about that inquisition

a story of plight in thinking

around the time of rightous rain

when the blood letting culture is slow pain

and the pain of birthing of others is profain

following a sound in the distance

calling the rightous into fame and justice

as destructive grounds brewing meaning

falseto music of that past wonderment

life in dred of itself as plain

dragging others into the road of care

where decident animals dare cross

wilderness without care for loss

when the holy mundane grew wit

lost itself and sat in wind

purposeless it grew meaning for others instead

mans unsuspecting won himself structure

fleeing terror fleating life

losing self in looking right

A morning crow;

“Where?”

Two pitches flume,

Found floundering furrow;

Harks the angel Gabriel,

Ruckus shuffled deals;

Mute,

Flirting patients;

Goes pressing zeal;

“WOW!”

She swings her hips in a sway,

foriegn to sour sounds,

showered her hair in soliloquy of shades,

shimmering the sparks of stray power in the rain away,

flipped to a side of saying hey,

voiced her name a dancer of no shame,

clapping to her claim, presented flowers,

handing hands away to music sang,

tunes and beats their feet shuffled the night away,

foreign of both two.

No amount of crass and class,

the song of seance climbing clouds,

adrift by the mourning of mountains, lakes.

A rose of sun,

days ahead of time ein-in-stains of bloody flames calling friday fun,

rave,

rave the night is shameless in her hands,

maide of honor,

the deeds a man has claimed.

Calling a course corrections,

what is in spade,

a tigers end wrapped around her neck,

tailing the chasers of red.

In whatever field of study, life, or work one is in there seems to be a line of continuity that, in retrospect is perfectly recognizable, logical, and to some extent reasonable.

Here in the present moment, the sencerity of actions become befuddled and murky, as the singing of the birds and breeze of cars passing by make everything seem chaotic-ly fine.

In some sense the reality of living in the present is doctored by the conscious projection of what we know about the past, be it a perfectly recognizable memory or a feeling.

It’s in the process of creating a state of clairty that the openess that guides our intuition of crass and class; and the bewildering beauty that is art, becomes born out of our work into a future, a new past, calling possibility.

Wonderment at the tips of our fingers, the free flowing words, the loosely held paint brush pass and dance that brings into full color the painting of beauty we see as life casted out for all to see, incontinuity.

Here lay a mistake of seriousness in play, calling the just in us to criticize and ask, but “nay” we must say.

The dullnes of the night and the blinding winter of light, they too have sparks of insight.

The stars lay in the backdrop of void, burning their inside, and seem to us looking up, a shimer of fight.

How then we, who have been blessed a sun of moderation, ask the evil of scorching summer and the cold of winter’s shimmer, that’s burried our sight, to oblige in our fight?

It is silence who, claming the knowledge of those who speak, the voice of void.

All with out perportion, in filling and shaping our eyes of artistic delight make anew nature within, casting out, that others continue with our sin, the art that makes magic within art.

I say, it is our void, that wich none of us can fill with the dances of heavenly singing light or burning rage of sins, making to fit ourselves in or cast the fortification against that which is already within. I say, gratitude to our void, it is art.

Sum up;

Wake up,

from the view of seperatness.

Beliefs you hold on to;

Pulling into space,

pulling space out;

Relaxing;

learning to let go of everything.

No security;

Constant change,

with nothing to hold onto,

The impossible principle.

The mind of the unfaised.

A king on the outside.

A Sage on the inside.

Follow progress and the end follows also;

Follow the end and lose sight of progress.

Precisely the man I am today contradicts the man I was yesterday;

The man I am tomorrow is but my shadow in brighter light.

The harsh truth is sweeter than the affectation of love,

when that pules and whines.

Conformity only profits the sovereign,

when solidarity is the norm.

All the measures of how begin and end with the answers of why.

Prophesy speculates the past,

but knowledge only speaks of now.

Motivation is lacking when all about you fumes distraction;

How then can you breath?

Aptitude is the tendency of insight;

What then do you see in yourself?

#poetry #freeverse #imagery

Hidden words and sinking swords

Missing between meanings

Signs of direction in the sway of leaves

Came impromptu decisions

Heating distractions in the way

Callous grips of truth,

Gritted teeth away

Barking up fruits,

Branching staffs fell to you

Where climbing grounds grew

Mountains bridged to views

Placing promise in the sky

Movements never died

Hope and fear in hand

Dancing every song of life

#poetry #imagery

Condition meaning

in coming to

Time a ruling finger away

Smelling fault

eyes of doom

Memento mori masks

impromptu

Reflected songs

worry and trepidation ring

Humming eternal tune

the last of you remembers

Conditioned freeedom

responsibility resumes

Godhead items of being

Lost in questions

unpresumed

Rolling tides away

from running

All back to oneself

Sleeping to that tune

sang itself to you

Now awaking

cursed

Joy is you.