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Tag Archives: emotion

Domain: Unfiltered

Thoughts smoldered in her midst,

Tempered from a warmth—not just alive, but emanating,

My heart engulfed by the demon within,


No illusions can be found,

Lockets image mirrors round,

Into the pages of the furthest back,

Where every dream’s a cipher,

Unlocking the beauty that’s there to find,

Hidden deep beneath the depression

Coveting the door to love’s domain


And therein, poetry’s the universal language,

And mistletoe’s unneeded, for embrace

Comes without saying, alive and free,

Forever entered, in the perpetual state of being


There are no labels; there are no castes,

No deviations and no collapse

A world without fatigue; a world without time

Here, in this realm, where pain has long since dried


There’s no distractions, no wayward paths

Only uncountable equations of nurtured grace,

There’s no delusion; there’s no deception

Where happiness is synonymous with breathing,

Where enchanting tears flow free,

Joyful beads eclipse the cheeks,

Recycling the passion found in this place


There’s no entrapment, there’s no severance or decay

For only euphoria and blissful adoration are allowed to stay


Upon a landscape comprised of springtime melody,

Footprints are always guided home,

Where, through the fundamental premise,

Of an eternal promise declared between, within,

A cultivated reality built on trust and faith,

Within a realm so pure that only love, and never alone by dream, could ever truly attempt to make


Abstraction Of Infatuation (Paralytic)

The wrinkled tarmac dreams in satin.

It’s perfunctory locale serves as ammunition—

Motivation for scaling the throngs of peril—

Otherwise known as time.


Adrift upon wreathes of sand—

The dried eyes of tears stain the sundries

Breaking fast


Abridged patterns tread the veiled scape—

Bequeathing absolution while bludgeoning all

Indicators of who I am


Turnstile apothecary

Devising thirsting schemes

Blue, green, Lavender and Red

An arc of whispered runes

Outline the weathered face

You’ve often doted daily upon


Contrivances, stillborn in the comforting frame

That is, and has always been, you and you the same


I don’t know what you’re thinking,

Yet I’m thinking the same thing


When you’re near

And I am here,

I can’t help,

But be subdued

By the sludge within, coursing through

In which, all visions become similes

For my every sight of you


All thoughts are pliable,

Flexing for the call,

All movement is tense

Until you release me from it all

Balancing Act

Get up on the beam
tiptoe across its narrow valance
embrace the spotlight—cautiously
incorporate ever-increasing increments of
risky behavior, into each lapsing moment of the production you’ve
artistically created.

The body is the instrument we’ve each
been given—where even those greatly out
of tune, possess a harmony of their own—practice,
perhaps is really the only opportunity we each can fully grasp,
where the embodiment of naivety may be transformed
into a platform for creative incipiency

symmetrical reactions
to the metronomes inside

What is given birth to, will always be your child, ever be
your perfect moment of acceptance, even when shame
accompanies your blankets of desire—illuminating the process,
whether developed from sheer luminance or crafted entirely by deceptive means—after a passage of time collapses around the misjudged instrument, that gut-laden wrench of ensnared mesh, will
eventually be serrated from it’s sinewy hold, releasing that which is the antithesis of creative decree, yet, even in its newfound infancy, also beckons forth the impetus to stir the again, the clay

symmetrically advanced
methods for stasis and cathartic appeal
It burgeons the emotions
that only through the incorporation of time and
limitless expanding frames of undulating patter, can one ever
truly capture the entirety of perfect zeal, leveling out the instability that erodes the ruts created—those crumbling lines and scars, where
embracing ideations have also reared unexpected potency unto containers concealed within the realm of skewering complacencies—
and although it’s taken several decades to decode,
balance, finally will implode, unto it’s own design—inheriting
all the scraps and parcels often discarded in omission—where throughout the formative process, a variance of points relive each slightly seen yet often discouraged alignments of contortion’s determinacy—aptly and proportionally—until eventually you smile— unto that image forming upon the reflective screen—where balance finds its course—ever seeming to have mastered the craft of intrinsically bound schemes of illusory evasion—bringing about the balance that’s ever lingered outside your nets and snares, just never acknowledged as being part of the package and only slightly having been pondered before, as its consistency does now—replicates a piece of ensnarled string—packaging that dangles in it’s own uniquely flavored lines of alternating indices of sight

Finding the joy in opposites, the passion in chance
Giving balance
A struggling chance,
But chance still…
And symmetry has
A knack of finding
It’s other side

Fireflies and Buzzards

Corrosive charms
deter salvation

Clashing armor
brandishing forgiveness

Scintillating repercussions
Vivaciously corrupt

the battle field
for calls of war
to draw you near

Fireflies and buzzards be
ware of the old oaken times
of heed…

Savagely seeking
a sincerity only
a sorcerer knows

Calamity, Catastrophe
Bathing in blasphemy
Cold fusion afterglow
radiating through the folds
of everything you’ve ever known

Sorrow sweeps
The remains
of the days
we roamed
in exaggerated
tombs with