Honey

You silly boy don't you ever again attempt to beat simplicity to the punch.
yes, Victory sways and trades decay for grace, willingly and
she opens herself to the beautifulest mind.

You have it. The sight of Change rendered you clean.
Can you remember. You earned respect, fellow.

So valuable.

"I want to drown myself in honey, then dwell".

Well, of course you do.

Sunset For Later

When all is said and done I am left to analyze the situation that does not devour me but rather tickles my stomach gently, as I stood where you left me. Strong.

I was back there.

The air around you is decadent.
To this I admit there was once a one-way current that ran between us, maybe around us. Call it endeavor, call it desire. I can't put my finger on it but decided not to conclude what wasn't definite, but finite. I do not find shame in bringing this current back to light for it became a starting point towards accessing my darkness and I needed to be there once again. And I felt.

That thought aside, let's now put this powerful statement to rest: the three of us have very different ways of showing our knowledge, our ugliness, our beautiful sorrow and manhood.

I was humble, succeeding and failing miserably at the same time.
I opened my
self sublime
and damp
in beauty.
And I am not the same.

There is beauty to everything. That's golden, man. To get to that place and understand and consider.

Sometimes it feels as if I'm saving a sunset for later.
I have more in my favor, I didn't know this back then but now I do.

Odds

And I find these odds to be funny,
I must be crazy then but
I think I have found beauty one too many times somehow a
natural cycle that I have yet to catch up with and I sing.

Freedom has yet to catch up with me. But it will.

What are the odds? It's easy to get struck by lightning, man.

Sight of Solomon

He hates speeches.
He is big and broad-shouldered and has a beard. He is warm.
He doesn't believe in the color blue.

He forgets to cry and he is confident and inspired.
Peaches, vanilla, strawberries and sun.
He hates speeches.

He leaves himself when he sings.
He works hard as he propels his life smoothly, upwards.
Magnificent.
He is beautiful.

He feels beautiful.
He sometimes hates.
He seems blunt and may
come up as serious
but he is a funny man and
isn't he a dreamer like
every
body else.
He is compelled to love.
He is misunderstood.
So he travels.

He is a dreamer, counteracted, I say he is
more than one can ever get to see.

I close my eyes and I see orange and warm and yellow.
I taste a sunset and the wind smiles all over.

The sounds are distant beauty yet to soar and I only write because I hate speeches too.

Lactose

I am interested in seeing how this one comes up.
Be it that flunks or thrives and well oh man are you even reading. Are you thick-minded or have you felt beautiful. If both then he is to rain all over you. Lactose, from the shell.

I am counting the days through lava.
Sunk in sand I dropped the pilot never carefuly though aiming low.
You can't. That triggers me as the good boy and I can't be otherwise.
Oh, the good actions that come to nothing. Come to nothing.
Come, then, come. I am more than lactose. More wood to digest, I would guess.

Year Gave Me

I was overseas at Beginning and
Year gave me.
Light. Year gave me light.
Many.
I am giving the light back, I am selfless and I
loved and I
cried less than I laughed yes and I
sang everyday and played new songs on piano and
sang to them and said
goodbye to some
and I grew
and I smiled and forgave.
I learned.
I felt it all.

Year said, somehow said:

'Melancholy sings deeply and low holding the light and you render yourself harden and warm and very particular. The light is beautiful when found. When found.'

I sing back on track when Light is orange.
Light exists. You are to create.

Seldom, Seth, I Write

It's not safe to assume anything when he renders me warm and selfless,

and I say, Seth,  it is not safe to assume the rain turns to yellow because of the sun.

No one ever agrees sunwise or from whatever makes you holy and this,

Seth, 

this makes me drop the white from the shell at the speed of molasses.

If two ever agree, the nectar that weaves from that beautiful share of breaths and silence is going to be yellow and orange maybe and warm, beautiful, tender and swift.

It's not safe to assume anything. 

Don't you dare be disloyal to whatever makes you blossom.

Safe alright.

Seldom I have strength to write about this but you weren't here yesterday.