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.

Constanza Midnight (Part One)

1. The boy is not a man in the desert.

Darkness is not to be confused with evil.

He that is sinful amongst ourselves, let him first CAST A STONE in the middle

of a raining Black Hole.

Science drew a triangle and answers were achieved.

Constanza Midnight (Part Two)

2. Those who cast the stone definitely increased possibilities of being hunted (or aroused)

Is the question that drew from the answer a crucial question per se?

The love that is carried away through blossoms and brightness truly drowns the Wintergreen that spread like wildfire around the Garden.

Persephone stood up and smiled: "Let's not return to the Garden."

Let us not indeed.

A sudden awake from reality drives me and pulls me down-to-earth, up-to-the-toe

and I am getting close to finding an answer.

Constanza Midnight (Part Three)

3. A variegated revelation:

It is not Midnight when the sea is aligned with the Pendulum at the turn of the Century.

Leave the petals astray.

Men astray in Constanza Midnight.

Darkness is not to be confused with evil.

The space is withdrawn within its Black Hole. Science-Fiction at its best and I have not been the same ever since.

Brain? Fried. Demented.

The revolution begins at the Nectar of love that is

allegedly found at The Photon Band.

Tainted

Yes, dry. Quite dry there.

Tarantulas all over the ropes that held the horses. (Allegedly)

I stood on the Good law, on the Sheriff's side, becoming (soon) the ONLY side.

On Barren's Edge,

Where the streets appear only on the Sheriff's map,

where the tumbleweeds scrape the surface OF THE HORSES RANGE there is a dusty cliff and he can see the ocean from there.

Who again.....................................................?

you wouldn't know and he tied a horse around his shoe.

Upon the Sheriff's village.

Yes, a village: a new open branch: tainted.

Such molasses falling and falling thick and slowly drowning the tongue of the Sheriff.

"MURDER!

MURDER!!

MUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRDEEEEEEERrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrRRR"

A witch ran across the village,

chased with the fire nearing...

The fog and the sea on her side.

Burn the witch. Burn the witch. Burn the witch. Burn the witch. Burn the w-

Again, the sea on her side.

On the Good side: please, no longer the Sheriff's side.

A black fog around her whispers:"Forlorn is not the rose that wraps the single thorn around the Horse's leg.

Forlorn is the rose that is genuinely dropped sixty-seven times from the cliff that holds a golden Badge in its dusty ground."

An Answer for a Steady Sun

All in all for the better,

the salt in the sea and a big love the leaves the honey astray.

There was a forest in which I

sunny, sun with the dirt

some other balmy hearts

across the black lava

that held your bosom

and helped your cross

around the multiverse

walked, steadily and blocking the dusty rays of the sun.

How strange, a forest that held a barren sun rather than a barren heart.

I'm all in all a better soul,

atop the sacred tears that have divided tangerine love,

in the middle of that sunrise I suddenly found an answer.