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A Fatal Transitioning….The Poetry of Sleep

He screams to the heavens, for invisible militias to decimate the berserkers of the mind; Postulating to the pagan voice, ferreting for a life long forsaken, grasping the inevitable, but leaving a tethered string, to allow an unraveling to return the flesh unto this gavel trampled deep….and yet

I wonder why,

His cries, his tears,

Never adorned the

Thoughts of a Deity

That could have saved…


Brooding boy, beg not

for your appearance turns sour when you do


Is the disease so great you can’t alleviate the thrashing within?

Is there not, in your position, an analgesic for such wrathful whims?

Can you bear not the

Grimacing toil of youth, for it is in truth; when I relay how you were not the first, to suffer as you feel…does that allay your fear?

Does this expel your quorum’s spell—

Will this quell the quivering abrasions that estrange you deep within?

Does it bend/Will it blend?

Can it purge/Can it make you chaste again?

Will you hunt the haunt that hinders you with inanity?

Will you blossom to the foul fragrances of a rancor smoke’s uncloaked?


Does it make the slightest inch of placation…will it assist you in rebuilding the dynasty that could have been…if not, for the misfortunes of your house of sin?


Do you even understand the voice in which I speak?   Can you focus upon my presence now?  You flail your arms as madmen may, you writhe double-clutched, biting deep into the upturned soil where last you sat…what, tell me what, am I to make of this?  Was I proscribed to an anomaly or a incurable decree?  Tell me, for my abilities have grown worn, the hornets nest is building, soon shall it flinch forward the deadliest yet of swarms and all the while, I mean no insensitivities toward your plight, but I cannot understand the warped sensibilities that dwell deeply through you now…and, I fear, I shall fail you and my master both…then, tell me, what shall I report at such a time?


I slap you but you smile, I surmise a beating would cause you much joy in such a senseless state.  The longer I harbor your companion; I fear lost as well I shall submit?


I scream yet I wonder if my range you can even hear.  At times your reactions indicates a cognizant being still writhes within, but at others, I fear it is but a barely moving corpse presiding that space, occupied, yet somewhere other than here.


I turn the vultures away from their feast, yet as sun’s fall and the sands rise in blistering gales beneath the sky, I fear, their meal is near at hand, and it may not be, he, that they await?


Our journey is lingering, I have nothing to report, his condition remains as it had, yet, I cannot be positive in such determinations, for I fear I am not the same as I was previously…I notice a failing of faculties…seemingly each week another is removed…and although we approach you now, the effort is far greater than the years spent in sacrifice….each day’s progress, is quickly covered by tomorrow’s sands…


The hallucinations are the strongest they’ve been, I consistently imagine we are not in the realm we first arrived, yet have strayed into some hourglass, where only the shifting dunes remind us of the hours remaining…


The accounts about oasis’ are factual…


I am now communicating fully with our friend…and his pain has transformed me into a creature that understands his own…hope is lost, at least for me, he seems to have regained his sacristy….he tends to me as we speak…if only a caravan should approach…I am, in desperate need of an anodyne to dissipate this remorse… for this, this all, is but the poetry of the sleep.


As a loud clanging rhythm

wrinkles the smooth

beneath your eye’s

weathered lid







Intrinsic Fires Woefully Set Ablaze


Teething under an open fire—

Like a lobo lost amongst a pathless green—

Dichotomous conflagrations

pillaging the frightened veils of

forestry for all its pent-in wares,

often measured against and for

the occasional incendiary

laden-clad in a ribose blanketing

of the singed solutions

most commonly referred to as

a caustic curve of emblazing



Like the blistered bark foundering beside

The ‘boisterous fiefdom’s Burk-bred lineage—

Where and of, a never-close-to-humble callous grey—

Embellishes the fertile floes of icy strains—

Indicating, with an utter lack of soothing decree,

the purge of passage, for those once sent astray—

exiled to verdurous plains of Coventry—

where the never docile embellishing’s

find their tenets bound and soaked—

in the gritty absolution burdened

with and by, the venal aftershocks that linger amidst the swords that swallow long the flagrancies left haranguing the vast seas of cauldron’s past and near—

Over the encompassed quickening, in-steps that brood exonerating quarks of sparks in-kind—

Wrenched the stilled beating of life’s vultures, sweltering in the casks of curdling time—

from the steps and rungs known so well, past the enmity of a forlorn wizard’s locking tierce—and of each its relegating dormancies—en masse

collectives of burgeoned sin—

painting sweet the tinder skies—parsing quick the calming cameos emoted in the unleavened serenades of far-too charming rhythmic tithing’s intellectually etched tempests of design

Harmless benediction, mud stained sediments settling upon the ever-omitted flecks of ossien—unceremoniously unforgiving tortured tongues denigrated to acerbically induced
parsimony—where enmeshed fractals chart the skein—where one’s softened shields striate deep, the egregious acumen of patella’s scorn


Fractures to slivery shards

Moments before the placating trek around the sagacious honoring of wisdom’s once vivacious tree of ever-lasting phrenic economy

Full circle returns anew.

Tiers of Tears

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A hierarchy
of saddened

A pyramid
of inherent

Not so softly dancing through

A cylindricality
of lathered


from mold
& caste