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.

This Was Probably Written On A Mountaintop

If you are to ruin the beautiful,

then I don't want to.

Peril bled through the 

month and it was lukewarm. It left the four of us subdued.

All ended when one of us dropped the wood ashore.

I wasn't aware of the possibilities and that left him infested and hard.

Sunlight meets your skin as I forgive you.

"Do you remember?",

as if years have gone by.

He was going to save some for later,

but he couldn't remember.

We are all laughing again.

The four of us.

Maybe in different places not altogether.

But that is a good sign.

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.

Nieve

He terminado desde-

(de manera disonante o de

alguna u otra manera,

donde la tierra era cálida y blanca

y leche tibia caía entre las grietas;

desde las nubes y de manera magnífica

pero hacia la arena,

sobre legiones)
-el momento en que el Águila

se alimentó del corazón del río,

hacia el desierto,

entre las dunas,

en el año del Tigre.

Quise olvidar todo,

desde el comienzo y a través del siglo,

en el despertar de lo que se percibe

entre la fragilidad de la rosa

o del pétalo (exhausto? distante)

que cae 

con seguridad

hacia Primavera.

Nieve blanca.

La noche es olvidada y he terminado desde 

el momento 

en que el Águila 

se alimentó

del corazón del río.

(desciende)

Nadie lo sabe.

Algunas flores

(supuestamente)

viven para siempre.

Nadie lo sabe.

Terminé distante, 

en el valle que derrama aceite y néctar.

Distante.

Nadie tenía ojos tan cálidos,
ni siquiera el universo,
o el multiverso cercano.

Prayer In The Sun

I am naive when facing the sun.

I lay down

and I pour the ocean(whole)

into a hole in the sand.

I know the wind is blowing but

happiness is beyond missing.

Please, leave and make things easier.

Leave, don't do it for the sake of the blues but

do it for yourself

or myself selfless gone and lost and buried and left astray empty-handed

heavy-handed

I hear a saint striving to utter the following words, behind his turbant:

"The air is beautiful."

The words are vague, easily unclean and flow directly into the thorns.

I had (or have) much to offer.

Do you care?

Fair enough.

I am a waste,

I run sadly,

I am blocking the sun with a finger.

Wading Through Harlow's Wilderness, I Forgot The Words As Soon As I Wrote Them

I forgot the words as soon as I wrote them.

"Odette I have discovered within you a rose."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I remember Harlow was long overdue behind cathedrals.

He who really was a sailor back then through wonders.

I have tried to remember.

The white soul of Oswald slipped from the hands of the heavens.

A firmament but, some say a lament.

What did she say to you

that made you crawl through the cliffs?

(Across the cliffs)

At the very heart of the bone of the whale.

She said:
"I exceed your expectations, every one of them."

But I remember she really whispered:
"I refuse to let you calculate your future."

Here we are, all of us.

Defeated.

yet Hooked,

beneath a nuclear sun.

I forgot the words as soon as I wrote them.

Sinful Shepherd

It makes a difference,
maybe it is myself but

the words are made of

roses,

are they made of ashes (rather)?

that, a blunt stab into Solomon's darkness

being raw the flesh and cold the river.

I let him.

I let him wear me out

as a shepherd with the body and the oil

and the face, holy.

Which is the sky that rains?

I am in denial through the doom

it is "we" that I want.

Two neglected sons,

up in the mount.

I have bathed in the river,

seven times eleven times and I'm sinful and I'm wading.

And I love you again,

I love you immensely past ancient book(s)

past silver skies

past the green pastures of soulful RIGHTEOUSNESS
in

FI

GU

RA

TI

VE

love,

spoken love.

Forever I dwell inside of you,

on Minerva's Garden my cup overflows

A solemn shadown,

an absurd shadow,

an open branch.

I do not know who I am.

I kiss your memory through fifty seven centuries,

careful arms, again wading.

Ambigous shepherd I will become.

Firenze

Vanilla dust scrapes the creamy surface.

I guess I'm still searching,

above thousands, white-headed.

The land oils the hands that work the harvest under a heavy sun,

but the eagle sets off.

Barely elsewhere.

On-his-own.

Do I find you here?

I am stirring the sun.

I AM STIRRING THE SUN.

I AM STIRRING THE SUN.

I blend

with a

gloomy

sun.

What is a human?

When is enough?

I am stirring the sun.

Heart-stirring the sun.

Perhaps it is me the one I should find first.

The yellow of the sun,

not to be confused with betrayal: the eagle bursted. (off).

A breeze stirred the leaves.

I can't help but wonder...

Somehow elsewhere I might find me.

What is that, I don't know.

What do I feel

Sun, I didn't feel.

A dull leaf that stirred with the wind got lost and flew,

from beginning to end

above white-headed

calves down

Treasures inland...

The knees fell as the sword hit the ground.

Sadness inland, the kingdom I thought I could call my own vanished.

I am scared and lonely.