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.