Walks through Winter

 

 

Colder now.

 

It feels the back,

 

as it slithers.

 

 

A grasp of the

 

unknown.

 

A clasp of forces

 

to yet unfold.

Sometimes I

 

just

feel

 

the clusters

instead

 

of bittersweet mead.

A sweeter

 

realization

as melted honey

 

drops,

into crystals

 

as their visage.

A mirage.

The countless nights

in disarray. My contempt.

The older

I taste;

broader,

 

the noises,

 

that take hold.

 

Bring me

forth

 

the pain and

 

paints to go

round,

our plethora sphere

of hope.

Miles on end,

 

until I made it.

Past yesterday's

missed shots,

 

and welcoming

sensations:

 

 

The face

feels fine,

 

as long as the

 

torso's

 

well covered.

 

 

My fingertips

 

burn the eyelids

 

of sober emotions.

Ashore.

 

 

As I rub

 

away

the scenery

inside my

 

retinas.

Somewhere

 

out there.

A wilder call

 

full throttles.

A mile away

 

from the exit

 

pit.

 

 The sky's

 

never been

 

blacker,

 

and more gorgeous,

 

as it is now.

 

 

Know.

 

 

The moment

 

is nearing

 

each criticality's

 

point blank.

 

 

Only

street lights

 

show arousing,

the toughening,

of a pathway’s

older pebbles

 

left unbroken.

Day  feels

 

the skin of  Night’s

 

unglamorous

 

remarks.

Paranoia,

 

set the stones

into ever motion...

A mirror -double-edged-

so simple!

 

 

So attained...

A watch that faces

North.

Southern.

 

Polarities

 

off shore,

of change,

 

and consequences.

And Reign…

 

 

Fruitless:

The pursuit

of a suit

 

to put on

in order to be

happier,

when staring at

our reflections

inmost deep

still waters

of remorse.

My grandiose

soup of timelines

collapsing,

as particles

 

into vacuumed

polished metal doors…

Just like

before,

the songs of sirens,

feel so real, surreal,

to hear them thinned

so dimmed…

No more

throttles, as for chaos,

a never ending gallery

of galore

and clashes of

amygdala’s

bottomless pursuits;

into blend,

they march

as they scrape away.

The shapes of blades,

that sway away.

The stains.

Of former known

Reality’s Laws,

left unbroken

by The Fall.

The Fallen.

Take Its place.

Unto lonely shores.

I'll search, tirelessly,

The Stars,

around the feeling

of brightly singing

the colours

of the texture

of your voice…

And the weight of meteorites

depend on now

my atmosphere's will

to persist, the veil,

who attempts

to make me quite.

Quiet.

As I quit,

not the quid pro

quotas, left to

fulfill.

There's simply not

enough Human left

to go around

THE ROT

feeding the scared

or the lost.

It's the same patch,

a batch

of attempts,

to suffocate the screams.

And sew them into quilts.

For then, there's

 

 

silence

in The Plateau.

Now,

don't matter all the steps

 

taken

from our garden

of scorched petals,

flowing through the breeze,

turn them into fog.

And of course.

We shall explore The Bog.

To grab Horizon’s by

Its entrails

in the veneer.

Crush the last

foam castle

in which Dracons

choose to hide

and slumber away

centuries to burn

in their cauldrons for a

hearty stew.

And Brothers,

we shall see it Rise.

Into multitudes of Oceans.

We can try to tear apart.

Into mountains of Blood.

We will try to set a part.

Inside plains of Oblivion.

Lion and Beasts alike.

Will try to make a pact.

Forth, our Brothers.

This Time…

SATURN

Comes at Last.