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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.


Short Poem 8-16-13-4

Mankind is rife with terse reminders of the ever-lengthening scars formed deep within the lost crevices of his interior.  It is, at such hours of disenchantment, where treble-tinged vivisections stir the scalpel cold to flesh. Therein a pulsating vibration beckons unearthly fears unquenchable until the manifestation is acutely committed to.  The surgeon, fresh off a seventy-two hour misshapen bout against reality, stands, imperceptibly shaken yet shaken nonetheless.  It is then, beneath the blankets of operating room lights, that the keen observer will unmistakably notice the contrast of appearance.

Short Poem 8-16-13-3

Lost amidst the trellises of radiant glitter and crimson scaffoldings, is corded insignificance.  Such passageways endear their exteriors to those impatient with palatial gardens and the valleys of waking doldrums.  It is here, in such dominions, where the keen blend fastidiously with the ermine, slinking about in secrecy, gnawing upon the vestiges of dignity, and all the while creating a martyr’s trove of varicose reactions. Beneath this new estate, there are magnanimously enriched life forms, biding their days with the frailty of a past-lives’ prognostication citing the prominence of the days that follow suit. They flee beneath the radar of disconcerted eyes, collecting and scavenging whichever degradation their fragile frames can amass beneath such convoluted armor.  They collaborate with their brethren, engorging upon the hollow earth with their so-called civilized modernity, enriching the soil with the well-placed trinkets they’d ensnared from the last descendants of humanity itself.  These gathered idols are reminders, of just what the tiny form can conquer when cooperation and unyielding belief coincide so generously.

A Castle’s Tale

Deep beneath the castle’s walls, stands a tunnel century’s old.


Hidden well below where the moat runs most foul, is a boulder grand yet hollow, which dictates the opening, of ancient earth, connecting this world to the world beyond, so seldom known as creation’s first.


The height and width alter and vary greatly, shrinking where the elves were rumored to had carved for days, then enlarged to immense depths, whence the seabirds wept and the dactyl’s flew, which coincided neatly to the point when the giants crawled to take cover from the magma storm. Deep down under they would surge and bore, pushing into the passage from the caves and homes left alone way up high.


Candles filled with fragrant oils live in secrecy still, taking but a match to time a glimmer, resurrecting the shadows of the past below back to life in the present now.


Months can be lost, at peril’s cost, if wandering is what one will chance in order to protect their life.  For the tunnels sprawl in every direction, multiplying to impossible dimensions far and wide, this was to prevent the insurgencies of marauders, thieves and skulled vermin alike.  If the route be found by afflicting scourge, increase it would, through impossibly dim and unadvisable paths, with traps that trick and rocks built to slip as foot nestles into loosely designed crags and lifts, all constructed by lantern’s light, to the staunch delight of the ancient inventor’s chiseled face, thusly decreasing the likelihood of escape by the wayward travelers misguided fate.


It is said, of those last to live during such a time, when dragons roamed the horizon tall, and the tunnels were alit each the seasons from winter and back to fall.  It was here, at such a time, that there the legend spoke of be claimed, as only a single cipher man could see, and that being one truth above else and all.  This one chance to find direction, the one possibility to maneuver safely through, to direct pathways where there where otherwise none, could only be found by those travellers moving from aristocracy and out into a rebirth of primacy, only found outside, beyond the castle’s historic, if not infamous golden walls.


The legend also states, that the only manner to map one’s way, is to stand immovably still, and reflect deep inside and let the heart and soul adjust to present time, thus stirring a merger of space and self, melding together the directions and the key, which alone creates the light to see the many paths as they be, true and real as man himself ought to be.  This light to guide shall be for the pure alone and it shall lead to the farthest point from the castle’s walls, where a gate stands, to which the traveller will insert the key and thence sing of freedom’s song, as journey be done, unlocking the last of the ancients hidden mysteries.




The Storyteller,

Children, anticipating

Tales told by campfire

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






Sleeping Cellular

Sleeper Cell—
Unknown pollination of germ divine—
Spreads, swallowing up the hearsay with
Radically ambulating correspondences

Vacate the grounds
Eliminate that which stands between you and the freedom urged
Coalesce the demons
Before the hardboiled rationalizations rise
All that’s been
Learned—and spoken—
Which is not always the worst of outcomes—
In fact, you may unwittingly become, the proud benefactor of silver spoon fed karmic divination.

Hold. Pause. Stare into the fathomless sea…Open expansive lines…Reflect…and then repeat…regurgitate internally, all the secret solvencies garnished on your behalf—slowly…percolating…slowly…transitioning…between this world and the next…always growing in maturity…yet never forgetting how your time has lapsed…
In shackles…bound to be…in chains…tied to me…
In bloodshed…we unite…why, well that’s the question we are told never to ponder…it’s also the very reason we never choose to wonder why…for contemplating innocence…may catapult the advantage, unto the insurgent’s plight…. crushing all those who oppose such tyranny…for they, never even stop to consider the reasons for, the reasons why, they just blindly follow their commander…. harboring each his master’s plans…for in their eyes…they truly are delivering upon the will beckoned down…the solutions to all the ills that pain existence…to resolve the buttresses that fly free….to resurrect utopias never known before…it is all this, these and more…when belief is all that is understood…faith, the ultimate bearer instrument…which works well, while either providing defense toward or inflicting persuasion to those in the need to know….All because….someone used God…and his dreams…to their end…manipulating all the peons…his rulings will one day so easily be considered just and once again, provide the providence we’ve searched for since the start of the day before the day before the day we gave ourselves entirely over to he who also is but a man, with only a promise and a prayer, that to which he insinuates, to be true and blessed…destined and heavenly sent….(sigh)