October fifth, the night begets
Midnight hallways of uncertain threat
A whooshing of trees marks ambiguity
The cold hovering beneath my very feet

Sacrosanct creatures in Epiphanius state
With dust in shelves and candles that melt
A frightening woe nigh unsaid nor upheld

Twas an airy voice lurking the dark
Such lush but nothing of any spark
The floors were tilted and web's shifted
Fixated minds suddenly felt desolated

With all the corners of every dorm
She yearns something, finding her prose
Crossing borders, ruffling like a storm

The woeing wind woes as she goes
Nothing to keep, nothing to show
Her runic is fading, losing its tone
It never stopped till morning and all is gone

A shadow runs, from your eyes,
What is this fear that in you resides?
A shadow indeed, but of peace,
So let the shrill worries cease!
Dance as this mystery does so far
See her gleaming tresses flare!
See the starlight in her eyes!
See her footsteps light as skies!
Feel the Summer greens grown strong,
Around her garments in many a throng!
Feel the silky mantle soft and blue,
that was made fair from nature true!
Feel the love within your soul!
Feel the joy as it runs and rolls!
Hear the songs she sings at night
that nightingales hearken to with reviving might!
Hear her voice clear as her mind
that is ever peaceful and kind!
Hear the silver footsteps so!
Through Fire, Air, Water, Earth she might go!
Smell the Fragrance of her mane
of newborn life and rain forest same!
Smell her cloak so elven bright
that might send you into the light!
Smell the fragrance of her hands
to wisp you far to distant lands!
Taste the bounties she hath made
within the might of her den and glade!
Taste the fresh air 'round her sky
that is free, and will not die!
Taste the tear of this maiden wise
and be free from death's woeing demise!
And through all of this I say
"May I join you amidst your fray?"
And she, says with grace, "My dear,
you must become a Wicca, clean and clear!
Love all! Harm None!
Feel the cold of the moon and the warmth of the Sun!
Join my circle brethren!
And we shall sing forever, with no end!

*******, Evangeline
I hated you in the seventh grade
When you were pushed on me at school
And broke my rib,
As I badmouthed you on the monkeyswings.

But quickly I learned
Not from mom or sister
That to be a man is different than
Hollywood and Disneyland
Nothing Loves, Actually; Forever calls—

Very quickly

It seems

That I go from adorable to expendable

Serendipitously,
With a bit of mandated mail
And affairs with Eros’ bureaus of State

Back then I played with chitinous bugs
Baiting them fluffy placentas
of budding trees
And stalked them back to their cave
Before I knew my felonies

But I was a baby,
A child—I never could have known what it means.

But of course I do,
I’ve seen
the running of the bulls
The utterance of men
They are angry and gouge *******
with cold vicegrips around their ******
And are kicked
Mercilessly
Spurned to wrathful affectation
To be murdered in the evening
With rapturous spectation

“But they are bulls!”

Of course they are
"These feelings are only natural!"

No man can equate
With the pleasurable temptations of the state

Not bird or bug or steer or doe

The only Hierarchy permissible
Is of the animals
And of that we hate

I don’t see you woeing
About that steak on your plate.
Or the Glue in the soles of your shoes.

Stroll a bit
Sniff the trees
Whiff the *******
When it’s in the feed

He runs in circles shouting, chanting
“Oye, Oye, Aye Piche Cabrone!”
As the solo mothers cut his lengua
for the starving Ninos
In an apartment complex
off Oxenhoof Lane

Where

Papi got iced
By I.C.E or the like
And the kiddies will never know what it means.

You’ll never know what it means
To be a bull
Muster your might for this—demand with laughter you die
I am an ant in the ever-washed hive
Of sterile kin who have no lives
They give for their queen or infectious despot with wings

Despite all the kindness they've given me,
I am not ready to be meat for the feet.

In every blade of grass I've faith
That no bird or sin will ****** me from my place
And into the sky or the unsatiated mouth of the various
Disunified highs

For now I share the toil and vitriolic
Callous
Jowls of those who hate themselves
More than me
And try to smile and bring food for the queen

But deep inside
I am an ant
And that is all you will ever see.

he loves freely,
peacefully,
beautifully,
quietly in the middle of the night,
love making,
he loves.

he loves like chocolate ice-cream,
the mmmm...taste in my mouth,
licking lips,
warm feeling in my heart,
he loves.

he loves like mama loves her baby,
cuddling,
tickling,
lovingly,
kissing,
woeing me to sleep,
he loves<3

Beautifully tragic:
warm, but smothering.
Home-like, but woeing.
The sight of the bed that
swallows his hopes and
dreams.

Each day, I lose glimpse of
his fight: his endless struggle
of heart, mind and body and the
15 inch foam coffin that holds him
hostage to the world inside his head.

"You're worthless. You don't matter..."
Screams uttered by the supposed
"supporting team." Who the hell are they to you anyway? Flesh and blood
mean little when his financial value
is higher dead than alive.

The greatest fear, sitting in the hearts
of viewers (idle victims of the scene
unfolding), is the penultimate event.
The second to the end: for it is the one we will never see coming. The last "good" one before the worst one.

The last night that the bed holds him tight before the bullet squeezes him tighter.

Elsie is exasperated with her worriment and woeing.. the poor soul does not know which way she is coming or going..Alas she can’t control her restlessness this is the way Elsie Morgan is.. her mind is always ******* in knots from her forever in a tizz

So you will see this poor fragile old woman standing by her windowsill stood staring from inside her livingroom looking so ill..waiting for her family whenever they will call..Elsie is constantly thinking one of them will have an accident or a disasterous fall..All the while she picks her fingers and has each single one red raw.. if only she could stop this nervousness coz her fingers are sore

Oh poor old Elsie Morgan has always lived on her wits..forever imagining the worst in life she has worn her mind to bits.. So much so that she has suffered a second stroke.. but this was inevitable with her fretting over folk..Each and every minute and second of the day you can see her frightened face staring out in dismay..with such a look of anxiety..ashen and grey