Tender notions of rewardment

 

 

Lavender senses

 

seem to notion

 

new lotions -its motion?-

 

a locomotion

 

towards

 

 

perfection,

 

made as clay

 

from shards

 

of Oceans

 

floating

 

as comets,

 

dangling particles

 

of hope across

 

our dedicated

 

entitlements.

 

 

Another turn

 

-invisible-

 

of spirals

 

points towards

 

moments

 

of starlight.

 

 

Impulsive needs

 

to register

 

the occurrences

 

of whatever

 

Cosmos

 

whispers

 

into the fingertips

 

of my tendrils;

 

an all being

 

told me to wait

 

and cheer

 

for clustered pulses

 

of railing tensions

 

within a

 

store to see. 

I drift

 

apart

 

The Sea

 

and drip

 

as magma,

burning pits into

 

living plasmon

-we gotta try to make it glitch-

as the aspect ratios,

 

match intentions

 

of damnation.

The rations:

Emotions turned

 

to spirals;

 

overspent

of lumen

 

and cadence.

 

 

While the fumes lower us.

 

 Into sentiments of glory

and the pain of losing battles

on Yesterday's squadron.

A proud accomplishment

of dumb ameba, abeam

a beam of funny particles

 

extinct us...

A ritualistic trance

just dance, burnt,

turned now

 

into waves

 

of friction

in between us.

 

 

More choices

 

yet, here we eclipse

 

all vision.

 

 

Chasing lines across

a pasture of intangible

 

conscriptions,

my blades of grass

 

caressing

sense of self

 

and continuous

 

impairments, prepayments

of tools to forge a destiny

fit for Throne & Fortress.

The state of being

 

to create, it becomes,

a parody of itself.

 

My own portion

 

of the cosmos.

Waits and pulses

new partitives

 

of departure...

Thinking about, now,

the nothingness

 

that comes

behind the last

 

door that closes

 

once my scar screams open

and all ears are chosen.

 

 

Nevertheless,

seeing the solitude

of drifting giants

 

across and front

 

 

The Endless Ocean.

I drift

 

apart

as part

 

of chances

become ethereal,

once it's reached its prime.

 

 We have to forfeit to see, the material...

Becomes a sense of wonder.

 

On its own,

try to stay on grounds

while lighting the torch

down. Upside

 

The Chalice.

My Second Try

at malice...

 

A sword loses

 

its value

as it weights less

 

than choices

to speak a nature

 

into people's

comber. Encumbered,

all stages of psychosis

 

entangles lessons

 

from afar the temples

of polished marbles.

 

I reminiscence

across the

 

forbidden seas,

to travel along

on a lonely raft.

Solitude

 

holds secrets

that Matter wants

 

forbidden

 

for the sake of

 

ancient totems.

 

 

And the moths that can't wait

 

anymore...

 

 

Surely comes

 

unbecoming

 

a Monster that

 

devoured thousands;

 

more screams that spell

 

plethora,

 

burns my memories

 

like no atrocities

 

exposed as

 

  us try and try

 

to better the craft,

but pointless

 

it's to try

to attempt and turn

the shadows

into weapons

of mass

 

deconstruction.

Propaganda gallops

as the last Pagoda

 

lights

itself on flames

waiting for a solider

 

to come

bearing news

 

of settlement

instead of plague...

Holds the key

 

in your purple arms,

and lock to protect

us and as

they shall stall the

times to come

unguarded.

 

 

Prepare a feast for the

 

unfounded.

 

A treasure so

hidden, deep it crashes

the stability of Reality

 

once its cries

 

are heard again

across the Andes to the Alps.

A burning chariot

tints its fires, into darkened

shades of blueish green and

bloodshed

 

red,

 

try and

 

decipher

 

a codex made now flesh.

 

On the back of a turtle

 

traveling south

 

west of shores,

 

its hacks to machinery

 

forever unspoken...

For better terms.

 

Unleash your whip

 

and front them.

 

 

Stay still

 

to perceive

 

the cloisters

 

 

of crumbling souls

 

across the boardroom.

 

 

A ballroom

looses its carpet

once its stains

 

can't come clean about

 

- from whence, the water deep,

a prattle of mysteries, yet perceived -

but certifiably

can grab the cards

and try again

 

the newest spins.

All devotion

shouldn't go

 

to me,

there's holes in places

where The Timeline

forgot to clean its peace...

Try and come with me.

To shadier planes

of severest green...

 

 

Remember try

 

 to choose, correct

the assumptions

of wherever the floor

doesn't crack to show

its portion

 

of the teeth...

Ignore my eyes to let it

rip. Them apart,

from sides it seems

that they try to see you bleed.

 

 

More...

Become immortal

 

in a way.

They never seem to gleam.

.

.

.

Stage the perfect sentence.

And finally succeed-

 It's time to try and see.