like at the shoreline,
so far under my feet
I can barely see it.

is this a dream?
one grows tired of dreams
and yearns for sleep.
the boulders groan forward,
hurling themselves one by one
off the edge to the water--
they fall quietly and are no more.
I want to follow them.
I close my eyes,
push off of the sign,
fall quietly as a rock.
for a moment I am open,
****** into beauty and inspiration,
my lovely splurge of hyperactive thought
and then I wake up,
return to the city that buzzes
with useless words
and lost musings.
my shoes are where I left them.
I decide to slip them on -
I know if I walk for a while
I can get out of here -
one grows tired of sleep
and yearns for dreams.

Having arrived at Patmos, on the southeastern ***** of Skalá, Wonthelimar observed that the Seleucid ships were there. Already knowing of the myth of Seleucus and of his Divinity, since her mother Laodice, according to Vernarth's parapsychology parallel account, and aligned with Wonthelimar, that she had presumed that her son Seleucus had been conceived by carnal union with Apollo. These oracular dreams separated them from Vernarth, for a certain Antigone of the imperial Seleucid with the anchor of the ring that Apollo had captivated from the gematological extract, now wading in the quantum of Chauvet, which had been identified from Gaul.

Wonthelimar says: “from such a thigh such as a Vas Auric you will be anchored at your anchor, in a proud fallacy if you have been engendered by Apollo if it is that your mother temporizes in a hallway idyll or Antigone, and not of someone wearing a ring that smells like broken neo-Hellenic dreams in one that anyone believed, born of one being or another like me from a mythological Iberian, but being carried from a very young age on the haunches of a Bucephalus. Here I believe where Laodice would be or would be caught by knowing that creatures like me, spawned in the darkness of a cave, should wear that ring, but in the seventh ring of the horns of my paternal Ibez with its antlers constantly growing, and in my forehead having one of them in the antlers of the female that fed me in the reign of darkness and in the heights of the mountains. Upon leaving Chauvet I embraced her suspended antlers, and when I separated from the sixth ring, my female nurse with her pale neck offered me the seventh so that I would do it with brown illusions to be like her in the maternal ***** of the Rhone that in altitudes Thousands leveled out over seven hundred meters, with each ring being the power of a reign of darkness filled with light and undeserved talent. In the autumn, my female mother would get involved when I timidly approached from my cavern full of aldehyde, eliminating it through my mouth and eyes, creating from them the brave fear of misunderstood symbols..., if you saw it, your Seleucus...? You would abandon your divinity with a single breeze of the elements when you would recover your anchor rings on the roads. On the other hand, I wake up in his ring because of the meager light that intimidates the converted mountain beings, who interpose me in their combats, if an antler was or is torn from one of my attempts of frustration, after not seeing what it is not noticed even in thousands of distant blushes, and not even in the emission of the eyes of a hypothetical Apollo "

Behind the philastic zoomorphic of the exalting from Seleuco's mouth, the bilocated Epidaurus on Patmos was lowered by the steps of an amphitheater, bossed around in the conclusive closing of his story behind bars or horns that splintered his revoked mention of aspiring to a ring, which is not and will be nothing more than a synonym of despair, more than an immortal that is now abbreviated from the stigma of co-founding itself in meaning as a temporary truth of Hellenism, deducing to qualify its origin as a plus part and ascendant servant, but not descendant in shirts that have to transvestite him on the Epidaurus proscenium. Seleucus began to doubt his converted eagerness to lash out the mythological divine lineage for a sanction, in which the lightning bolts of the stunning sky themselves demystified their annoying gales of submission, by dynasties of the proverbial Kleos for the purposes of fame, and politics that open the loaded winds with cots of gold to marry with diligent nebulosity in transliterated and linked tripods in cumulus universes, where the first two abuse the fulcrum of the obverse that falls by gravity on no man's land..., here is the myth of anchoring and not of to aspire to a ring or earring that will drag us to heights where the icy cold wind crowns you on legs of bronze and not of gold "

These coins were carefully observed by those who observed them from a gorge, capturing the humility and infallibility of a being that came from the entrails of Chauvet, interpreting courses that awaited Seleucus. The appendages were detached from the koilones and tiers that jumped over it, to press and narrow the diazomas or corridors that were already deployed like a laser in the cubations of the consciousness of Megarón and the Vas Auric of the Hexagonal Primogeniture, which already was made ubiquitous. It was released from an Alexandrian Greek fire on the jaws of the hecatomb of the ex-generals of Alexander the Great. Here in funeral periphrasis, few prostitutes rusted behind his inheritance, each with their bronze panoplies and banners in favor of Leonatus in the hands of the Satrap Antigonus, Ptolemy, and the most outstanding applicant of his divine inheritance, Seleucus. They all meet outside the Eurydice ship in Skalá to settle decisions and franchises of ancestry, for the purpose of divinizing the destinies of their tasks and interests, to sink them into the first stone under a base of faith, and of those who will come from the return of the Anastásis like Greek resurrection of bread and wine, Psomí kai krasí…; "The Mashiach for being of whoever and whatever"

Seleuco says: "Psomí kai krasí, Bread and Wine for all." We have revived our leader, who in good time should resurrect us all for his mentions of the new future of fallen leaders and heroes. We are not oblivious to your expiration and perhaps your negligence in Babylon, but the steps of a king require other Seleucid measures and their oriental legitimating, being oligarchies that should morally do what is known. Antigonus, Ptolemy, and I appear here with me, preserving periods that leave us of mediumistic notions of the grim, who does not allow us to close our eyes. We confer the denounced ambiguity of previous riches that do not fit in any silo that can contain it, nor what happens to the secondary after diving early in the morning mounted on your Bucephalus, full of its manes swollen with the posterity of a Roman emperor besieging it, without advancing by requirements or where he rides now in steel wastelands, and not through upholstered steppes of the cautious ensign on your guard and in the solemn light of life that the **** leaves behind in your symbolic sarcophagus! We want you to join us, and to be able to banish our distinctions from where Apollo has given his eternal sleeper in the sense of an ephemeral truth, which makes light of flesh colors in the fiery figure of your coat of arms.
We have stolen the traced areas of Judea and from there Maccabees have donated us inscriptions back to my threat to you and Antigonus,... to my enemy debtor, but even so, I come to repair unevenness and want to repair idylls more remote from the Euphrates to settle in the ranks of Ptolemy. We have all sinned to look for you in our slogans, gaining fleeting territory, but we have lost your lux, already well said in my sanctuary in Didyma, but in seconds that continue from the first, already raising flags and heralds that increase your vox, more than a David that defeats a colossus; that from his own death resurrects...! "

All perceptibly dismayed looked at Alexander the Great who was behind a canopy listening to everything with his ear attached to the canvas that separates him from a presumed truth. He draws the curtain and pounces before everyone with stealth and courtesy, incontinenti he speaks to them after inhuman efforts to move away from the stagnant sub-understanding of his former commander.

Alexander the Great says: “The aureoles of sanctity have dislocated my Beelzebub, and the brambles brush against the Scabious flowers like widows that sing in the cenotic lines of my hands from a purgative cathartic in its graceful subfamily that makes my eyes heterochromatic de facto, between the thistles that are spiced between the aromatherapy of the Scabiosa cretica. In their oblong shape with pincushion flowers, they make the basting their nailed pins waiting to be used so that my desolations are not lost even after being just reborn. After the annual Attic calendar in Elaphebolion where they walked on me to resist the deer of Artemis, in attempts to get up and ***** me in the sessile voices of Scabiosa dispelled by Vernarth that have raised me in the involved species, like a chalice of unstitched shreds in seven holes, leaning back to the Aquenio in his fruit tree that is stained with lavender-blue, and the Lepidoptera bringing Vernarth from Gethsemane and the anti-Sarnic clothing that makes him exalted. Now from here, I harangue you, like immaterial troops that do not move their courage, with enemies that are left open to the fear of my walk on them, on rams of the imminent danger of warbling victory with steely Falangists. What a nationalist Faskéloma attribute as obscene fuss and Pashkien that reorders the armies that invade its headless stadiums, in raised nightingales that chirped the sadness of seeing myself fallen on the nose of the common soldiers and full of scabies in Arbela. I have to fly with you my lost flocks ready of Apollo surrendering twilight fire, and of moon-sun between the legs of a colossus forged by greater fires, speaking to me of Macedonian triumph, under the yoke of the crackle of a people that lies taciturn with the satraps in Hercules's cunning conquering in the cheers only after three laps they made debits from my left, while I saw the light of Uriel coming towards me in the Lepidoptera with his sheathing, and entirely of a horse placed Beelzebub, to transmigrate him with me from Cinnabar chains and honor what serves the world also that dies with me in Thrace or Alexandria Bucephalus, after the south of Corinth, regardless of me, who already sensed that he was anti-diadoco..., being at that time a leader of the Sacred League of Delphic Amphibian, after feeling so much pain immediately from dying..., I still had life left in the Scabiosa flask and in bronze vessels that I removed from the swirling wind of the s Thermopylae, leaving me stranded with nothing but chimeras of winning the world, but losing a Life that had just begun "

Meanwhile, at the dawn of Vas Auric was projected at relative height, Syrmus's light and resounding fall were shown when he attacked the back of Macedonia -... here Alexander makes a gesture of modest resilient power... -, after he glimpsed to Saint John the Apostle how he moved with his staff the tricolor clouds transmitted by the troops of the Tribalios and that was crushed by the carnal battery of Macedonian cavalry that immolated them before their knowledge, and then after their three thousand victims..., which according to some outstanding Hypaspists also rushed them far beyond the Danube where they were engulfed in the confinement of the Getas in thousands, and in greater proportion but with leather rafts, the Hellenic troops crossed this same river and with a few thousand they conquered them filling their saddlebags..., not gold... !, but brandy that burned all the pastures where no Bucephalus crossed by fire.

They approached self-corrections with the necromancies of Leiak, they took the seven candelabra or Polyélaios, and the seven chalices or Diskopótira, immediate to the bags of the Fasmatémporos or breadbaskets, the crimes were archaically repositioned in this Mataki tablecloth enchanted by Leiak, the sin was self-correcting in the parallel line of the slip, doubly marked as a sin of omission, and a concessionary violation of the desire to correct oneself in the completely empty desert, holding hands with wax from the Kerós spell candelabrum or wax made by Aristeo's bees, for the pleasure of the avatars of presence in this inaugural banquet, for libations that spilled part of the lipoids of the Gethsemane bees, along with those of Aristeo to clean the ground mixed with parasitic spiders that ****** the milk that fell from their rituals. When night fell from the third dream, the Mataki was wrinkled by thousands of knots of arachnid legs, which mated with the spider's trochanter, bathed in milk and Corinthian wine. The precautions did not wake them up from the third dream, when they had just broken bread and made the libation for the first time with jugs that glowed superimposed on the icons of the Attic vessels, here is the lavish clothing of the entomological world under thousands of spiders overloaded in the Mataki, and this overloaded on the oak inn that supported it, towards the entire Tagmati in conformation of a model of hoplite spiders, which would gradually transform into specialized units, formed by the precautionary of Aristeo's bees when balancing the unevenness of the tables, Attaching them to the beards depicted in the icons of the vessels, where they saw these images of the future and the past with the Tagmati with Byzantine expressions of Constantine V, and with Philip II providing funding for the new military uniform of the hoplites, completely financed by the coffers Greeks, naming him hegemon of Amphibiousness, after Philip entered central Greece winning at bat Alla de Queronea (338 BC) to the Thebans and Athenians allies, here seven thousand of the fallen Athenian and Theban allies, graced the figure of Demosthenes, for new vessels encrypted with iconic images of Philip "Lover of the Steeds" where a spear crosses hearts in the offspring of his horses, and in his heart too, wronged by the page Pausanias de Oréstide as a royal guard.

Gradually the table was made with more guests represented in the numismatics that ran through the hindrance of the cornucopia, and in the majolica that classified the blood represented right there, on free floors to self-correct for the entire ****** campaign executed by Filipo, and his corrupt but unifying mission to dissuade providential enemies, unworthy to sit at the historical table of the Amphibian, remembered in these vessels, on top of the Mataki that absorbed liters and liters per second the blood, which was drained by the description that was made of the hoplite representatives, which for the first time sat next to the close history of a hegemon. The Sibyls arrived commanded by the Delphic Herophilus, they were served wine of conjectured reverse blood of the Mataki, but from the ground preceded the greatest libation on spring propitiation equipment, which made ties of amnesty where everything reigned for self-correction of the brutality of the symposia, where nothing did. take into account what would happen with the stipend of Vernarth, who still watched delightedly as more guests soared from the wind tunnel of the Profitis Ilias that expelled them.
The ashamed gods hid behind the chandeliers that shone with the ****** waxes of Aristeo, and the polis that made the grape harvest of Sponde, drinking the effluvia of Persephone in the meeting of the songs with her mother, pouring out the earthy gynoecium that awaits the ceremonial, before only those who observe and self-correct. Dew-water poured down from Aegean swells with gorges plagued by a voracious and invasive rain of flavonoid metabolites; of the plants that poured down the gorge that Demeter broke into, on flat and monumental glasses so that all those who arrived with dexterous fists, could give rise to the mixed drink of libation with essences of the sleet turned into the blood for the chalices on the table together al Mataki, who was beginning to replenish himself with the pure essence of necromancy, to begin with, the suppressions of evil eyes, on the hoplites that began to horde them and protect them from a certain visual intoxication.

The Silence of Heaven Speaks

Dedicated to Addy and Kathleen


In Pacific Grove there is a secret cove from these sheltered waters God would draw two out two sisters
To them he would bestow voices like the sea breeze enchanting as you listen cottages grow on wind

Swept bluffs rapture filled their souls this would flow from gifted pens on paper treated saturated
With softest tears from which their combined poetic senses grew like flowers of yellow and orange

With boldest red they fed the readers mind stirred the mist to open on fields that held their words
Like tender plants though fragile when plucked they held wonder that fell from these up rooted

Roots did they not favor the silver crested moon ghostly thoughts that float down streets that have
Amber lights reaching out of windows they instill all open space like eves of houses they hang so straight

They divide the green grass where softest walking is done from the blue sky where flying is devised
Here their words were as white and grey seagulls the completing of a sea side hamlet nestled between

The blues of water and skies and spiking thoughts of greenest pine cover this inland coast completing
The scene that sweetly sings gorgeous is your climes steadfastly each morning they shine not twins

But together by family they are entwined if one should slip away surly the blustering Barbary coast
Would live up to its name but only briefly would pain rule because by the undying spirit of the absent

Would return the one who remained would then be enriched and become a singular voice but now
A soothing is found uncommon because it stands with one foot on earth and one in the great beyond

And from heady sights it shares truths that seem more like dreams but are heavily flushed with stirrings
She has learned from streets that feet excitedly walk on that are transparent gold does not the soul glow

As sunlight but more it carries the reverberations of the very Son of God thus exposed she bows back
Down to earth and sweetly her voice caresses her earth bound sister with riches profound her sister

Too is released to drift among the stars at her beloved sister side as her guide for a season this will be
And then the curtain will rise and they will be forever together without the unevenness of flesh

And spirit they will walk in rapture and be in comfort as if they were clothed in clouded gowns
Weep not little one just believe

I had to stop writing for two months because of my leg but then Addy's sister died unexpectedly so I wrote through my pain for her she is my friend from my other writing site.

The Silence of Heaven Speaks
Dedicated to Addy and Kathleen

In Pacific Grove there is a secret cove from these sheltered waters God would draw two out two sisters
To them he would bestow voices like the sea breeze enchanting as you listen cottages grow on wind
Swept bluffs rapture filled their souls this would flow from gifted pens on paper treated saturated
With softest tears from which their combined poetic senses grew like flowers of yellow and orange
With boldest red they fed the readers mind stirred the mist to open on fields that held their words
Like tender plants though fragile when plucked they held wonder that fell from these up rooted
Roots did they not favor the silver crested moon ghostly thoughts that float down streets that have
Amber lights reaching out of windows they instill all open space like eves of houses they hang so straight
They divide the green grass where softest walking is done from the blue sky where flying is devised
Here their words were as white and grey seagulls the completing of a sea side hamlet nestled between
The blues of water and skies and spiking thoughts of greenest pine cover this inland coast completing
The scene that sweetly sings gorgeous is your climes steadfastly each morning they shine not twins
But together by family they are entwined if one should slip away surly the blustering Barbary coast
Would live up to its name but only briefly would pain rule because by the undying spirit of the absent
Would return the one who remained would then be enriched and become a singular voice but now
A soothing is found uncommon because it stands with one foot on earth and one in the great beyond
And from heady sights it shares truths that seem more like dreams but are heavily flushed with stirrings
She has learned from streets that feet excitedly walk on that are transparent gold does not the soul glow
As sunlight but more it carries the reverberations of the very Son of God thus exposed she bows back
Down to earth and sweetly her voice caresses her earth bound sister with riches profound her sister
Too is released to drift among the stars at her beloved sister side as her guide for a season this will be
And then the curtain will rise and they will be forever together without the unevenness of flesh
And spirit they will walk in rapture and be in comfort as if they were clothed in clouded gowns
Weep not little one just believe


There are great nurses and doctors healing our bodies I know some personally this my trying to heal Wounded souls

My heart,
Is a jigsaw puzzle composed of
Pieces of souvenirs from wherever
Life has taken me

Sunny mounts of happiness,
Dark troughs of gloom,
Blind alleys of secret memories

Punched out remains
Of the parts that I gifted to
Those special few

Uneven buds added on
To the surface, because some gave me
Pieces of their hearts too

Marks of where it was trodden on,
Scars that show its
Brave, healed face

With pins of guilt and remorse
Studding it in memory of how
It also became the cause of others' pain

That's my heart. Not so pretty,
Not perfect, not pure,
Yet it sits in my chest, beating away
Patiently, as if entirely sure
That any moment, its wait will end
Of someone who'll admiringly
Imbibe all of its stories,
Ease away all the tense knots,
View in awe all its glories

And let its inadequacies depart,
Completing them with closeness-
Smoothening their unevenness-
By merging with them,
Heart to heart

it'd be a luxury to forget you
the depth of your callouses
the unevenness of your smile
the smoke on your breathe
those wooden coffee tables
carved with our dreams
in sickness and in health
we embraced it all.

it'd be a luxury to forget you
that constant burn like nicotine
that hot fire on your lips
driven by desire and passion
your strength to push me away
your eyes to draw me in
penniless and not worried
in our arms, we had it all.

it'd be a luxury to forget you
black sunglasses, fedora hats and all
your swift, careless motions
slow and tedious habits
a weakness for women
and their weakness for you
to have and to hold you
we knew, we could have it all.

it'd be a luxury to forget you
crumble those old photos
pour gas on those memories
tear that plane ticket in half
reach in and crush my heart
dagger first, scramble my brain
from this day forward
until death do us part, we'll remember it all.

it'd be a luxury to forget you,
one that i do not have.

write out your stream of consciousness, your every thought. explicitly and unedited with every little detail. don't scratch anything out, don't think twice. read it, reread it, read it out loud and feel embarrassed or ashamed. resist the urge to tear it up and forget it ever happened. save it for another day. hide it where no one else can find it because that's the part of you no one deserves to see.
2. take off all of your clothes and stand in front of a mirror. become aware of every detail, every mole, freckle, birthmark. trace every curve and crevice. pinch and poke and drag your fingers along while you follow the trail of sensations. look at yourself again. notice the little flaws. the crooked part of your smile, the unevenness of your skin, the way your face is not perfectly symmetrical. look in the mirror and see what you don't want to see. embrace yourself.
3. turn off every electronic device, every distraction from the world or connection to the world. lay in bed. wrap yourself up in blankets. focus on your breathing. don't think about anything else. you can almost do it. clear your mind. but the monsters always find a way. lean on them. don't fight the nightmares. find comfort in it, somehow, because what other way is there.
4. go for a run and watch the world changing in front of you. look at the sky. are there any clouds? are there any stars? feel the impact of the ground hitting your feet. feel your weight, your every pound and gravity pushing you down. feel your lightness when the breeze hits and you think you're going to wither away. why are you running? what are you running from? don't look back.
5. fall in love with the wrong person and follow them. then what.
6. get in your car and fill up your tank and find a highway and drive. put on some music and sing the wrong lyrics and sing them loud. turn off the music and listen to all the people in the world trying to be somewhere else.
7. pack up everything in a suitcase. everything is subjective. leave behind anything you don't want in this new life. walk around in circles. think about leaving think about starting over think about a clean slate. then stop and look at where you are and unpack your things and put them back where they belong.

A prayer is just a cry of becoming human
A cry is just a scream
Of a frightening belief.
And how do we remember how to speak in tongues,
And to flow through moving tunnels
While molding the body to fit something else-
A pattern not yet seen?

Being silent doesn't stop
Others from knowing your unquiet thoughts;
We are more alike
Than we will ever be different.
Just save the last breath for god,
Who pardons all your conscious confusion.

That last, most brilliant light you'll never see
Is only a brain being consumed
By the entrophy of existence.

The stars are well-lit cemeteries
Of illumined souls, that went forgotten once
In the unevenness between the boundaries
Of time, space and heaven.

I feel the bumps on my skin echo underneath my fingertips
I try to resist the urge to peel my face off
To pour blood onto the floor as I become who I believe
But at what cost?
To become an unknown version of myself seems beautiful at times, concerning at most
When I am sober, alone with my thoughts, I thank my skin for existing
With its bumps, bruises, unevenness, and lines
It was made for me
Stretched for my hips, stretched for my being, reminding me that I take up space.
And space is okay.
And it is all around us.
And it is infinite.

Days sometimes blind me like hotel rooms-
all stuffy air heating over zesty grey radiators,
I want to lift the blinds; I already see the light shading through.
That’s not enough; I want to feel orange again,
play with the sunning glow as it re-imagines beauty in skins devilish pores.
I want August’s comfort in afternoon naked towel naps
dreaming that cable dishes are just fish carcasses in the wind,
imagine its possible to watch nails grow,
bed them in earth’s soil, and let it remind me of ***
and the unevenness of intimacy strewn oddly when ***** sweaty limbs
can not keep up with eyes that dart faster than the sway, stay of pendulum pressure.
I want to remind myself that everything exists in contexts
casting emotion on stripped layers, crusts of being.
So I invite my nearest tempest, maybe that moon soft roof
to captain ships of candy shoppe imagination over my starving anxiety  
and chalk them out on cemented buildings. I talk to myself loudly.
I tell myself, isn’t it funny when words become tools of composition?
But its ironic because I weigh them with as much suspicion as a glass of milk –
I hesitate to think I ever really have to question anything,
when really, quite possibly, anything is possible
in a sentence pure and ending.

The bastion of deep bellicosity begins, which would interview the strengths of benevolence in the ranks of Darius III. The Greek polis was reborn from Halleniká in the shady V, from the seventh necropolis of Messolonghi, with the equerry that was landed by thousands of ships that were from the date of Philip consolidating the Hetairoi that would be reborn again to fight this peremptory battle in the lower Macedonia, which brought the allied cavalry on titanic folds, which this time will be commanded by Vernarth with legionaries at their disposal, the very light weapons were made from the candid glow of the Katabasis universe, since the bags of the matron's guides went to the parapet in the unevenness of Skalá, very close to the Katabasis or vortex of the Diadochi, when they were abducted by Wonthelimar. The turkeys were already described and difficult to observe, and less to hear them, so the Matrona or Oikodéspoina would purify the little Messiah mentioned in the Apocalypse chapter twelve of Saint John the Apostle, to ascend to the Over Being and then receive the Trinitarian light as far away from the Hades or Katabasis that Wonthelimar would understand very well as a predecessor of the Ultramundis. Thus, the placenta of the Oikodéspoina would increase the free fall and the recovery of the crystallized space, in such a way that the maternal figure would give the first busilis of the outbreak of the Battle of Patmia, before she can rise to the surface with all the spilled blood. . Vernarth in the tent next to the panoply observed Lazarus permanently rising next to him, and all the burned doubts of winning or dying by the edge of destiny. Vernarth gathered the Phalanx formed into a soldiery ecosystem of men armed with the Faith of the Mashiach who had descended together in the rows of syntagmas, and of enough men who multiplied a hundredfold each time the Katabasis ascended to support others who made the Pivot in Hades. . The large-caliber metallic iron and bronze weapons with Xiphos, Dorus, Sarissas with hopes of winter who dressed in spring with Persephone who always carried them in the atrium of a Persephonic Hoplite. Assault turrets over forty Euclidean meters exceeded all the numerals of Pi, through the glasses towards the empire, where the shutters released huge oblations from the pulpit of the theater of tragedy that was rising from the stalls, inoffensive crossbows that would burn the missions of Zefian with the fourth Sagita, catapulting fences that in turn disintegrated into thick destructive ridges. In this instance, the Corinthian League became evanescent with more gangs with Thracian or Tribal troops, although they were foreigners, they joined the mercenaries. With the same figures of 42 thousand troops of Falangists, 5,500 of Cavalry, with some Hippies that Kanti and Alikantus arranged. The mercenaries and tribals fringed the 5,000 contingents in the ghostly spectrum, which made them almost impolitic, a Magento Calypso sea was joining the Thessalians that surpassed the armor of 1800. Vernarth while absorbed in the fabric of the stall saw a Lazarus as he walked barefoot, from where he still asked for help when he felt his feet begin to burn.

The colonnade escaped into the Argentinian waters of Selene that flowed outlined by the gloom of the draconian Persian hierarchy. They subdelegated a Satrap who would bind the components that would confront each other beyond the warning threshold of the Katabasis. The Persian countertops reigned in other adverse lands where Patmia was the law of the Trinitarian Decalogue, in the invocation of the On Being that departed from holy languages that were Christianized in holy oils that flowed through the fascinating musks of war won, and with weapons that would surpass physical forces, by resembling in Iranians that were ruled by the coppery ten thousand assets mediated by the Persian palfrey, and satrapies such as Bactriana and Sogdiana. Behold, those who were once thousands against thousands revived in the disquisitions of other reasons that were not obvious, before a mystery that becomes inapplicable but was noticed in the directive of the enmity of the nations, with their own human components making them of an Infant Mashiach, who really was in the wills that are perpetuated in the siege of continuing to be protected by his Oikodéspoina, which shielded him from all latent threats before an almighty who lavished on them in the fords of the mistakes of a past, and the glorification of eternal life. The spectral of sacrifice was outlined with the same base that emerges from a sensitive parchment, to be rewritten in Vernarth's Katabasis, applying sentimentalities corresponding to the fire wagon of the cremation of the nubile destinies, sacralizing the excessive intemperance of those who envision and they deteriorate in the middle of a ploy that has never been finite.

The Oikodéspoina took refuge in burdensome intraterrestrial lands, arguing that the lands would tremble and the crown of her head would fall to her feet with Selene, relieving herself of her troubles by humanity in the birth, which would be designed by the Kératas of Moshe similarly to seven more than they were replicated in the tertiary night of the red blood cells, who conferred with the Necromancers of Vernarth and Alexander the Great, that God self-climbed on his throne to watch the scene of the Katabasis on Patmos. The blades resounded with great and pristine sounds of angels that made them ring, for a quadruple duel of Hellenes and Persians, of God and Satan, adorning themselves with their appropriations and the authority of those who hold the staff of the Áullos Kósmos. The rams ran in terror through the mountains and the eagles mounted on the small golden hills, because the Messiah prayed to them night and day, because the hour of truth had descended from all heights in the quadruped rams, and the inhabitants of the earth would testify that there is no time to decide, for less time of what or who will survive among you, because as long as the ground plug exists, it will have to be done with open hands to the one who supports the sky after being born from a Gerakis, and of a river that makes of being a chamber with great sieges to awaken the inextricable king, who has to unite us and not divide us with his chalice loaded with Apoika wine, from where they are ****** on the hooves of Alikantus, when the men raised their hands to greet, and to confirm that they already had the Xiphos in their hands, to give birth in half the time of Kairós, who snatched the life of the snake in its ovule throughout the region of Dod Ecanese, being the faithful two-dimensional earthly sheet of the constellation of the Dragon with the twelve houses of the zodiac, trying to contravene the seals of divine light and the shed blood of the Savior.

The testimonies stated that Lazarus had already vanished from the Vernarth store after these visions of necromancy, after the Ekadashi confirmed the error of heavy material that would be taken for those who fly over the salvation of all the rest, and of all those who are dragged by the puffs that illuminate the uncertain empty spaces that remained to spread the Christian faith, for those who want to be swept away by their sleeplessness and survival of a Lazarus who has to grasp the staff of light, to scare away the red blood cells of the serpent that wounds with his spitting, and that he signs from his jaws imitating good intentions that are not infallible to exempt himself on the basement of Olympus, The dragon with the rune of a Basilisk trying to attack the vanguards of the Hoplites of Vernarth.

the sun is shining and i think its time to let go.

the sun still shone when they told me that I was the most miserable person they’ve ever met. held how i thought about death at least 17 times a day against me, told me again and again about how many people I’ve ruined when most days I’m so anxious i can’t get out of bed… have you ever thought to wonder why some people preach so avidly about appreciating happiness as it comes? i suppose i cry better at bus stops than in front of my friends because i want people to think I’m doing well. i want to give people happiness and hope and one less thing to worry about because nobody deserves to feel the way i feel. nobody deserves to look in the mirror and feel disappointment towards the face staring back at them. i don’t want anybody to live like that with this perpetual lump in their throats this perpetual anxiety while bleaching blood stains from bathroom floors and pouring a shot for themselves afterwards. i just want to be something good.

the sun still shone while I’ve lived my whole life with my hands pressed underneath my legs to stop them from shaking, googling the price of child-sized coffins because when i die i want to commemorate the last time my mother said she was proud of me. i will never be good at writing I will just be good at injecting honesty into trivial metaphors. safety pinning my heart to my sleeve has only ever resulted in bloodshed. so here i am, bleeding again for the sake of poetry, putting laughter in place of commas and postponing the emptying of my belly until after I’ve left the stage. trust me i’m trying to be good.

the sun still shone but i think my least favourite version of myself has been the one that bathed my skin in artificial light to convince those around me that i had finally become radiant. fluorescent bulbs have only ever made my acne worse and triggered the overwhelming ache to burn off the skin I’ve been trying to crawl out of for years because i used to hurt people for no ******* reason. i would hurt them then play the victim because i knew there was a difference between drowning and allowing yourself to sink. I’ve only ever known inhalation when submerged in the ocean. i still just want to be something good.

the sun still shone when i skipped class for 4 weeks and came back on the 5th because its never too late. i want to become something good i know someday i will be, but first i need to be me. my palms are beginning to heal from everything ive held on to for too long. i am beginning to heal. and this time when i drop the mask, it won’t end in a relapse. i think it’s time to let go. its time to let go of the past and fluorescent lights and yellow sweaters, it’s warmer now anyways and i am me.

i am me in all of my sadness and illness and rage. i am me through every attempt I’ve taken at opening my veins to the sky, through every absolution I’ve granted unto people that called me a monster. i am me in my ugliness and unevenness and headassery i am me in all of my beauty and resilience and survival, kissing my past good bye with red lipstick because despite everything the sun has always shone and will always shine. in becoming myself, i am becoming something good.

i’m done hiding my face behind ripped notebook pages and the sun still shines. the sun is shining now and for the first time in 17 years i am beginning to feel it.

the once familiar
is no more
stumbling through
days
of unevenness
tripping over
invisible curbs
and taking a wild ride
on steady ground
the obvious
is unrecognizable
the comfortable
is foreign
the start of each day
presents new obstacles
and i feel like a new born
wet
soft
pliable
not the hardened shell
i've grown used to
this newness
i can't absorb
but i will try
and i will start over
each new day
embracing the obstacles
that offer me
new hope.

when they first saw you
did they see the unevenness in your smile
did they see how you push your hair back
and how you sometimes purse your lips before you talked
did they notice how it's so easy to see that you are thinking
like the thoughts are moving around in the air
you can feel, but not see
I would've seen it if it were me
but I'm not around anymore
that time has come and past
and I wait to find someone who will notice
things like these about myself
someone who will notice things I never knew before
you used to do that,
but you're not around anymore

I am deeply moved by the sway
Of your silhouette dancing
Undulating under the influence of first light
When blood is fissured in the sky
And rush from the fleeting bliss
Permeates the unevenness of your skin
As it touches mine
Our minds forged from chaos
Burning deep into the surreal
Where it shudders under
The whims of the dauntless heart
Where echoes of the lost souls screaming
Wanes into lowly cackles of new men
Slowly fading like ripples on the water
Ebbing and flowing into the white horizon
Alas, alas! the hour's at hand
The night had parted and the sun has come!

I died today
Not in a violent way.
I gave up, I decided it was time to quit
“Oh man, I’m just tired of this *******.”
Moving forward has become a chore
Everything I once enjoyed is now just a bore.
I’ll lay in my bed from morning till night.
Staring at the ceiling with no lights.
Memorizing the cracks and the blemishes
The unevenness of the paint and plaster
A monochrome filter over what once was beautiful.
I’ve lost my talents and now I’m completely unuseable.
I see no more hope, I see no redemption
I am ready to choke, until my end in damnation.

Some diadochi came escaping from the Vóreios of Zefian, the ships of Boeotia married the dynastic of the new progenies of their infants, who prepared them for the fourth Bestiary, which in turn also escaped from the third Bestiary of the bear that tore apart everything that presented itself, within its claws and its jaws. The third imperialist beast of the bestiary was Hellenistic; It had bear claws and crushed the fish of the Aegean Sea with its fangs, this, in turn, tried to grab the dragon's back with its snout with the bear's paws and the feline's steel claws to stretch them over its lion's jaws, unleashing the inter-bestiary that severed the parallelism of the Amphictyony and the Apocalypse, summoning Alexander the Great to revive him from his larnax in the highest Prophet Ilias, this will entail the ablution of his soul and appropriation of his new empire of the Seventh Heaven to atone for all the atrocities of his empire of Blood and Corruption. Alexander the Great was aware of the existential drama of eternity for him, in order to aspire to be anointed as a Converted King and dispense with the root of the inter-bestiary in the claws of the bear with the claws of steel of the lion of the fourth bestiary. They all sailed by one major mast starting from the Delphic prophecy of Herophile, which transfigured the Trojan chronology by more island resources into dramatic new deity cultures with over twelve deities which had to include one more of the demi-god Vernarth totally dissuaded from the plague of Aristaeus in great dishonor due to the taxonomic Animalia that was in its vanguard, re-leveling the nuanced skies, also the oceans that were erected mostly on the level of Hisarlik with thirty-three meters above sea level, plus as many from the cavern to 269, and under the Prophet Ilias of 798 as a consequence of parallel parapsychology with Troy. The theological transcendental civilizing mission trembled to the Tempe valley, Thessaly specifically in the small valley in the Agia Paraskevi church, for altars that will return the ancestral domains of the locality to their voices near the Arethusa fountain. From here they will triangulate the libertarian magnificence of the animality of the bees of Gethsemane for the reciprocal of the source of Castalia, up to the Source of life on Patmos as the second coming of Jesus. From where Eurydice will always flee as she once was away from Aristaeus, so as not to be bitten by the serpent. All this transcription of the double consequence of immortal Eurydice brought gifts for each component of the Hexagonal Primogeniture, making sure that Aristeo's bees did not die, being saved by Vernarth's bees, who redoubled submythology, hanging on it as a parallel classical narrative in the construction of the Duoverse under the Áullos Kósmos. The three sources were unified with Vóreios, becoming the patrimony of the Moshaic gods for the good of an outstanding Mythological virtue with sub-mythological parallelism, with gods conditioned in the rabbinic divinity. They undertook the glamorous descent with the vapors of Delphi with their ethanol, alleviating Alikantus towards the pilgrim resulting from his connotation of a taurine steed close to a ram, but of Delphic psychic magnetism saving potential victims with the repeal of the beekeeping world of Aristaeus.

The gods of Faith went hand in hand, in some cases, they did not recognize their gender or status, but rather the divine and ineffable condition of the unrepentant Seventh Heaven, ad libitum of Titania as a mental abstraction of pro-Olympic labyrinths, which have not born under the eaves of it. Spring and winter came arrogating themselves in all the rapes and abductions of the flowers that would not germinate, and that would go away due to the promiscuous twilight that was made of dawn in some flowers that did germinate on the defenseless edge. The converted Alexander the Great caressed the tunic that he looked at more than the one used by the maiden, he looked towards his own chlamys that did not make him helpless from his gaze in the ability to transform into a Converted King, almost like a beautiful celestial lion after leaving the libidinous gestures of Astarte as a foreign goddess and mother of the lift that made her doubt the rain that was refined as a gregarious hostess in celibate women who tried in outbursts of Alexander the Great by removing Astarte's veil of darkness, in cases of lost loves of the transcript Forest of Hylates, or in the awakening of the Apennines when it was the trophy of a felid winged tetra in the rooms of the runaway Bayard of Charlemagne.

The rain bathed millennia that traveled from the boreal of Vóreios to the insane Argive spaces in the Peloponnese where the first maiden hangs her braids sixteen times to forty times more, before all the brides who stay awake in the hours that have not sworn eternal misogyny. Spring served winter mead with sweet late-harvest wine from the valley of the Sharon plain, they embraced by the chamsin, squabbling in the sand that Zefian had hoarded before enchanted by the interval of Delphi. The north and south forks dried up the cobblestones of the dusty ground, where the chamsin reverberated suffering for more than forty-six weeks, making light prey on the song of the three sources of Life, the Castalia and the source of Arethusa. A solemn red stain could be seen on the little sky that blinded the chairs that held the intramurals of the wind tunnel, breathing on the chamsin turning it into murals of dust forced to channel it and always be levitating in the gushes that shelled drops of rain, and sand in the disturbed electrical animations that made him possessed in the spiers at the mere tone of liquid marble in which they already spoke of Hellenic modernity of barbarism of the Ruah Qadím, banishing the spire from the east wind for fifty days. The lights and festivities could be seen illuminating from the feared height when descending from the diminished light of the amplified candle; everything resembled a dwelling where everyone was seated at a long table that had no end in the center of seven candlesticks, seven bread baskets, with a chalice, everyone gossiping along with the bees of Gethsemane that did everything in their glosses and nectars that they celebrated in the mansions gleaming with the transit of the muffins of San Juan and its Hexagonal. Raeder clung to the red and blue Gerakis with gold seams that talked of dining and their oblate.

They began to sit away from the cruel gods of those gods who deny their children who were engendered by the cruelest and most chaste reconversion by staying on Olympus as guests, as opposed to sitting at this free table of the very well-valued elixir with the deities invited Phrygian women, who only laughed and favored the secrecy of the bread of eternity, and well-being that was subject to the conscious tolerance of who await a lavish banquet on a table in these conditions with mood and prolonged perspective and tablecloths of penance and cross in exotic chores. They drank the hanging sheep on the branches of the fruits that hung from the cornucopia, and the baking that altered the enzymes of some harsh dispute against Asia, which Leiak concocted with benevolent sorcery by giving it sip water from the drinking sea of Asia Minor. in front of illuminated Troy. The table is made of seven bread baskets, seven mistletoes that escorted the gluten bread that was sprinkled by Persephone's strong winds as she fell hastily and longing to meet Demeter; she is picking it up from the gale with her feet pulverizing the soft grains of Hapalos Artos, with goat's milk and olives that she would anoint on the very nails of her daughter Persephone of hers when cleaning them with white leaves of the dough fluffy It used to be called Cappadocia yeast until it reached the edges of the noble bread that were installed on the table as Lakhma bread as a metaphysic of the Eucharist that took place on the white tablecloth that shrank every time it was taken as domestic bread when rolled in the angry parts of the Mataki tablecloth, for healings that continue from the protective actions of those who take advantage of a good alliance of water, and the bread on the table with bad thoughts that anger the battered thick curtains of abundance and prosperity of the ill had. The Iaspis or Jaspers resembled supra scalded as of natural belonging and shimmering authenticity in the rarity that did nothing more than make buffoons from Southeast Asia and not from Asia Minor. The greenish flashes spoke of life at full strength to fit followed by a wisp of flash deposited by Zefian coming and gliding in the seasonal, holding on to some veins of the Alikantus sapphire eyes that were adapted to sipping from the dense spring that floated through the waves. The atmosphere of the Mataki, to later pour it into the chalices absorbed by Leiak's sorcery, speaking of superior lapses of any known numeral but the seventieth preceding the current one. This martyrdom of the Mataki made Leiak's esophagus secrete with the desire of a sommelier who sips the distilled water from the ravines over the chalices that lessened the badly criminal cruelty of those who do not taste the food for another dinner, congratulations if there was a failure of the Caucasus, where elixirs of mixed and sanctified muscatel wine are brought out under the table of San Juan. Everything was of ascending ambition for any liver who coveted this table of Mataki for whom he cordoned off the mountains and made those of the valleys embrace each other, for the uniqueness of the Dodecanese islands. All of those who let go of their shyness and did not allow them to refer to drinking or eating deposed by paying sacred attention to Zefian when he arrived on Patmos as a physical, and not spiritual taste, becoming effective in those who toast with muscatel for all the star maidens who followed him above, violating the seals that held them prisoner, then just then the eye of the Iaspis was made of the karats for its recalculation, subjecting them to the safeguard to signify and meet at this time between seven polyélaios, and seven discopotira immediately to the bag of the phasmatemporos or Enchanted Paneros to taste Self-corrections were approaching with the necromancies of Leiak, they took the seven candlesticks or Polyélaios, and the seven chalices or Diskopótira immediately to the bags of the Fasmatemporos or bread basket, the crimes were archaically repositioned in this Mataki tablecloth enchanted by Leiak, the sin was self-corrected in the parallel line of slip doubly marked as a sin of omission, and concessional violation of the desert's desire to self-correct fully empty having hands with wax from the candelabrum of Kerós' spell or wax made by the bees of Aristaeus to please the avatars present at this inaugural banquet, for libations that spilled part of the lipoids of the bees of Gethsemane, along with those of Aristeo to clean the ground mixed with parasitic spiders that ****** the milk that fell from their rituals. By nightfall of the third dream, the Mataki was wrinkled by thousands of leg joints from mating arachnids from the spider's trochanter drenched in milk and Corinthian wine.

The precautionary did not wake them from the third sleep when they had just broken the bread and made the libation for the first time with alcuzas that shone superimposed on the icons of the Attic vases, here is the lavish clothing of the entomological world under thousands of overloaded spiders in the Mataki, and it is overloaded on the oak inn that supported it towards the entirety of the Tagmati in the formation of a model of hoplite spiders that would transform into specialized units formed by the deprecation of the bees of Aristeo by balancing the unevenness of the tables by attaching them with the figured beards in the icons of the vases, where they saw these images of the future and past with the Tagmati with Byzantine expressions of Constantine V, and with Philip II dispensing financing for the new military uniform of the hoplites completely financed by the Greek coffers, naming him hegemon of the Amphictyony after Philip entered central Greece and won the battle from Chaeronea (338 BC) to the Thebans and Athenian allies, here seven thousand of the fallen Athenian and Theban allies graced the figure of Demosthenes, for new vessels encrypted with Philip's iconic images "Lover of Steeds" where a spear crosses hearts in the offspring of his horses in his heart too, wronged by the page Pausanias of Oréstide as royal guard. Gradually the table was made with more guests represented in the numismatics that ran through the drag of the cornucopia, and in the majolicas that classified the blood represented right there on free floors to self-correct for all the ****** campaign carried out by Philip and his corrupt but unifying mission to dissuade providential enemies unworthy of sitting at the historical table of the Amphictyony remembered in these vessels, on top of the Mataki that absorbed liters and liters per second of the blood that was drained by the description made of the hoplite representatives, who for the first time They once sat next to the close track record of a hegemon. The Sibyls arrived commanded by the Herophile Delphic, they were served wine of conjectured blood reverted from the Mataki but from the ground preceded the greatest libation on spring propination equipment that made amnesty bonds where everything reigned for self-correction of the brutality of the symposiums, where nothing made to have Bearing in mind what would happen to Vernarth's stipend, he was still delighted to see more guests come up from the wind tunnel of the Profitis Ilias that expelled them.

The ashamed gods hid behind the candlesticks that shone with the ****** waxes of Aristaeus, and the polis that harvested the Sponde, sipping the effluvia of Persephone in the meeting of the canticles with her mother, pouring out the earthly gynaeceum that awaits the ceremonial, before only those who observe and correct themselves. Spray water fell from tidal waves from the Aegean with throats plagued by a ravenous and invasive rain of flavonoid metabolites; of the plants that poured down the gorge that Demeter burst upon, flat and monumental goblets for all who arrived with skillful fists to give rise to the mixed consumption of libation with essences of the sleet turned into the blood for the chalices on the table next to the Mataki, which began to replenish pure essence of necromancy to start with the suppressions of evil eyes on the hoplites that began to pierce them and protect them from a certain visual intoxication.

In a lost paradise where the sea shrinks with feminine conscience, compassionate flashes are ratified in each groove and I calculate footage, this previous present attracts the magnanimous representation of the lightning emission of its speech representing itself where the queen judges the king Consummatum Est, with little difference from culinary art and its very dense genre. Here is the carious aspect of the bluish faskéloma or exasperating of the paws that move the occasional ones in sub-vibrations softening in the shiny mark of the sessile columns in consistency of its weak receptive propagation and masculine science, lacking what prospers with moist regulars of flashes that are cooling from their imbibition. With thousandths of his enchanted parasitizing and prior ego I wonder afterwards not far from a Para-Celestial and sacrilegious lore of Lochnith; Who, what and where would have been able to support such or such, rising on the beams and girders that make a whole for an inaccurate Menthe, going to the arcane of the seventh external love with clear magenta lights, on rounded ultraviolet reliefs, here is where everything lulls from the adverb Eleusis, seething with a consonant flight that suffocates in spite of a Pseudo Vernarthian, where it will go without any exception disrupting the courses of hesitation, leaving no more the divine portent and going back to the loaded Cibatus or barley in northwests that flatten ultra winter, mowed down to its glacial bluish water discharge in unequal thickening of fast secrets with thirds of vox with bordering called in pair of trios, and symbolic of a reborn flashed subsoil of a lifetime swollen in its low course and ministerial occultation that isolates itself on Patmos. The skies were beaten where nothing germinates from dreams waiting for thousands of those like me with acute senses of the Anthesterion, or of March taking me towards an enigma not posed even if it is not clarified yet not resigning from love or smelling in the singular uni-lunar desolate with venerable fulminations and inquinas of the branch of the bakchoi, which was whistled by an Aulós that was remade generic when restarting fasting from a day rebuked and repaid in the emaciated Cibatus. Such light grasses were polarizing prohijadas when recovering from resounding beginnings of the rhizomatous aromatic nuance, and from super life machined from the metallic oscillation of the fires and rites ruined in the aromatic arthrophagous of Lochnith, nauseating at night in flowing enigma and gramineous rictus, intermingling while he longed for the ritual and his graceful plumes in feasts that honored his Canephores transferring mead towards the bakchoi psychic adept revealing himself from the masculine to the feminine in aqueous positive bed and supra negative redemption, which was fading into sharp matter attended while the world was created that they would live with more than forty stratagems, seeing themselves praised before their eminent Truth. Myself…being its own tyranny…, which erects whoever classifies it sacramental, and notices the squalid lack of control of its barbarism flash when I still pursue the darkness of my purge that is falling even without finding where to do it, falling however from its end and of guilty thunderous glances..., what more public decree do I wish, for more rituals that you have close to you when feeling sharp minorities of its aftertaste although in double life and night your memory continues to spy on whoever denatures you from the paganism of Lochnith, more than a proselyte , plus that a lien conceived in dethroned galleys of homeland and fusca haze. Meanwhile, quantities of Omphalos from the ego micro center are distancing themselves from mine, my faded lost throne hallucinates lost knowing that it is a probable sculpted flash subject to the gleaning of the Cibatus in fraction of the cereal ritual, and of sanctified illumination with tableares that have to dwell all the times that they revive from the vivid purple red, and from the debtor clairvoyant mystery sky that is reviving in the revealed luminescence that throws it in ornate nickels and acidic rattles at midnight falling on a positive particle devoid of yours returning to mine, and preparing for the flashing praise that pigeonholes him from his crippled fallacious and previous theory suggested after favors by not being reconverted. Lochnith capitulate capitulation suffers from glare towards her beloved, placing his phalanges on circular and angular waves on the virtual milky river of Eleusis caressing her face and glare from her. “I, Lochnith, was on the cliff with my Canephor Aerse, near his Athenian paternal landlord, I was going to say goodbye to myself and carelessness, not being able to see myself in the reflection of the water separated from my ego, knowing that Aerse would not choose me, much less to my abandoned superior.

In Keri on the Island of Zakynthos, I synchronized the fall of Aeschylus in Leucas, which perhaps without my local would offend me by reputation and snoop on cliffside suicides that only see nascent effigies of the bakchoi as a potion for serials of life and cities of the incongruous dramatic space , where its tragedy and antithesis do not fit in the basket carried by my priestess Aerse. I am flying over the structures of the acropolis, not yielding as a deity who prophesies where there is no room for the world in which she and I can inhabit. Lochnith, jumped after her as she was falling down the frontispiece of the cape..., She watched him as he fell..., forbidding to skew him from his gestures and get close to her so as not to fall where the wind is more docile and free, intervening with pashkein inclination or entangling them of the vipers and rims of the heroic hair in a condition of evanescent reckless touch against her suitor, trapping her from the Omphalus that she had tied to her neck transferred from brilliant didactics before a puerile boxing of vicissitudes, and spring flower shops next to the flayed serpents of Persephone and Kashmar floating on the Lilies of Aerse. Prey to the escarpments and cliffs, she remained possessed among the sedimentary dolomites that emanated near her veins before plunging down the steep side in over cascading prayers for her, always knowing that he would love her on a singular base of enchantments while he looked smiling before fall yielded In the end, forty-one seconds she was thrown off the cliff..., Lochnith passes from one end to the other the Omphalus of her neck by a lofty plume ready for love, imagining herself in the midlands of a ruthless positive affection of the mysterious flashing Eleusino, and by the divided ***** that took them as they fell into a splendid world with serials and images of Aerse, tied to the prehensile sacrifice and the cold hand of Lochnith, together as they fell between their subconscious selves, becoming heaped and vivid as something plunged towards them fleetingly, knowing that he I was going to survive him.

Lochnith's gleam was northwest of Athens once lost in the scrupulousness of a pagan polis and cult that kept docked in the sands to find her on the cliffs of the acropolis, where they had lost each other after two thousand years since they Theodosius abolished by decree the rituals of Eleusis. With revulsion and unprecedented insight, Aerse remained a recluse with excessive eagerness to self-eliminate, possessing for both the due imagination that he had possessed of the devoid neckline of the omphallus causing the inclination of the avalanche and their bodies towards where they supposedly would land on the divine and Dionysian path which leads to the eschatological of Vernarth's Diokitis. Apparently they were leaving as a result of an immortal Vernarthian existential catastrophe or decline, at the same time of a rhythmic alkaloid hemlock with its Achene that carried them for any pretense by being triggered towards the meeting with Persephone without her or he knowing why to fester at Eleusinos as Lochnith and Aerse in a single concentric whole, and quantum beings of the octagonal by the straight or transversal line that slipped into the hypotenuse at the instant that they were conceived implicitly as they took him from relapses when he went towards Aerse, after winding up from his conclave Hypomorphic writing and Magna Mater Misterica. Under the established power of his ministerial, the redemption that went in adjoining the ins and outs was consigned to resurface from the subgenre, and from himself procreating exultation with the analogs of Vernarth that were prolonged in excremental purges and disagreements of the cult of what should be twisted in the ****** of the magnetic genre and of positive tendency that would be eternalized after the cessation of the active decrees by Theodosius. Eminently Aerse suffered on some semi-dead watery slabs next to Vernarth, she remained after the agreement to centralize what irradiated her humanly as semi-Itheoi from a reinforced gender that was cohesive in retrograde worship to achieve pre-flowering in all the springs of the world, where they could be seen together with Persephone in the finnis that was distanced ultra terrestrial towards a dowry of profusion and disproportionate wealth, not being categorized as a mystery rather as an unknown of a super method of rummaging in the lanterns where no reflection of Aerse could to be found by Lochnith after getting lost in the polychrome figures of the acrotera, lying in watery nitrosities on the escarpment of the cliff. Physiology will influence Eleusis with systematic naturalness for the active hydrogenated elements, and of such unknown prebiotics or phyto-estrogens where remnants of the great sepulcher of humanity are manifested, as it is found to rise from the true hecatomb of July with a hundred halters arranged with foreign beings towards the oasis of transition. The little will of the annals will multiply in millennia of obscurantism, taking him in transit to a more exciting late management by harassing the search for Aerse in a clear mystery already in the jaws of a clamoring night by the reefs of Demeter for those who know about Persephone! even being with the inventive fallacy of a addicted spirit in correlation to the rite and its lineage. Every night that he convalesces, he will look sleepless with the servile promise of divinity from a vision that fades from the winepress and the Boedromion party, moving from the born ****** position of a hierophant towards the mold that dies and that does not renew itself from Boedromia itself. The representation of Aerse was reflected with transfused majolica and Eleusinian threads when she was seen walking from the beginning floating remotely in the meadows of the knoll, from which the cyclical anagram of the lost cliff rises when it separates from its Adonis being able to expose them in mythological treachery and transcended from epic truth to be related to the treaty between Zeus, Hades and Demeter for the rescue of Persephone after being dented from the beginning of the arcana that sprouted from a distorted symptomatology. She aerse carried the flayed serpents even on her body as if she should look for them in an omnipotent volatile gray so that it would come out by itself and be unguarded by her gone eyes, witnessing secrets and resting in anarchy from where there is not and will not be. Archon or governor What a mesmerizing problem is improvised from second after third that provoke astonishment to see him in the course that he could not have of his cursed detection! Aerse was beginning as a curious Canephore, he came to meet his ephebes Lochnith after excessive self-inferred hypotheses by following him at her command detailing the Kykeon that paled her psychotropically from a discarded and mineral exhibition, of which she would be devoured by the numinous portent of the Mashiach with his Sunday appearance or concerning the numen manifested with the eternal powers in front of the hieratic presence of the man who looked at her paternally, with a crass profile like a Damian Hessian drawing them in, plotting in a colossal fascinating stealth. Here she wraps him up but does not approach him and falls, lost in love, such a Faustus dilemma, granting herself at the initiation of the portal of the twelve lunar months in Eleusis, with immutable years and origins where they will bounce to meet in childhood that made them known as Aerse and Lochnith . Here in the greatest trance of life, both would begin to overcome all the twists and turns of the gestated gloom that separated them due to the shaken annoyance and confusion still divergent in sediments of runoff and bark oscillations that emerged from the unevenness of the acropolis, until a meeting in the amazing light and divine libertarian of two tendernesses, and martyrdoms that purely push them back towards a new end of the muddy gleam in a found paradise where the sea unfolds by male consciousness and is ratified mercifully in each flash of the striated. They will meet again in similar attachments divided by the fluctuating one who unmasks the one who drives him away with his dominant ******, and ill-advised caudal space seducing the contiguous public and private astral bodies that have never been coarse or dissimilar in ablution or sacraments of gods the pagans, everywhere nor whatever its fragmented remains by the gullies and ravines of the Kêphisos. After the remnants in politics, the desolate serpents of Aerse flowed down the river, as a link section that declared itself from an initial that was an evident flash that enveloped them as a cardinal canon with bucolic politics in all the nearby regions. Athenians, after the vertiginous regressive parapsychology like an Eleusino flahsback or Anadromí sto Parelthón Eleusia, with the visualizations of Aerse and Lochnith when they follow each other through the learned induction of feedback that was arranged in the inclinations of both, refining their morphological bastimento for the purpose of instituting them as articulators of the evocation of the millennia. Prophecies were reported from the 8th century BC. with ends, and interprocesses of the eternal in the unknown mystery that began to be clarified with the reinvented personality of the amendment of Life and Expiration experienced with Lochnith of the month of Boedromia, fleeing from a federated Polis that would be unified to a substantial dimension and of sacred Eleusinian space with brand new warmongering for the culminations of being incorporated into the Hexagonal Primogeniture integrated in this way in the indissoluble ephemeris of foundation and hegemony of the Megaron or Opisthodomos of Patmos. This is thanks to the beaten serpents that were nesting the reanimates of the question with subterfuges that make the widths of inter-pairs prevail, which are consolidated as a reality of session and space, agreeing on the defeated parapsychological memory or future in the economy of two resignation blocks of the repealed Sacred Space, in consensus of the beams of the Vernarth Military Command forging from the beating sacralized ***** that cultly intensified from its mysterious nature and territorial domesticity to come from the attracted Agoras that were repositioning themselves with the metaphysical agents that they will be restored in the polis with the scope of furrowing in a civic action induced towards someone who virtually recognizes him in the purge of the exclaimed strangers. More ardent passion was added to receive them even being wary of further mutations vibrated with the Faskéloma, or exasperating that moves the tint of the occasional vibrations, similar to the tendencies of the Sacred Space of Gethsemane, with the disastrous passing of the aqueous levels of the Kêphisos, which it would mean the presumptive ordinal of unreal historical worlds. The parapsychology of space was absorbed with torched quadrilaterals that were hanging from the invoked meditation, they were lying on futile folders and anodyne Aerse molecules, which were still welcomed by the magical exposed extra-corporeal substances that were deduced as they were experiencing unprecedented transit preserved of the eccentric deconcentrated radio of the refurbished of the spectral chromatic. The precipitated mental field dared to invade boldly towards another unheard-of generator that dissipated between Aerse and Eurydice coming near the Coasts of Patmos, coming from hypothetical planes that flow for their definitive moderated unions. The static refluxes bounced in simultaneity of bilocation of the Eleusinian exordia that were exorbitating each other with the rollers that were uncrossing the corporeal margins that concelebrated the quantum crankshaft, and the fibrous distinction that was teleporting the rescue rituals unforeseen astrological

Lochnith says: “in the proximity of the mortuary reality there will be no hesitation outside of our body and geodesy of our lost zafral or of lives in transit sub or supra quantum, obsessing in the eyes of erudition and unknowns, while our contraption self-obstructs with our electromagnetic sensory interactions paraphrasing in the convoluted distance and residues of related-metaphysical electros that are reconverted into the appearance of a premonition” The ligation of the arteries of Cephisus carried the emanations of Lochnith to love him in a healing act suspended with beings devoid of physicality, on the way to specters and healings of a perverse, to repair his extra-corporeal suffering confined to those who condescend to the androecium and gynoecium as a unit of mental physical motor gender, at the instant of the exacerbated and ectoplasmic world regulated by means of the Vernarth regression that was going lowering your blood pressure, increasing your red blood cells side effect rivers intertwined with Eurydice and Aerse in the opening Othon, directed at Vernarth's outcomes that came in the bow of the super-aqueous ship with some fabrics from the ship's stowage directing the speculative and autonomous advance that was already dispersing in the waves. Dead cells of the right Lynothorax,  A savvy military mancomunal became syncretic with Lochnith, he was determined to continue reinstalling us in his white blood cells that rose when it was already dawn on the shores of independent Skalá, and in the circled cohorts of Phalanxes and Psiloi that accompanied him in minutes that seemed millennia, all succumbing to the physical dismay of the underlying necrosanct and telepathic prayer that took place at the dawn of parapsychology trances cysts of recovery that descended on them in pure novel regenerative membranes, persé of merciful acts that became thick in the flashes when freezing from the weightless rays of the ultraviolet, which was separating between Sóma and Gnómi or corporal opinion that was joining synthetic networks with indefinite emissaries and receptors, subsequent bodies of the Bachkoi chemist, already deficient for a compensatory universe and varieties that were taking shape in a disintegrated emotional quantum world. Each time the bodies were reinserting themselves into the full unknown and subjective material, the concrete material united in the network with each other as a single force was transforming into the greatest passion and sparkle among their own, reinstalling themselves in the Super Egos.

In the Latest Minute Dogmate according to the rictus mortis thesis, the globules would move like a big explosion interacting with everything, so starting everything from the beginning of nothing to the indivisible with optional digits of coincidence or inseparable digitized, such a phenomenon of meekness of aligning times were massified with the probability of finding them in the vestige of real anomalous presences that occurred millions of light years ago. Aerse replies: “My admiration, the sparkle has a measure of astral body in reason of the vigor that underlies reiterated expiation and measurable virtuosity in its perfection of semblance p and corporal providence, inquired of being transformed far from disaffection rather than a continuous healing . The smallest and most coherent in the fabulous Griffins will join my clairvoyant and component with the ballast of his final game, not reflective of another who can measure or predict him for an undivided being. But I am already here, and I am your infinite…, I no longer know of other bad illusions of trying to separate myself from this life of what Eleusis is, perhaps a cosmic coarse that is and was in all time that passes speculatively, for this flash that is reflects whether it pales visible or not, I hope it will be compact on our intertwined attachments”
As living organisms, various life methods will be postulated as an initiative in the announced Big Bang, for the profit of those who are real close and real logotypes of resonant neuroscience as a daring that will influence the progeny, for ****** volumes, exonerations of bearers experiences and evolutionary lives of the emitter outside of an ignored Parthenon, since the gender of the world is also associated with random ambiguities from anode to cathode, positive-negative towards a Hellenic parallelism of roots in life dressed with lasting vernacular inheritances. Much of Lochnith's electro-dermal conglomerate was in full congruence with retrograde Eleusian parapsychology propagating from Vernarth's Invisible Eclectic Portal, which was nebulously teleported down the Kêphisos River with saprophytic living organisms acknowledging it in indigenous originality. of the species of reborn Vernarth, and super regulation of the euphemism and mysterious underworld below their protocols.

Revelations of the mental-material, made reluctance and support of the estrangement of inviolate perceptions, precognitions, telepathies and premonition, which debuted in this intrepid adventure intuiting in perpetuity with the sensory corridors and interferences of a reality of body in an explosive world incontestable. Lochnith, was already in possession of a hypnotic mental reincarnation formula in the form of neuroscience vessels close to scarecrows of expiration, allocating the subsequent locks of an enlightened decency of the ethereal sleepy baggage and the oracular review. The more we experience the laws that explain his prodigies, the more our perspective of media and complete fiction will increase in something that begins to be typical of the laurel of a true slowed-down ******-kinetic process. Within the curvature and the dim light that remained in the Lochtian days, normality returned to them after this long epitome in the parapsychological biosphere, and the intriguing contemplation and even mischievous tenuity of idea that can die suddenly, after self-incubate in the intangible coexisting passage and medication rupture of lived art with alien morbid beings. For a character archetype, it is only known that reaping is consuming capital from the disruption of a non-profit loss and its incontrovertible paranormal, which is paranormal and parapsychological from the plane of posterity of life, which will be an act of peaceful coexistence in playful spirits, compensating for seclusion in the vaults of an involutionary dramatic past, if its material or monad (spiritual) is not dissected in the cosmic train of perception of unfolding, and of the concept of purging energy that goes out of its way in its seventh heaven. The hypnosis of death and purgation to whoever requires it in the convoy of their conscience continues to be a tiny unruly space that transports us physically, reverting to minimums that are neutralized in alien foundlings. From an aedicule depository to an empty body that is neither independent nor from the lord who claims it (V.g. aedicule of José de Arimatea). The impersonal voices that officiated at the ritual of Eleusis were heard far beyond those who could hear them merely with memorable spaced therapies, recording themselves in interspersed layers of sounds and imprecise electroacoustics in the serial of an alarming complex frequency of the regenerative stumble in an organism of Continuous movement. Everything spreads in bends of abstraction that revives those who promote the perfection of marigolds like buttercups that they wear in the clothing of the Canephores like Aerse, but soulful and latent ephemeral of the ethereal alchemical entitative of ignored molecules. Lochnith says: “My submission heals, it no longer maintains being far from who represents it and where it comes from, I know that its remains in me do not reason, clarifying more my journey towards the crown and vilifications of a nascent humanity that mourns me, and that does not recognizes by rebelling in my desires to attract him"
the sky closes in vermilion digression and you inquire that they should answer for the silence of confusion in the parapsychological aqueducts of Athens with Patmos. The organization of the Sacred Space starts with the bizarre totemic quantum by sacred paths, Megarons, fictitious hunting places, double surrounding lunar ring, curves of virtual walls, Propylaea to embrace the Vernarthian enigma and finally the Telesterion that received Vernarth with a naked torso that perched in front of Aerse and Lochnith, looking at them towards the futuristic survival with five digits in a quarter of the waning of his right hand containing the small coat of Betelgeuse and the Pleiades in inklings of the umpteenth apocalyptic Megaron of Patmos. Scrupulosity as an Electro-Eleusian placebo effect, went alone, dismissing itself in the singular of a Templar niche and towards a Megaró-Omega Telesterion for catechized who endowed themselves with super-resident halos and litters of priesthoods that fled in terror from the Aerse-Lochnith fusion, prior to each rudeness and their contours swearing eternal exaltation and idealism, to be reconverted into individuals saved and votive to love each other with third parties, escaping from small frames that still did not hold up from the ecumenical mess.

i read an article on the asymmetrical nature
of internal organs including, but not limited to
the nature of the heart

and how the body folds in over itself so
many times as it forms.
how outwardly being able
to sense things on both side of the body is crucial, so
we are to have two legs, two arms, two ears, two eyes--

but the heart was on the inside,
with less pressure to be two,
mattering less as to where it was
distributed--more likely to be
a mess,

would i have been better with two
hearts-- one on each sleeve?
to sense things on both sides, would i
have been more aware, more transparent, or
more dense, with the capacity for much, for
much--

or would i have been
overwhelmed with the novelty
of each person i meet, which I often feel anyway
as if i should tuck them away
and seek out promises to
keep them stolen into
the one, singular *****
that I have?

I should have been born with two--
either way, the unevenness of it all, you can't fix
the broken with the same crooked hands,
I am not at all symmetrical
I do not sense with both sides of my body
not at all with my heart
I have acted on an imbalance and hoped
the sullied appearance of such a vigorously beating thing
rough and on it's own would
speak volumes but it does not
and has not.

Howls of foxes or Deafening silence,No matter to the graveyard
You or me,The soil loves none
The plain lines appear Ugly,
Can't allure you
Thus
While I was becoming empty
This entire world,Encroached into me
Thus,While I was becoming empty
Your love engulfed me
Then,O!human
As I eye,On the ****** Of our human race
I found the deviation and crookedness
And the dreadful unevenness
Which animates
the sleeping sensitiveness
To nourish the humanity
Need to flare up the struggle
For this only dear
For you only humanity
I still alive on this earth.

A bowl of Rice,
Soft, simmered
And milky white.
Evenly shaped,
Each one like the next.

Rice was this abundance of
Easy going grain.
Wholesomely predictable
But comforting all the same.

The Pol Sambol had double his fury
A haphazard mix of harsh spices
Woven into soft textures.
The tangy taste of lime,
With a sweet coconuty crunch.
A burst. A passion.
An unevenness. A pattern.

Palatable extremes
That Rice had grown to love.

Their journey never began,
So there journey will end in never.

Rice was the base.
And Pol Sambol was the taste.
And so they lived forever.


Pol Sambol- A spicy coconut grind based sambol

It was a dark night in who knows were
in a time of who knows when
I took a deep breath in
The hot sticky sweet humidity kissed my skin
I raised my eyes to the skies and all I saw was
A Starry Night
and looming dark buildings with embers of light
glooming from the panes

Through the cobblestone streets
there was one building that caused strain
a small restaurant patio
seated on the corner of a street
where the buzzing and humming could be heard from about fifteen feet
The quiet buzzing and mummering cut through the stale air
the soft swing of Jazz gently floated towards me without a care
I stood across the street
feeling the unevenness of cobble beneath my feet
and watching the patio

and I realized I had to go
such a place of serenity was not for me

As I walked away I could hear the buzz of lights
calling my name
But alas
I continued through the dark cobbled streets

Coat whiter than face of moon
amber eyes of sinister tune
whistling hail and winds of ice
Lord Winter's Paradise

He shook his frosted grisly mane,
clawed the earth and roared,
eyed Queen Autumn with disdain,
barred teeth spat, 'I'm bored'.

'why must i procrastinate,
linger in this state?
days will soon be lengthening
veins of warmth strengthening.'

'there'll be life and trees of different shape,
unevenness abound,
a multi-coloured landscape
and colour on the ground.'

'cut me free and let me rule
i'll paint the vista white,
a multi-faceted diamond jewel
that'll blind you with its light.'

the Queen gave royal chortle
spun round without a qualm
'I am like you immortal
and have eternal charm'.

'i'll keep you tied till last leaf
has fluttered to the ground,
and then your reign will be but brief
for my sister must be crowned.'

'As you'll see, she'll brook no nonsense,
for Queen of Spring is she
so when you spy the purple crocus
and Lily-of-the-Valley

peeping through your nival blanket
you'll know her time has come,
she'll want to share her banquet
with warmth from golden sun.'

'she'll shoo you from her place
no sign of lenity
for though benign in name and grace
she'll show no leniency.'

'but i know i need not tell you,
you know her better than me,
for Lady Spring is your shrew,
your wife for eternity.'