Sea Written

Seasoning birds through the sea are wings that flutter on Silvery Surface.

The winter strikes inland this time (willingly, maybe.

I sat on the wooden threshold, sky grayed.)

The answer is being written as we sleep on Harlow's Meadow.

Time wasted, slippery.

I fell again:

He who once arrived starboard now returns to the shore.

''Eleven miles ahead'' 

he knew I was already half-a-mile away from the harbor.

Molasses at the Bat Cave

Molasses at the Bat Cave.

1817.

whispering whilst on a cliff, afar:

"Moonlight annihilates the

bark of cold clay from the wolf that

(He who reads from Beginning at the End of the Cave)

barks seemingly alienated beyond the navy."  

-Viktor, leaking molasses.

From then until now the tide has been stated as unclean.

From then until now.

From then until now the vessel is a wreck carried by windlike-shipped vessel.

Night, if rotted, is to be shaken by darkness.

I am to be shaken by darkness back to back,

back to the bone. From then.

Horror in the midnight hour.

UNTIL NOW Viktor is dull-eyed never wounded and capable of fearing

or giving fear away.

Giving answers away,

to be (in the wind) lost.

The wit of his actions.

The answers were carved in the dark wine that was released a thousand years before.

Soon fullcircle.

Soon molasses spitted from the mouths of the bats that hid in the core of the cave.

(Full

of

grace.)

From The Other Side

I think I may have found the light that mislead the road.

Deliberately.

I grew in and out myself selfless such as warming carrying light, carried heart flutters.

I thought I would taste wisdom.

Beauty is less of a word

He has a melody inland.
Somewhere he rouses a field of roses.


Seldom the sun melts the snow, 
Vincent's heart repels the crimson field.


Seldom he knows he is more alive than Moon itself.


I have yet to witness love becoming a meadow.
Whether carrying or carried.


Beauty is less of a word than a feeling, I have found it within you.