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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.


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.


Fears, In Refutation

Do not fear your demons

For they are yours and

Therefore, you are their master,

And your rules, they must obey.


Do not fear those apparitions

That choose to appear, pity

Them instead, for they are alone,

Without flesh or family, while you

Are real and are capable of creating

Your own


Do not be afraid of the dangerous thoughts

That you conjure whilst angered or in pain,

For they are but thoughts, and thoughts can

Do no damage if left alone.  It is when we find

Possibility within these frayed ends of sanity, that

Evil plants itself a newfound seed.


Life is a journey of locks and puzzles,

one in which, we aren’t always meant to possess all the ciphers and coded keys.

Challenges are often created,

only for us to observe.

The Possibility Through Abstraction

The point where the incoherent, incredibly
Offers up trinkets that exonerate a semblance
Of coherency

The moment before the moment
The download prior to purge
The abdication of rusted principles
Left forever hollowly and alone
In the chamber of the chalice
Encrusted by the lost dreams of the ill-begotten
And bled for dead

Soiree’s with the untapped triage
Tryst’s aligned in wrongful pursuit
Admonishing grace for a moment of

Sadistic forceps pry into,
The lusting sable draping you

Floodgates relegated to economic states
Blistering the tonsils as its quench atolls the
Lingered tempest’s torrid screams

The point of the matter is the muck and the clatter
Arranged into meaningful garbage, tossed and strewn
About the rigid peaks and smooth-carved dales, drenched
In wisdoms as life’s jib’s set sail, out upon, unto, the darkening
Horizons of the edaciously spawned

Each participle breeds its own reaction
Every temple alleviates thrombotic clang with braids of prayer
Where, even to the atheist, the pausing stirs reformation’s dead, pronouncing doubt to their doubting liens, ever constructed to bludgeon the magnanimous endeavors that are housed securely within the prisms of a different time

The point in working with abstraction, is to acknowledge the pegs that don’t quite fit, yet offer a glimpse into the tenets to which their language betrays, forcing the mind to rationalize in a subtlety stirred in abrasive ways

All in all, it is, after all, a battle to displace contempt, with a song of illustrious descent, bristling the coma clean, of the unsettling dust storms, only ever jettisoning its castrating debris

Where one word, as simple part of speech, unspoken yet believed, to force direction’s swim, over the rocks beneath, the disturbances alive under a peacefully raging tract of sea

Where a turn of phrase can gospel dimensions unknown, breeding sentiments from an unfeeling grasp, holding hostage the oppressors of creation’s mind

An abstraction, if one chooses to offer such a primitive understanding, is the point where attention is muted by the unattained; where the mosaics collage is abashed by the harassment of epiphany; where the sounds of clamor remove all triviality, where each note, each chord, become fully absorbed by the meaningful foundations hosting such concertos for the validating portions of the intrinsic bee, that pollinates as many bouquets it can, turning the decrepit and the denied, into a rendition of a much more sweeter time; where the monsters made are pretty in their very own boudoirs of ironic dissemination; where…life tightly clasps upon a rationale, without the need fore departing the other possibilities it has also known, shown, without the relinquishing of all the pastures he’s come to know.

Farter down plummet’s cage
The shackles break, the pins
Gravitate, away from the flesh
And scurry in the subtractions made

Abstractions are steeped in the furthest expanse of furtive growth. They hold the keys to every chalice ever known, imparting knowledge to all who place his lips upon, savoring the succulence that only faith can offer the thirsting man.

And a key to remember is that nothing can sever your bond with your belief, if you refuse to allow it access to your center of conviction.

It is the point before redaction, where the incoherent is comprehensively enlightened; opening up one’s eyes to the several layers of each hinge

of knowledge it musters to make….of foundations it chooses to break…an underlying insemination of wonder…an awestruck mind, rapt asunder, drifting into outcast fields of relegated dismissals…yet fully operational despite these deficiencies they speak of behind your back…

give fully of your self, your time, your wisdom…and wisdom with time will give fully back unto the self…

remain ignorant of deception’s glance…slide closer to the embrace of the puzzled skin…waiting for your corners to rest comfortably within the opened edges it has been blessed to hold for you

It shall be difficult. In fact many mornings will inspire great doubts and disbeliefs…you will be tested in the most discouraging fashions, removed from the inner circles you thought you’d climbed so hard to reach…all this and more…you must be willing to melt over thinly formed sheaths of ice…and watch as your everything sinks beneath the icy cold…left only with the scars you’ve chosen to carry, the blood still curdling beneath unkempt nails and lashes…the varicose uprisings over a variety of anatomy…and bearing constant reminder, of those moments you thought yourself as happy, reflecting as they will consistently question your resolve, are you tough enough, can you endure the pain that love beckons for, will you persist through the darkest hours yet to fall shade…

And there…in that muck and mire, a new vision is thus inspired…an opportunity to gleam life’s mysteries from the vantage point of alternative plots of real estate…where all things are seen in one, simultaneously twisting calmly upon the tongue in ways only a coherency itself, can deem known and in as such, a portion of the battle is not seen as lost, but as an opportunity to learn from the weaknesses avowed within the setting of what most repress beneath a discouraging path that had been spun…

Abstractions offer a different way…. a new possibility. What is seen may not be truth in and of itself…but without it’s voice, the most you’ll see is what’s served rancid, eliminating the potential laden in what can only be determined by those concepts aligned by choice

The residuals have no limitations
If you
In diligent fashion
Yet knowing
Awaits you
At the end of your chosen path
Journey’s end


On edge, most the day…
Unsure when or from whom,
But darkness is looming &
Its presence swoons

Unease chloroforms each pore
Until suffocation is felt
Prior to the pangs and thralls of
Euphoria’s decline

Ligaments rigor as the automaton
within, perceives the grey edges
frayed by the uncanny sense of curdling inside

As in every battle, such a statement will be, impossible to refute,
A point of submission, in some way, shape or form appears, forgoing, perhaps not eagerly, yet it forgoes the thoughts of tomorrow nevertheless, withering in hapless poverty, seeking the salve that brings oneself relief—

But it is not for relief the welling stirs…it is not because of failure do the ducts flow swift…instead, it is for the forgiveness buried beneath, the salvation we saved for such a day…the one we never gave…instead we turned our heads and dragged each foot, in reverse, across the welcoming place

The nervous pins prickle in the strangest of sensations,
It is not pain, not yet anyhow…it is not pleasure, we’ve yet to
Sink to such depths…yet it wriggles, it twinges—around the eyes and
Across the brow, concealed below what is shown

This stirring sense of possession, forces us to reaction’s point…turning, slowly, as in the mirror, we realize…

We are staring into our darkest ally, our dankest sense of self, the master of the cogs interred, the villain well-preserved…For years, the fight I thought I was fighting…The fight I fought, was but an accosting of some true heroes dream…for all along, unbeknownst ‘til now, I was the adversary in this tale…

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

This Version

an inferior program
would calculate
radically obstructed
pathways for this
version to surmount

a proficient instrument
would understand, the
elementary wisdom
in the comfort of the
sensing strands

Lakes of fear and doubt
lure their charm, instilling
enticing glances unnoticed
by other versions

The shell can operate comfortably
on five, yet six to eight are
optimally preferred

A worthless version is one
that forgets all its instruction,
casts shame upon a world with its
ignorance, beckoning forth the
shadow stream, ever operating
unwittingly, under the controls
of another