that woman of a dark essence

clenching at the frame
of an unthinkable pastime,
that specter of distinct deception
claws its way into my convictions.
such rationalizations that serpent contrives,
knowing my weakest attributes;
for what a demon my lust has shifted into.
oh, the beauty that lies
in the pure thought of intimacy,
is jaded into remnants, being contorted
into something of no recognition.
and what marvel, and what pleasure
is presented in this pornographic image
of love?
there is no love in this obsession;
there is romance in the laying of eyes
upon cheapened nakedness -
cancel this, oh Lord.
cancel this in haste, oh Lord,
for my plagued conscience can no longer
withstand the inveigling temptations
of this dark essenced woman,
whom i see fit to call "Lust".

arcadia is the mindset of few

{verse 1}
through what vessel,
and through what canal of jaded illusion,
do we come to entangle ourselves
in some kind of spider's silk-thread?
"o, but from the distance of the audience
all appeared fine, and all appeared neutral..."
but i dread the thought (of the backstaged condition)
of making sense out of the nonsensical.

{chorus}
and i've watched the world facade itself
during its corruption and its ebbing,
and only 'till recently has it
awoken the senses of the modern era.
and like some alluring web of the widow dressed in black,
our morality and constitutional foundation
has faded, just as an evensong in the hours of dawn;
Arcadia is only a mindset of few, i'm afraid...

{verse 2}
and you say, "oh, but one day we'll all look back upon this,
and laugh!", but truthfully, foolish one,
who says we'll have such a day?!
who therefore makes covenant
of you and i to have yet another coming day?
and if that day may come, so full of mirth towards our errancy,
it'll surely be our last day, if any;
so, by all means, laugh!

{chorus, reworded}
and i've observed the world and its facade,
in the midst of its ebbing fate,
and only 'till recently has it
awoken the dulled senses of this modern era.
and like some web spun by the black widow herself,
our morality and constitutional foundation
has faded and declined, just as an evensong in the dawn...
Arcadia is the mindset of only a few.

my path furcates; pts. 1-3

PART ONE.

{my path furcates,
creating distinct division,
of three evading branches
furthering into hamlets abroad,
which i fear my well-being
would be rather reluctant to adjourn into...}

PART 2.

{...and as i make way
in my increasing furtherance,
i traverse upon the furcation of three,
as a drapery of plaguing volition
dresses me qualm.
an error, perhaps, might be
a sensible supposition as to why
my traveling has ended
in such unknown beginnings...}

PART 3.

{...as i stand in a still and reticent nature,
i analyze the threefold sojourning,
that seemingly taunts my circumspect judgment.
a foot draws itself in a westward direction,
while another glances towards the east,
yet a finger points ahead in a linear form,
towards the woods of the north.
can i divide myself and conclude to all three?
my path furcates, as i wish i could.}

the calm (there's a hillside)

there's a hillside,
full of much idyllic wonder,
where suppuration abides
within the wind's exhales.
the murmurs flow in airy-currents,
containing ancient dialects,
spoken of much wisdom and mystery.

the young ones dream of such tranquil locations,
as their selfless, humble dreams
careen on well-beaten byways, comprised of
the clandestine things to be seen
by a child's ever-believing eye.
wading in ankle-high creeks, The Calm promenades.

such simplicity reigns among the simple,
but nears the borders of surreal.
the story-book hillside pantomimes
a dimension one cannot
simply wrinkle or transverse into.

set into blatant and plain view,
seven stronghold-trees house themselves
in a single linear fashion,
cloaked with a low-settling fog, around each base.

an almost Oriental sunset becomes the mother
of this phantasmagorical region,
mustered up by the minds, longing for release and escape.

if only such an idealistic setting
could possibly exist in only a prayer's essence...

if only such a hillside were given.

floral-patterned still life

leisurely, she ever-so carefully,
guides her gentle fingers
like needle threaded through
aesthetically-fashioned fabric patterns.

her fingers string together
a minuscule mass of letters,
which will surely render
some set of sweet words.

(a set which is believed
to say more than is spelled.)

observing from my place of residing,
my eye's lens and snapshot feature
photograph her discreet idiosyncrasies,
as she crochets the impending.

that smile in the process of her deed,
contains the light which day conducts.
the imminent phrase, sure to inveigle me,
is truly birthed for my eyes alone.

(the eyes to have been noticed,
as smokey and calm.)

time has not much passed until she pieces accordingly
quite the impatiently awaited statement,
soon to be audaciously framed
in some kind of floral-patterned still life.

transferring the final draft
to my open palm,
i smirk at her beautifully hand-picked words:
"you're mine, and i love you."

(and did i yet agree to such informing?
yes, surely, i did such.)

my path furcates

my path furcates,
creating distinct division,
of three evading branches
furthering into hamlets abroad,
which i fear my well-being
would be rather reluctant to adjourn into.

perfume of winter

i taste in the zephyrs,
the eloquence of kindling fire,
with their silver-tongued fluency,
and product of yule-tide smokes.

that elucidated, rustic scent of smoke and cold
is the perfume of the winter solstice,
of which courses through veins, laid and sewn into the body,
of dear old Jack Frost.

the relishing of steamy peppermint drinks,
and the gathering of lively, frosted spirits,
is coupled with the eloquency
of the said, kindling fires.

that myriad of savoring souls,
continue in their state of awareness,
all until the eleventh hour,
when sleep arrives to carry them,

along.

adhered to the frame

are we all so inebriated
with our self-righteousness,
that we must vindicate
every inaccurate movement
which we construct?

and with what audacity
do we feel the God-like need
to condemn another
concerning their omissive antiquity?

it has been observed,
by the Moral Gaze,
that an alluring, yet prideful lace
has been adhered to the frame
of the contemporary,
and all things to transpire.

the modern bend
of the "arc of time"
proves to be something of ruin.

her smile (an expression of ecstasy)

and with what shall i
compare and name her smile?

with what vein of nature
or meditative session,

can be scaled and likened
to resemble such reputed significance?

if anything could be gathered,
i'd collect it from the sand, and from the pearls:

the newly formed pearls,
only but recently clothed in soft calcium,

being lustrous in sheen, and flawless in texture,
and high in value.

but with what to name it?
what to name this grin of ivory,

this smirk which calms the skin's quiver,
and is tranquil in nearly all senses?

such a smile is arcane;
yes, arcane and esoteric,

being sojourned and attended to
by my loving eye.

but what to name
such an expression of ecstasy,

rather, and expression
of her ecstasy?

comparisons may come easily,
but a name evades when pursued.

perhaps, if given a name,
i'd presume it to be "Arcanum";

a smile possessed by her, yes,
but meant for me.

the understanding of my errancy

i pen this,
with concise veracity,
concerning the waywardness
portrayed by our
initially blase, nefarious minds,
from which we derive
our illogical and absurd motives,
being weaved in and out by
a sin nature.

the passageways of mankind's heart
are caliginous in tone,
and no empty plea for forgiveness
can mitigate its hell-birthed essence.

oh dear God, i've become so
apathetic in my intentions,
and all i desire and long for
is the understanding
of my errancy;
but how far in distance
can i excel,
with nothing by the desire,
and longing for?

for what is progress
minus any conduct?
better yet, what is conduct,
minus progress?

dreaming on a gray scale

i've heard it to be said,
that we dream in black and white,
and whatever form of pensive abstruseness that is,
i fail to concur to it.

i assure myself, and you, dear reader,
that i've seen many vivid hues and brilliant shades
in the small percentage of my brain which fashions illusion.

and, on occasion, i've called myself a lucid dreamer,
and i think that today, i shall call myself such again,
but on separate and infrequent events,
i've found myself under complete constraint
by my dreams.

yet, aside from that, i have reminisced of much sincere color,
some of which being emerald green, sapphire blue,
ruby red, and royal violets...

...and how one man can deduce that another man
dreams on a gray scale,
i'll never figure,
but if i offer my nightly ponderings
to the researchers and the scientists,
then i trust they will
alter this absurd belief.

the air of a new chapter

impatiently, i careened in no definite series,
along a grassy, uneven byway,
which was, respectively, decorated with a weeping willow,
and a few layers of nightfall.
to my left, some artificial body of water was assembled,
shimmering from citylights, like randomly assorted diamonds
on black velvet spreads.
surreptitiously, i captured photographs,
which convened into files like segments fumbling into place.
i gathered myself,
and i gathered my previous thoughts
of our prosperous evening together,
and took in a breath,
which was the air of a new chapter.
and as my solemn, distanced mindset
had disposed of itself,
i took on a new uniform,
in the air of a new chapter.

my inspiration

i gather my inspiration from the people that unsuspectingly amble around, assuming that they are entirely inconspicuous, and that no soul is observing their demeanor, or manners of life and movement. i watch them as they mingle in my observance...

i gather my inspiration from the trees and the grass. their green pigment is the shade of which my heart is scratched in. it's in the birds, the autumn leaves, the haze of dawn, the morning, afternoon and evening skies, and lethargic rainfall to accompany us during the spring...

i gather my inspiration from the kisses they send, whether blown, imagined or experienced. each new chapter to be discovered contrives newly birthed impulse and thought, which becomes my pen's ink. it's in their smiles, and their eyes, the way their hair is invited to dance within the breeze, and their elegant figures in which my eyes find it arduous to no longer attend gaze to. it all is mimicked within my mind, a facsimile put to paper...

i gather my inspiration from the love of God, and His superior creations which complete this earth, His omniscience and His divinity, and His grace. the Word carried down from the ancestry, houses biblical poesy that lit the light of all those who write in rhythmic patterns...

i gather my inspiration from the words which convoy the music of beautiful rumination. the lyrical and the poetic: they reach the ears of the attentive listeners, one of which is me. the presentation of sound, a synonym for release...

i gather my inspiration from these things. now, walk this way to traverse inside my mind...

a smile of his own

how profoundly careful God crafted man
to own the preference of a smile.
its precise build and delicate bearing
is much like a nervous fire,
for the cold hearted, and the numb skinned.

with intricately addressed words,
one could conceive a smile in another,
like luminary ideas on midnight promenades.
and with a silken kiss, celestial bodies become personified,
into the expression of such things mentioned.

the smile is a gift
which relieves any ire or irritance
to have become fermented in the spirit.
its demeanor, even if rare, creates in the parallel man
a smile of his own.

what is age

what is age,
but a number that defines us ?
and what is more puerile than a definition
of age anyways?

how insentient of biased minds are,
to have placed a fabricated label upon the backs
of the young and the old, restricting privilege,
and broadening it also, for others.

they say,
"surely, you're too young for such a conscience
and enhanced personal lexicon...",
but God, nor blessed ancient ancestry,
proposed the overlooking of youthful will.

and just the same, some might add,
"this man is undoubtedly far in his years;
too far for the completion of any form
of any plausible task."

yet he plows his fields and prepares
for the seasonal transitions
of spring, summer, fall and winter,
just like any priming man would.

even more so, one might prominently exclaim,
"see this man, he is ripe in his years!
he has unmatched endurance and strongwill,
which will assuredly grant him great success!"

but what of the boy
and what of the elderly one?
what of them?
i ask you a third time, what of them?

i insist, that man is rightfully just as equal
as Lincoln proclaimed him to be;
and to the Father,
age and time exist not with him.

placed before the ballad

the abrogated playback of the mind's turntable
is nullified by the convening of slideshow melodies.
the needle's containment of the circling record,
and its behavior to cycle and recite,
is halted by the minutes of recognition-
a threnody scripted by lamenting hands,
for all pitiable forms of deploring to apprehend.
in eye-widening awareness,
we molt out hypnotized playback,
as our deduction is placed before the ballad.

the wind and the mist contort to fit
into the crevices of some ill-expressioned face,
who among the majority, pens the most lyrical of words,
molded to arrange into the holes of a flute.
its grimace appalls Arcadia,
but the depth of the quotes erects a home-
a home of frequent tranquility,
but still intermittent.
and so, the turntable operates again,
abrading the needle's tip, once more.

the effigy

God, i know you're real;
i feel the substance of such beliefs
in the myriad of subjected creatures
which appear to possess an interest in my form.
the single discovery of the complexity in the human eye
(and/or the animal's) is the fine,
unfaltered artwork of the True Artist,
Who gave the earthen artists their proficiency
and their brush,
and Whose art super-exceeds that of any
which mankind has dreamt of.
the brush stroke nature of the cirrus clouds
and the clay model texture of ocean waves
(as well as the infinite collection of painted scenery,
sculpted mountain sides, perfumed beaches
and sheer intelligent designs)
uplifts a praise to the heavens,
in which Your omniscience reigns.
oh but God, we feel so insignificant in Your cast gaze,
yet You insist upon the parallel...
we are Your highest earthly creation,
we are Your servants of choice ("of the Most High God")
we are the image of the Godhead;
the image of You, Lord, Father, Redeemer;
we are formed in the effigy, in the likeness, of You, Abba.

from the retrospect to the modern

do you remember my smile?
do you remember the scarcity of its meek exposure?
each time a smirk is shed i feel fragments of you.
have you recalled my shy attitude and secluded manner?
have you forgotten the kisses i sealed to each spoken word,
or has it all replayed in your dreams like it has mine?
(surely though, i doubt it has)
the lackadaisical segments conclude nebulous
like slow movements from the clock's two slender arms.
do you remember those poems which i used to pen,
so crudely and foolishly scribbled in dedication to you?
well, i've read over them in simple study,
each one seeming so...inane, in context, i suppose.
(which isn't to say that in the context of you all is inane,
but rather stating that the approaches made infer to such)
do you remember when i concurred to love?
i remember your nearly exact words on the matter:
"nathan, i can honestly say that i love you".
i still, on occasion, relive the momentary chill
from the retrospect to the modern.
and lastly, do you remember my fumbling departure,
and how i avariciously attempted to regain you?

i remember it all.

upon the night of the longest hour

i had a dream upon the night of the longest hour.
its display was livid and color faded,
like that of a 1940s mystery.
the moon had lost its defaulted silver shade
and had been substituted by a pale, dull white.
bats made their evening chirps, as the sparrows of night
fluttered about the buildings and the avenues.
street lights dotted the roads
burning in ostentatious white tones, signaling loneliness.
i felt my senses become blunt and unsharpened,
like a kiss from a mannequin.
the dismal boulevards contrived open mouths
which swallowed my attention with dire eloquence.
the sky (which was the least captivating)
was littered with white specks and was
(what looked like) shaded by charcoal.
not one midnight adventurist journeyed in my proximity,
but instead the night rendered me forlorn.
the silence became haunting, then aching;
i cried out, "who can manage this desolate quiet?!"
i hear no responsive articulation,
only the nighttime sparrows made noise.
i pulled at my hair and gritted my teeth,
but i knew, somehow, that this was where i wanted to be.

displays of the lowermost amusement

in the proper hour, the curtains are drawn back.
a rich, illuminated stage replaces
the previously blank theater curtains.
light centers upon the soft-faced actress
as she leisurely makes way to front and center stage.
(a soft applaud makes no hesitation, then soon diminishes)
the spotlight creates a luminous circle
around her experienced formation,
contriving a sparkle in her eye.
(the other is fashionably hidden by pinned-over, copper-red bangs)
inwardly presenting displays of the lowermost amusement,
she shies a coy gesture (rather inconspicuously, i have to say),
while still acting cordially for her attentive audience.
not one soul detects the morosity,
instead, all attention rests upon her given recital.
iterating her well-rehearsed lines,
she compiles emotion and intimacy into her performance.
i guess you could (casually) say
that the only emotion excluded is the one she truly experiences,
while those employed are fraudulent in nature.
her concealed ire ferments in her chest,
yet remains under discreet control by her act.
in the time which orders her exhibition complete,
a dozen rounds of cheers, applause, laughter and joy
are set forth through the auditorium, sounding out abroad.
she forges a copy of the smile she used to have
and sweetly blows a kiss to the patrons;
momentarily applying a lady-like curtsy to her close.
roses then are tossed upon the stage;
she lifts one as to claim it her own.
the fair-skinned actress reverts backstage
ambling behind the surreptitious curtains
as they come to a draw.
the well-loved performer fashions a linear path
toward her reclusive dressing room.
set in front of her mirror's reversed, mimicking face,
she emits heartfelt tears as her
mascara courses down her high cheeks.
she knows she can't act away her sadness when alone;
she wallows in her unmentioned disheartenment.
she molts the actress and blooms the girl,
whom she fears to call herself.

sketched in its path

i've awoken to a morning of haze and somber songs,
each bitter, retrospective lyric coursing my memory.
i reiterate phrases at random like a poetic recital,
but more popularly i repeat the motto "time is all we know."
sadly, we cross the other in perpendicular tones,
meeting once at a point of felicity,
yet dividing relationship in the direction of an arrow.
i've let my sorrowful candle burn with luster,
and i've questioned more than once
if your attention has been sketched in its path.
can you see, my dear, the inane flicker,
which cuts a slit in the vast pitch,
like street lights sewn to the avenues,
mimicking lanterns held by worked hands?
and can you see, this lethargic film, which blankets my moist eyes,
like satin sheets and lively bed spreads
over every recumbent dreamer, who dreams of release?
if your attention is sketched in their paths,
then you've noted much... you have noted much.
swayed and staggered i've become,
gesturing with familiar hands, the inchoate formation
of a face i've not laid eyes upon in months.
and through my morning's premature awareness,
i spoke in tones i'd never attended by ear.

a naked loneliness becoming personified,
sketching a path to the picturesque world.

she left love notes

she walked the beach
and strung her pearls.
the waves moved in motion
to the moon's gravity.
the sands are countless,
matching the skyline's
infinite origin.
she blinked,
and time was made to stand still.

she left love notes
in her footprints.
each one signed
by the ball of her heel.
her face is a poem
written in epidermic tones,
so pale and exquisite,
done by the pens
of eternal ink.

she dressed herself
in soft sunlight;
a band of clouds
concealing her breasts,
and a breeze of spring
emitting from her lungs.
her string of pearls around her neck,
and cobalt waves cascading in her irises-
she has eyes of the ocean.

she has effervescent strands of hair,
like unwound twine,
in gentle shades of neutrality,
borrowed from the simplest of things.
the concave of her neck and collarbone
house the most colorful of fish
in minute ponds of collected rain water.
her slim fingers are crags from deciduous trees,
being a perch for the small finches in need of rest.

she speaks words
in syllables and certain pronunciations
that no mortal ear
has ever tuned in to.
her siblings sleep with the stars
and fly with falcons at such immense heights
that city skyscrapers only touch their hems,
which belong to cloaks
comprised of nightfall.

she directs symphonies
composed of orchestral fantasies,
reciting hymns through instrument and vocal
on the stage which introduces the heavens.
a step below the angels,
yet a step above the mortals;
she is a median of unseen perfection:
a song enunciated by the heavenly host
and by the earthen sparrows.

she's been deified,
and easily been called a deity by some,
but she's no more dissimilar
then an overly-dreamt dream,
or a thought contrived on a lonely walk
down a black and white hallway.
it's the talk of her pretentious sublimity
that builds a utopia in man's wishful mind,
later conducting him to somber, dismantled expectations.

she is my "perfect love",
but remotely stands without a name.
i think of her everyday,
but the mystery of her existence
is sadly, the only remains.
i see her in books and in stories, etc.,
but she has a waist that
my longing arms struggle
finding their way around.

she left love notes in the sand by the sea,
but truly, those love notes were not yet meant for me.

given the cold a new name

they say, "if you've seen one mountain road,
then you've seen them all.",
but my capturing eye has seen many
which differ from the last.

and if my eye be a camera,
i'd lend you each photo taken
from the enclosed view
of an elongated car window.

you see, i'm a dreamer of many things,
but no muse or movie
could've placed in my storehouse-memory
the unexpected views seen this day.

and reader, whoever you may be,
it's been a cold few days in the carolinas,
but past and beyond nature's biting breath of ice,
the still-life pictorial documents
of mosaic leaves, mountain tops, disorganized trees,
ivory snow, and transparent ponds and creeks,
have been given a new name
by me...

...

and i've thought of you, my dear,
each night that transposed into day.
your figure has left me impatient to return home.
it collides, and it dances
yearningly in my chest.

i've drawn quick sketches of that precious face
which i wish to see,
even as i pen this descriptive piece.
and i've given october a new name;
a sweet sounding name, which desires your attendance
to be with me.

woman at the fountain

she lingered by the fountain,
with baskets woven by a careful finger,
committing their depths to 24 loaves of bread
(6 loaves in every 4 baskets),
all laid atop assorted rose petals and cotton.
she wore upon her, a thinly stitched sundress,
laced in a hue of sallow cream,
which careened as she made
gleeful ambles around the fountain.
being a dress of slight transparency,
her skin's tan coloration was nearly published
through her outer garment.
naked she'd be without it,
but it provided an elegant touch to her morning visit.
fashioning a tranquility for her tangible senses,
its breath-like fabric danced against her body,
as her chestnut-brown hair
swept across her shoulders in subtle strides.
a segment from a climbing vine
had been braided with long grass,
and she bore it around her slender left wrist boldly.
she claimed her name to be "felicity",
and she stated that she was here to
"spread joy, with some form of song and feast."
children and adults alike gathered around her,
as music gaily resounded from their mouths.
bread and handmade jewelry was handed out,
as smiles bloomed on familiar faces.
a ruddy complected boy remained by a maple,
distancing himself from the gathering just paces away.
being an owner of copper-red locks and a soft smile,
he remembered the woman at the fountain well.
but he gathered the derivative by supposing
one more sojourn would be alright.

and his name is "loneliness"

there is a creature,
perhaps which is of man
of perhaps which is not.
little prefer to look upon the appearance it bestows,
but many spend time in its presense-
like a curious boy amining around a haunted house.
its eyes are of ice, filmed with old age, and cataracts,
but seeing more than a youthful eye
will ever.

this simian-like inhabitant dresses in no clothing,
but its figure is blank and lacking indescancy.
a gray pigment endures in his skin,
secreting the sentiment which he is named after.
joints are absent, but a skeleton is not,
limitting the various movements it might endeavor.
transitions are fragile, and often involving friction,
but it promenades and promotes dialogue
in perfect manner when spent with,
while releasing the smile of a seraph.

oh how many have paid a visit,
but always denying the appointments made.
and how many have said, "i know not of this creature.",
but his name is jotted on nearly every loose note owned?
(even a few i tossed about my chamber as well...)

he taps at the glass when all others are idle,
humming their favorite songs in tunes so bitterly-sweet
that they feel compelled to rise from their beds
and hum along in some disenchanted friendship...

and his name is "loneliness",
and his attendance is often,
but we deny every one.
we
deny
them
all.

homework

homework is boring
homework is lame.
i'd rather be in bed snoring
than awake and in pain.

i arise in the 8 o'clock hour
with my hair messy and parted,
and stumble on my way to the shower,
then off to get homework started.

i sit at a table for what seems like days,
creating smoke from my pen like a purple haze.
my mind grows tired and begins to evade,
but my dad just reminds me of the progress i've made.

after undefined hours of work
i finally get around to a finish for the day.
i get on the computer with a silly smirk,
now knowing that on Friday, i'll be okay.

perforate the common supposition

white linen drapes wrought iron bars in the lush, palatial setting.
a golden linear ray steals a spot in the free, open air.
satin curtains hang over the cage of a bright eyed queen's bed,
which gently sways in the steady and constant zephyr
making frequent visits from a window and balcony.
a desk carved and furnished in mystery,
crafted with mastership by knowing hands,
declares its resting place in the left wing of the majestic room.
a wooden chair nonchalantly hides behind the desk
who's occupancy is this 'bright eyed queen' herself.
(her concentration is firmly held within the pen.)
a crow quill scratches beautiful cursive in direct, perfect lines
across each filled page, in exquisite mannerisms,
proposing her position in the heart of poesy.
flowing stanzas of descriptive, thought-out ideals
become inscribed on the parchments of muse.
spoken of truth i am, but the mind of a poet
is a land of enigmatic concept, rich with acute terminology.
each poetic mind contains a different impulse.
but listen here: this 'bright eyed' queen is only a metaphor
or perhaps maybe a facsimile of those exuberant thinkers
whose sentiments course through ink.
their audibles transferred to written word
and erect the foundation of prose.
the proficiencies of the penman
will perforate the common supposition.

in reticent suspension

in stood in reticent suspension,
with a timid smile in its proper place;
her confounding elegance relumed sentiments
that for days had been exiled in thought
(at least, this is what i like to tell myself;
that they had been nothing but exiled).
her aesthetic, meticulous perception
was set on anything but myself,
as she blissfully took the dark-olive hand of her lover.
their leisurely lingering rendered in my mind
to what seemed to be hours
(or perhaps, a bit more).

discretely, i noted, her contagious mannerisms,
comparing them to that of our retrospection;
she was no more diverse with him
than she ultimately was with me.
i saw the two kiss as my disregarded lips ran dry
and then briefly stole a glance at the iridic-emeralds,
then so easily recalled the glistening in her eye;
and yes, her forgiving smile
during our recumbent positions, as well.
i tipped my hat to the passing by of a nostalgic past,
but a responsive gesture failed to disclose,
as she and her whimsical life ambled on by...

only just ambling on by... and on and on and on, etc.

that shy, timid smile
which made its place in the mold of expression
had found itself to become something of a morose smirk.
i wished to derive the distanced ecstasy
to take place my lethargic (rather pathetic) condition.
handing myself the hope of another (or two)
as a pitiful means of eluding love;
but her angelic structure
only gave to the complication of my logic,
and attempts at some form of maturity.

she had... (and maybe still has; i'm not quite sure. see, my mindsets have been a bit blurred and confused lately)... me in reticent suspension.

pathetic in every sense

i openly offered morosity a nod
showing her into my settling.
her eyes were melancholy in color and in sense.
she bluffed a shy smile
as to match my small intentions of optimism
as to grand me some deep-seated, antique wish.
spoken of little words, she ambled about the blank rooms
touching each wall that frowned in simplicity.
my visitor was delved in distance
wearing a coat that dressed her aloof.
the only syllables which she articulated
were ones that dealt solely on my starving self pity.
a single tear thus was embed in her pale cheek
as the reflection in such a fluid mirrored to be me.

the A.M. nightlight

a sleep-laden head makes its rest in the grass
as sharp whistling winds become her synonym for peace.
the distant howl of wolves add to the midnight soundtrack
while a deciduous tree scrapes the backdrop-sky
which underlays a cream colored moon: the A.M. nightlight.
beautiful blue eyes hide behind downward-brushed eyelids
as warm air leaves the nostrils
of the fairest creature under heaven's gaze.
her almond-brown hair lays serenely
over soft, green, grassy blades
uprising from cool-temperatured soils.
her overcoat being her dreaming head's pillow
and her nightgown lightly flowing
over her elegant body's formation
and all the while imagination contrives her dream...
a sun-washed beach with monotonous waves
yet calmly inviting her presence
to be playfully tossed about in the waters.
seagulls vociferate in the distance
making calls clearly heard for yards.
her dream and her reality compose a contrast
which remains nameless by my tongue.
i watch and continue watching
from within my clever mind's eye.
thus writes the story i will continue to pen in future events.

inside this daydream

the morning began to vociferate
in a significant tone similar to the psalmist sparrow.
within the forming syllables of poesy
the written word then takes place over speech and sound.
in and out of a feathery daydream
the intonation of cleansing winds
blusters in between trees and thoughts.
the widely referred to, the deeply proverbial
reverberates inside the walls of questioning and imagining
creating an intertwined quilt of confusion and credulity.
such things bloom in my mind and continue to do so
as i drift in out as dandelion seeds inside this daydream.

inscribed on the walls of transiency

a careful thread woven through an over laying fabric
is sincerely fabricated by the gentle hands of release.
the eyes of change open to the rising of a setting sun
as it is equally spilled along the horizon.
love is chapterized into volumes and series
but my reading and transcipting has come to a bitter end.
a soul as free as the transparent watery pearls
falling, cascading, trickling, drizzling from a chalky gray sky
meshing into the screen shielding my bedroom windows.
i see no harm in singularity, i see no pleasure in pressure.
i am choosing this means of living for my own good
for my own solemn benefit.
all pens are out of ink; all paper is filled; all ideas are shortened
to a small but significant thought process
inscribed on the walls of transiency.
by no means am i coming across as quixotic.
i have taken my current feelings from the words of wise men.
i will deal my cards as carefully as the handling of a wedding kiss.
i believe in change, i believe in transiency.
we all need a departure from comfort.

remnants of self absorbed nostalgia

abounding in feelings
one of which is my default i fail to decide.
a remnant on every object to pass me by
self absorbed in my heart
being stamped irate by the brand.
i make notes... little mental notes
in high hopes something intelligent will show.
nonsense and wasted penmanship spill.
concerned with writing the present correct.
i'm taking on tasks too big for such a one track mind.
words are quite a delicate gift we've been given.
fragile in the least
or maybe a bit more than fragile.
delicate, yes, but not fully fragile.
either way, manner or mindset, words are used.
powerful and delicate vibrations they are in fact.
but your words were always a carbon copy
and mine were genuine and brand new.
an unprecedented creation from my own lips.

life in the anatomy of a palette

color, vibrant color, illuminating each canvas it's applied to.
such a life, designed in the anatomy of a palette.
every area dabbed with its own unique shade
from the brilliant color spectrum.
her kiss was the color of genuine love
a soft reddish-pink heated with an honest passion.
relaxation, i believe, would be a deep blue
with the essence of an evening sky: cataclysmic and musing
(an evening sky being destructive
with the note that another boring day is at hand).
oh the color spectrum itself
is surely a discovery of sheer enticement
which sparks interest in any growing mind.
and perhaps logic and in-depth thinking
would be a brilliant green
similar to the jungles of Africa
or in a more-than-average dream.
sadness comes to me in dark, violet-like blues
swirled with a light shade of gray
taking on the appearance
of a thunder storm in late April, or maybe early May.
the whole-hearted emotion of excitement and happiness
displays itself in the humble shade of a greenish-yellow
the excitement being in the green
and happiness thriving in the yellow.
and anger, i am afraid, shows its hue in the fiery reds
like that of a morning sun, flaming and burning
in an almost pyrophoric rage
but momentarily cooled by the soothing voice of a dear friend.
these colors, these emotions, are only but a few to mention
as were carefully arranged.

the human desire

the wildy positioned grass
became a homely contour for her complimentary form
like maple leaves on water, like dry maple leaves on the water.
laying, gazing, musing, noticing creative shapes in the clouds
shapes that were brought into existence by imagination's sake.
her frame freely gave to the scenery
a charity distinctively shaded and hued in beauty.
the voices which she possessed were visceral and profound
a composition of unablative melodies
nothing saddening in sound.
every old thought became relumed
as she shed new light on mossy ideas
rekindling the sense of delving conversation and logical thinking.
a creature of flying nature drifted by followed by an arm extended.
reaching, protruding, a fixed alignment of perfect angle
in fact, a straight degree.
index finger stretched out to grace the legs of a butterfly
extension, progression, the beauty of nature cascades and collides
with the human desire to love, to experience life.

all now being answered, all now being found

that soft voice, that soft eclectic voice:
like an open secret, like a disclosed clandestine.
its resonance eats its way through silence,
speaking such words that have never been heard before.
frost lightly covers the branches of a hopeful heart
as echoes and distinct vibrations carry openly
through free space.
eyelids pull back as ivory and sapphire
gaze into the depth, searching for a being
whom can unlock the questions of true curiosity.
verses from the throat of the passing voice
travel along the walls, reverberating and resounding
against what's solid.
bright eyes shine in the obscurity
seeking an answer to every miscalculated inquiry.
in its hands are held photos of certain occasions,
each with its own set of mystery and unlocked passage to truth.
around a single finger is tied a string simply composed of twine,
only a solitary strand of yarn kept
and used to commit to memory,
as to remind the entity of what's important.
blue ostentatious lights wallow in the distance
speckling about the circumference of eyesight.
what form of enlightenment this discovery could behold
is only known to those who have already seen its entirety.
the spirit, the wandering soul,
makes its way to the destination in high hopes
an answer to all wondering will reside.
its eyes are wide open in observation,
upholding what rests before them.
a painting of still life comes into play, taking place of what was.
a cruel depiction of crass death, a crucifixion in fact,
but with an offer of grace, a pure release from atonement...
all now being answered, all now being found.