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Has What’s Been Ignored Been Received Well?

And so…

 

…Like dust redistributing the atmosphere with salt and pepper paint-strokes of disassembled gambits of temporary existence.

 

…Like glitter genuflecting upon the pulpits of false gods and sacrificial lambs…bleating in bloated biorhythms of incandescent temporality…blinded completely by an unfortunate choice of shades.

 

…Like dampened cloths beguiling the drapery with its wash, collecting every invisible remnant dormant yet astir, partially in prayer, entirely in-dream, hoping all that will about become is resultant solely from the unsubstantiated anxieties formed in frown, upon this altar built from heaven commonly referred to as life, itself a mystery only solvable through death.

 

…Tomorrow thinks nothing of what it steals from today.

You Are Here!

Collision: Larynx crushed//            //Enter: Pantomimic reply

Kill. Queen. Green. Flag. Capture. King. Within.

A bull and the belle…a message for…

Unmask the luchadores. Show them for all that they are

Bric-a-brac. Banderillas first. In seconds, heart-ATTACK.

What may seem like forcing, isn’t even the crux of it.

This biscuits gone stale.  Pour another round for eachthemall

Horrible what they’ve done with your grammar.

Porous sieve you’ve become.  Drifting round with that afadavit sleeping sideways off your tongue.

Don’t sleep. Don’t sit up straight. Pretend. Dream. Just pretend it’s all a dream.  Stars, they shine. Big. Bright. Here. On this, impossibly broken narrow string that once was just a normal night.

LOUD: Tralalalalalalalalalalalalalla. Sings them all.

SOFT:  whisperslayuponthetonsilstill…[trails off] \\ for silencia’s sake.

INTERMEDIUM: For thou shalt not covet thy maker’s SUN.

THE poltergeist’s a sparrow.  The cardinal’s a fence.

CRETAN: “I’m truly saddened by your loss…{Extremely Edgy}

)you should see the other guy( as I lay here in my bed…only I know. And I can’t help but cry. “How do I tell Daedalus that his toreador is dead?”

 

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.

…And Silence Looms

The guillotine extends

And annelids we are

Bisected harshly,

By all the edges we’ve embraced thus far

 

The adder puffs

The lamprey’s splash turns red

Stinging, struggling

Tearing, gnawing upon

 

The wolverine

And the panther, both

Sharpen, their many rows

 

Leaving but

Prayer…and then

Only Silence—

Seemingly

Forever looming—

 

Another string undone.

 

 

A Swift Uppercut To A Variation Of One’s Divine Self

Caterwauling from within,

A dilapidated deconstruction

Bred by inconvenience; born

Through the unusual circumstances

Courted discretely by the furrows of

But one of many, altered states of mind

 

Curtailed, passionately kissed, inches pronounced

Indecipherably above the location where normally

Resides the space reserved for lips

 

Sanctioned by crowdedness

Ransacked internally,

And yet the ovation grows loudest at such moments of

Indiscretion—to which you succinctly wipe away each tremor of saline from upon your ashen tint, allowing for the applause to ensemble truthfully, permitting yourself the vagrancy of substitution—an imaginary lapse of being, so carefully crafted from denouements cloth itself—overcome and swept up in a mistruth punctuated with a bow

 

A Sleeping Witness

Dreams are the harbingers of prophecy. They are the conscious decisions made in a world of subconscious space. Within each wafting glide of wind and dust, sand and religion collide in trust—deciphering visions of abstract states, encoding tomorrow’s future with the promise from a forlorn and forgotten state.  Application of belief transforms the deepest realm—where the flickering sands of altered terrain become placemats for each inspiration we awake unto.

 

While the many doors we traverse abed, may never unhinge their paths, momentum, nonetheless continues forth, where through such forward action, thrust upon this life’s fate, our nerves becalmed by the understanding and the knowledge, that no matter the hardships our physical beings must bear, our minds shall persevere—each strain of burden and every stress of fractured straits—the tumults ever hovering near, creating an alleviation of sensation and a today that serves as bridge, between a bountiful future and each impossibility our yesterdays had just explored.

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