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The Bond

Coruscating thoughts betray thy primal instinct.


To the witness, the clouds commence, skewing that which has been long since known of man.


It is here, where the heart begins its activation.  An internal clock of inborn premise commences, stirring forth the Grimoire incoherent.  In counting down and spiraling through, a leavening of complacency spires to, flecking the stars with gold and sparkling hues.

In a momentary lapse of permutation, reflective as it is refractive, adjunct to the enemy it stows.  As is the composure under compromise, baseline’s stilt, rearranging polarity. Such damask blends breed patterns unrehearsed.


Pulsation bleats awhile rapt in throbbing undulation. Emulously, in duress, the synapse skitters to inert measure; a weight felt reactively within the fading doe.


Struggling, she battles each interval coursing in the plague. Struggling, to remain focused, to ignore the loosened clasp. Struggling, to deafen the fleeting harmonics born this eve. Struggling, to adhere to innate notions, to see through, both the vision and the virtue, she’d painted in her dreams.


Fledging forth amongst the besmirched quaking born from such dystopian avails, one would not think ill for fading soon to the aberrant qualms that darkness drew.


Despite tremors, of consequence, nature is discovered; where traits, of perseverance, dare not yet escape into death’s ever-alluring, outstretched arms.


And, in as such, violent resolutions forego their anticipatory applause.  Instead, baffled as they should be, said constrictions grow intrigued by the tarried rebuking from this beast.


The doe, now pale like pallor’s bride, rejects thy outcome, denouncing the agonies your restrictions make.


She adheres instead, to the coursework determination phrased within; blocking all currencies of pain and by staring deep into her pleasure’s swoon. And it is within this now, which sensations become avowed, thusly taking her through, to that time, in which she elsewise would’ve claimed.


Amongst each meandering pause another echo would emerge.  Upon a bed crafted in cruel reality, in a setting coated by seeds of unnatural parlance, maternal impulse still chose to surge. Instructions whispered she to stay. Whence came the word, perhaps the ethos spake, perchance the wind itself? Though none knew such a cure, enough was spoke to stir the beast e’er still. Mystery kept wake her eyes, to stare, beyond the pain and through the sadness it would purge. Mystery kept full her lungs, to breathe, inhaling another tinge of life.  Though fleeting still, mystery kept alive both instinct and hope, enough for her to feel what it was she knew as truth. Mystery kept her silent, still, to marvel upon the art she gave and to lay eyes upon that which she would invite to set her free.


Yet, when time came to, she looked away.  Many stood agape, to believe she chose to test the temperament of fate. If not for the architect with womb, never would this truth be sate. For the salt cast stream, which was all the story needed a mother to see and know.  Such action was not bred in denial but rather bled from sacrifice.


As the doe would have relished taking her leave with such a sight, it was out of fear she chose no such reprieve. As much as her lids did beg for this delight, she could not bear to know her expiration would be her artistry’s initial sight.


Such strength uncommon, born of a love noticeably unseen in such a time, to sacrifice the love she bleeds, so her blood can bear not the timeless burden of such bloodied sorrow.


Seasons would shift and time did pass, leaving us our return to this unfamiliar familiarity, a present path connected with the seeds of life’s past.


A hunter, it is told, often discovered a child scampering through his favorite tract of lawn. Upon this day and for each one that does still pass, he would stand still to watch, as this child aged upon his familiar stretch of path.  Here then he sees, each time he does, the child is cuddled close, amongst a warped wood of unnaturally yet naturally shaded hue.  And strangely enough, seasonably without expectation, such a man, of his line, should choose ebb back such a gifted sight.  Never did his quiver part from the spine, effectively deboning sycophantic notions of archetype.


And as the well worn boots march away each time, a child scurries along through brush and wood, ever looking back, leaving indication it would return again, a truth this hunter proudly knew as true.


And what is to be said of a predator that sympathizes with his prey?  Perhaps all that can be said, must lead us through, past the points of typical convention, to the precipice of an unlikely connection, a convection, that forever onward, only two would truly know.


Or quite possibly, as I like to think it through, perhaps the myths are true.  To which, so the songs bestows, that despite what we know of as truth, a doe still protects her own, even after her days were eternally through. The tale then retells, that through a promise made, between a sickly doe and a hunter who fared not well in hunting, that bonds be built, between man and nature and nature with man, creating an ouroboros between adult and child.


What Is Perceived As Failure May Simply Be The Seeds Of Prosperity Taking Root

Upon arrival we are blessed in tokens. Time commences, as frequently as a pausing gale. Engaging and transformative, dreams upend the tumultuous dishonors bestowed, like never-ending blankets placing their wretched warmth, upon, over and unto the flesh of the lost


Kindred spirits direct their energies out and into an atmosphere teeming with trials and tribulations. It is difficult. It is meant to be.  Keeping true to one’s beliefs, is the type of angst that is well alive, yet unknown by those wrapped in silk.


The offer of promise undoubtedly will appear like hope trapped beneath a flooding ballast, when some effigy wisps about, freeing encouragement to be understood by the ears of the forgotten, providing a message that stirs and swirls in gentle yet rapturous patterns of enigmatic wandering.


This epoch internal, if given over to, certainly shall reveal, that one pure moment of inspiration. And Within, here, truth most certainly breeds epiphany.



All things dead are once again alive, but sated we become, by interventions misunderstood.  With a newfound arc of possibility comes a stinging from life’s lash of apprehension.


And encased within each scar lives a gathering of the spectacular. A future recognition administered with sensations crafted by the sincerity of the divine.


I Won’t Talk About The Weather

There’s a tranquility only found before the dawn. The night is still covered by its blanket of dream.  The birds whistle the first words, low yet understood.  The air is crisp. It is clean. The lamps speak in amber, a language all it’s own.  The wind is alive yet reserved.  The rabbits stir the grass, stopping as if the moon fails to illuminate their bushy tails.  There’s wisdom to the emptiness, a fragrant melody, sating, the still yet tired, flesh we carry anonymously.


If one listens, the music can be heard.  If one pays attention, an entire world previously unnoticed can be observed.


Soft tones of arrival creep amongst the shadows, brilliantly exposing themselves in glimmers and shades.  Here, I could speak upon the loveliness of spring.  Or the words could form an ode to the summer that the months have since become.  Yet, I won’t talk about the weather.  It is unnecessary, as it’s all around our every movement.  It is senseless to repeat, that which is so easily consumed. It is impossible to relate, just how many miracles swirl each moment within the eye.


The Recluse (A Parable of Sorts)

(For a friend)

The recluse must learn to wreck loose from beneath his hermitage—smash thin every ounce of shell remaining attached to such essence—destroy the safe and illuminated trails and pathways, find solace in discovering the wonderment in uncertainty.

As he makes the passage from the dark to bright he must rely upon geography to shield himself from aversions and blight.

Aversions are built and caressed, fine-tuned until it is the only sensation that is left.  Yet…

He who treads with caution shall never take the chance that could presumably change his life forever.

This tenet could deter.  I believe it to be very understandable.  Yet, what often goes unconsidered is that all change is not inherently negative in nature.  In fact, change is simply a shifting from one landscape to the next, caring nothing for appearance.  It just does what it’s definition says it does, it is man’s reaction to this change, that creates the emotional charge, which, again, can be either constraining or eternally liberating.

Is Survival Enough?

A plush invasion of the menagerie

Where violent growths oversee

The tempers hidden from view,

The same, in which, so many believe


Arterial walls collapse, condense

Placated by saccharine kisses of

The bitterest sense


Paltry thoughts swim about,

Caress the innards of a mind strung taut,

A lechery in full charade

Painting insurrection with its veranda wide


Never considering the consequence,

Never pausing to realize the fatality at hand—instead,


Always wondering if,

These images can possibly survive…never stopping to reflect…


Is survival alone, enough for the soul to profit?


Pores Deceive

Photogenic perspiration,

Seeping through pores of deception,

That details the countless agonies,

Hidden beneath this life’s parade

A Crooked Path To Prominence

If one finds that failure frequents their mat,

Sloping over, hunched forward, broken pint still glued to inner hand,

simply use the back door and allow the poor soul the rest it truly needs.


Sometimes the shortest way to the goal, is the longest possible avenue worth taking,

while at other times, one must trick their opposition with skullduggery,

painting crooked clues at outposts meant for herrings and moles.


Ignore the afterthought.

Betray the burning thresholds crossed.

Illuminate your skyline with glitter and pearls—

And watch as the atmosphere is infinitely altered with intrinsically profitable rewards.