|
a summer fighter
to grow to be a swan now the golden goose has died killed! and I don't care the white feathers I might have earned are blackened by the miles two comrades remain... we ache at times our hearts plastic bags caught on nerves of barbed wire now, I feel I didn't lose She rises again.
So do the machines upright like crosses in prayer again and again delivering deliverance failing and trying one then another. She sleeps but not really checking the time ensuring the dreams of the service are met. She smells (of) the fuel of such visions the noise disregards the beads in a rosary of cloud. Only this fire combines the heat and the warmth she knows there is nowhere like here it can burn. "Do you wish to choose your seat, sir?" "Do you really wish to fly?" if you knew the answers you'd be free of this sky if only you hadn't packed these bags yourself If only a friend had given you something to carry You could leave your soul unattended, unchecked for an instant and land. I think as I envisage and visualise
when I imagine and project I forecast and provide for what I can never see or smell and certainly not touch. Then I decide to set aside all this. I listen, and I hear! I feel true. After being a spy for so long, and after the darkness of absolute faith, coming down is painful, as for one kicking a habit.
He penetrated deep and believed enough for others to believe that he was what he was pretending to be. And for a second, he was almost lost. If he stays alive, he will be free, the knowledge to free others a secret whisper inside, a meaning for all. Cyberpunk flower was there. She knows. When she smiles, I'm home. I skirt the furrows time sculpted
the cantilevers of sinews exposed around ears that heard my voice so long ago. The lips now dry still smile. Cells on show and veins Carefully I gaze as features are out once again He doesn't wear a mask Nothing missing nothing wrong. Just a shave every gentleman deserves. How many funerals and birthdays have you missed because you were in the wrong place?
How much time do you spend in the place where you feel you belong? Are you able to feel at home anywhere any more? Can you choose where you are going to be? Do people know where to find you? Do people recognise you in any place? How often do you see your loved ones? Can you answer the question 'where are you from'? Are all conversations just an introduction? It is so small it fits in my pocket: now I'm too big, exposed and cold. I can no longer walk along my path - for I can see where it ends without effort. I need not meet people - I am connected. I don't have to to detect their moods - they will signal to me how they feel. The world at the push of a button. I can relax, then! There really is nothing else to do. Primordial Apple, temptress in simplicity.
Her Secrets, Fun. The pages of a book in the sand, curling, wrinkles, a smile in the sun. She sits like a flower waiting to blossom
Anisette, Arak Pouring into me like a Lover As I find home. Please oh please make his feet as sturdy as a track
make his stomach a harbour whose nearby beaches show ridges of sand caressing the water make his back a bridge between tension and release his buttocks dunes of rock where to weather the storm change his arms into hammers to serve and protect may his chest become a casket housing the soul. But please, please, make his shoulders grow wide, unfold and span the sky, wings looking upwards she can climb on and fly Away, protected. |
Categories
All
Archives
April 2025
|
RSS Feed