Warm At Midnight

Up until today, all is (steadily) in hands of the wind.
That is a fragile state.
I can't move or go anywhere.
The wind is beauty and simplicity makes my heart race.
All is blurry up until today, Edna.
The waves.
The motion of the waves strikes inland where the harbor sleeps and the meadow barks at the sun.
To trust the wind means to put aside your expectations.
All will be warm at midnight, soon.

Tainted Delta

I ponder the reason of Delta rising in my meadow is it
something of  'a deeper reasoning unfolding' crap or
lush-in-the-mountains or
a flavor of impecable lust that slips through one's fingers not in winter
not in cold or in a generous breeze but
under a warm sky heavy-handed I perpetuate my own possibilities
to the last
until the last
the last
thought-to-action sway
under good terms
and I should know
)not less than( seldom it is cumbersome to overgrow
the swift foreshadowing.

Lilac Mountain

I am tracing back the marrow of the ancestor, you can let Jesus know.
I am to create.
I am to create.
I am to willingly create the answer, had I found it earlier I wouldn't be standing in this mountain.
Here I hold my breath, heavenly and albeit moon confusion weaves through impossible threads.

My fingers intertwine with the frost.

Darkly and somber I introduce myself inland:
I, the maple son.
The variegated son.
The castaway.
The meadowlark.
The sun.
The nameless.
The forgotten.

The one that got hurt for loving deeply.
------------------------------------------------------------------
I am not the hollow soul.
Or the wooden body you once thought I were.
Rather the opposite.
I am to spread love in natural ways:
I will sow patience with sorrow.
I will sow the rain with the solace.
I will weave love from the nectar of the river whilst I cry from disappointment
but
holding
back
the flame
that the ancestor
once
held
warmly and firmly and wading was he wading I am wading through him and back to us.
I am diluting the poison-I-believe I can find the truth that will set my
self
free from
lies and free from
fear
or free from
freefalling.

I am his own self.
I am to be loved the same way I do.
I am to create.
I aim to create.

There's more than meets the eye.
I made mistakes through this century but I see you down there, from up here.

To be loved is what I truly aspire.
Clean. Cristalized, in Lilac Mountain.
The maple son is far stronger than you could imagine.
Right.
Try me but find me first. I am eleven miles ahead south.

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.