My verses in the 21st century

as many sit tranquil with the deceit,
many rise their cries, whether it be from above or the grave where they have and had been a slave,
we still do not focus,
we have the sense right before our eyes,
yet we still let it all go,
for the ignorance of the life,
we still hold onto the pain.....

the echoes, in the rafters in the room we do not remember where we fade to sleep before,
we feel the disguise cover our eyes,
we meld with the compramises of life,
and fall into the holes where the moles sounds of borrowing put us to sleep...

when I found her gaze I let go,
all the pain fell from me,
leaving me in shame,
a disdain overcame my conscious where remembering the past was not part of what it was I was to leave in the moment to last,
I was awakened and saw the spectrum's of vibrations scare my vortex of thought,
I was complacent with logic, yet confused with emotion and sensations..

I wiped the mask off of the shadow that spooked me since I was a kid,
and it revealed the image of a future I was afraid to see,
it was dark and gritty with an unknown fluid running from its veins,
so pale I could see its veins....

yet as i gulped for air,
I could sense and taste the air..
It was formidable and had a mass,
that looked out of place,
leaving a mark on all it faced...

He searched for the moment,
in the dark, it was lacking any light, not even a spark,
a fear grew within his soul as the sky turned pink to a light,
it was man's first dawn,
it happened before a twilight,
the fear grew up in his soul bellowing out his bones,
as if the sight of his nakedness was not enough to fear,
he had to deal with the sphere of a sense where he could see himself in a place,
where just a time before he was nothing but the fear...


yet we have a master's degree in understanding how,
yet it is our future the plagues our existence.. To further understand the the biosphere is to make trauma in the ward where we are suppose to go towards...

A man that has not awoken faces his first dawn it not yet a man,
for the sand is in numbers and falls thru many's hands,
as a wind that blows carrying the voice of a triumphant man may know and understand,
their lies no drifts or trades in the latitude or longitudes,
all that is, is the facade facing a place where being naive makes a place in a swell of land,
that moves you from this to that..

A triangulation brings us from the begining to the the middle and back,
most times without memories on how we came from the start,
as we think in contrives we cannot remember that first breath, and I am sure in most instances the last...

We just think to speak in a moment a current derived from the essense of space we take up with a raping pedigree...

We rape this land and demand more... In every sense known.. As we utilize artificial man made products...In which present the spent aspects that maintain the lack of understanding the purity of what it is we enthrall our existence upon... Such balance has been tipped for eons.. Due to the vices of MEN...

So it is forthcoming that I am here, on a site on the internet, that is stimulated by the vice of man, and therefore you thyself as well, We seek no answers for we are not the question nor the answer, we are the obination and the demise of the the equation...

You deserve to be mad...

Oh I am not done....

the fathoms,
we leave the thought alone with moving thoughts,
leaving the aspect just as clear as the stained glass we look thru..

distortions and disguises is what we seek,
the lacerations are nothing or the scars we apply to ourselves,
constantly make our chest cavity heave and present the excitement many need..

All in all we find time and time again with the need....

The conscious awareness that hard start to arouse our sense,
into seeing the scene past the tv screen or the fixation in what we are taught to understand.

Yet when it is known and and we find it we just end up screaming,
and begging for the screen to shroud our sight, our mind, our hearing and out smell,
so it leaves us out with the beans planted that leads us to the jack and the stock...


yet if you just look up, you can see the bean stocks...

bah

Never mind, I found the weave,
it was spoken in a cantrip from a woman who was once a queen,
she sinned in a journey as she etched the scratch into the wall,
where her tomb was built in the present and past as a mast to the last feast,
where her present tic of the clock was made as her throne room, not her tomb,
yet most HER time she was not sober and seeing the blur made her memory of just,
men coming with the antidote to keep her awake til the dawn of man!!!!!!!!



Lets revel!! tonight...

Doldrums the beats of our memories we call the heartbeats of our souls,
we feel not the pain, and focus on the far away the future of the words from the beats of the tics of the clock,
we digitalize our mannerisms not to hear such, instead we sit in the storms made by the manmade rain and scream out to the thunder thst bellows our derived names and act like it is spoken in a language we do not..... Understand, we just try to focus on the hello and cover the tracks that trap our souls...

Yet we still feel the night,
its dead and still and makes the young yet in the yoke afraid of the steam that rises from the rim,
and we as the derived still look for the reason or excuse yet exclude ourselves from the choice of feeling,
or language spoken in our reflections, We find ourselves answering the same questions now and eons before,
advocating the choice for us to call out to the the winds at the mast...


When it is unreasonable we flounder reaching for the sins,
tearing at the world as it turns in our bed sheets and blame other men,
for our lack of sleep,
as we look up to see the stars only to stare at the ground and watch the stars fall,
as they scream we put words into our feeling our pronunciation for the avocation to the change in the times...

As we chase time like dogs we f allay and beg for the lies... Our hearts cannot take such stress as we digress in the the idealism we believe... It is the palisade that melts our souls with the beginning and births of stars in the time, we call life... The dawn that found the mind to blow with the wind we cannot even begin to fathom...

I found you,
you were in the shadows,
and your eyes, were blinded by my light,
and you fought the night,
As i could wash away your troubles,
you let go of the cloth,
that dried you off...

I left you alone,
as you sat and fell apart,
as you looked at your hands,
you ended in a way that was not mended,
for you did not wish to speak of the future,
you begged me to follow you into the dark,
as I watched the cracks,
tear you apart!!!!

My good intention left me wounded,
I turned my back,
and felt the the gasps of the last task,
blow thru my hair,
as I put the intentions back into the mold,
what I meant,
the focus of starch,
and I manag3d to hold it upright...

Yet I was a man,
who and has no tears for the say,
I am the man,
who can be born that way,
the absence of my Father furthered it on....

I cannot shed the tears,
Yet I can smell the Angels singing our songs,
the words not heard that could have been,
that we have folley'd and bathed in the sunshine,
and heard my heart die in the darkness,
loved a woman who did not hear my prayers,
Yet I still not find the tears,
for life is singing my words,
in a language I could be,
but did not wanna be!!!!!!!!!!!


I AM THE mans eye trying to understand the light,
just being left behind,
as the angel feathers condition ,my hair...

I have seen all that could have been,
and I am just being.....

I felt something in the way she stared into the sky,
my intuition felt how she felt,
yet I begged the moment to explain,
as I met the definition of vain,,,
as I let the day transform into the sight of her,
as she laid sick and tired,
mad over my decisions over how I made myself feel,
yet I lost the explanation, nor the words to say,
as I felt the words coming to say being the wrong,
as I heap into the words of a song,
that tries to explain why,
I find my mind contrived and deprived of the words to say,
to the child lost at all cost,
to break the even that is in the steadfast break in the wake,
we call the bridge to sin,
to arrive at the sight to turn the sin into the wrong turn,
yet I knew the words were blown from the angles of my wrong turns,
I find the dust crusting the crest of my brow and my lips,
to add a overtone to my sweetness of of overtones as I fall asleep,
on a bed of thorns that are designed to make me wonder why,
and adhere to the pain,
as I cry out to my baby,
in a lurching voice inflected with I will try again,
as I die each night,
each time, begging for the lack of tears falling into the pale of sin,
Still.... I keep trying asking for the forgiveness of sin,
speaking in a arcane verse over and over again,
yet i was born this way,
to endure the laying of thorns and
dialectical ways of the thorns entering my skin...

Call the man who has seen the scene,
he is a Phaedra a man with the sight,
who is caught in a greek curse,
he is the eyes of life,
breaking the colors we call life,
the light coming thru vibratition the so called life,
I am but a vassal, caught in one hell of a gale wind, of life,
hold me down,
close my mind down,
I am but a phalli see caught in the rip tide.


I am caught into the seems called extreme,
keeping me warm, in the undertow man calls sin,
I sit shaking the hands of men,
welcoming such yet with such a grim,
as I stand on their backs bring me closer to the light,
My mind, cries and tries to make me blind with all your faces,....

Yet their is a tone, it is heard,
past the chasms within depths,
it is a heart beat,
yet many fail to seek such an echo,
they feel the rise in the tides,
and do not touch the intellect crying out loud from the beaks of the new borns who seek.... The silence..

In accord we fail in our frail dependent scorn the size of our minds,
yet once again just listen for my voice in a echo...



Listen to it...

his focus was viseral in the cortex,
lacking the focus,
his brow turned to a scorn,
as he sailed his soul into a falicade of concentration of focus on love,
as he blamed it on the love,
of his right foot,
as his wife and angel slowly died,
he found the excuse, BLAME, it was the wind that did not fill his sail,
wondering if he should cry for help or just kill the self in the breed taking the breath,
from the lallygags and the blossoms of pedels that would always fail and fall beneath his feat in the summer heat,
now he hears the jackals singing lallalalala as he frail's and fails to find his seat on a throne a long time ago in the melted ice of we call the past and still focus on the relics before we call it the steps that leave the trails...

He blame it on his mind, as it has become frail and clouded with the sobs and tears of the dying Angels holding the ropes of his sails!!

maybe he should cry for help,
as he thinks he has found hell,
without the protection from greed,
and the lawful archipelago's we call calculations...


LALALALA Time to let it go!

Sail it.. .

the hegemony was the stiff lip given from the eagles grip...

I found that the maybe was a gust of wind coming from the man of sin,
yet in the breath in this moment climbing atop itself creating moments,
it did not hand us the mop to wipe up the grime of wasted time,
in the hands of men who had the frolics of females to lullaby themselves to sleep,
as their mothers sat utop the cliff feeling the rips of the vultures beaks reap their breasts feeding on the strength the men forgot to be the feeding of man..

Now we flail in a wisp of jest,
where the men have their sail's held high,
looking up to watch the dying sky,
as their minds blame it on the technology,
we watch the sky the wind the age of wind and man die.....

Scream it out loud,
sail, let us sail,
my eyes are dried from the Indian burns,
my tears are fed to the sky,
I find no relief,
just the irritation from the radiant heat,
feeding the ravenous beaks, ready to eat my screaming scorn I dare care to the lour where my soul hides its shape...

Subtle movement,
adhears to the rational,
where the words are said from the fray, left in a sudden decay,
in three words, I was left feeling I was not enough,
as I laid in the seared brass that left the cast from what men are told to remember when they get old,
as in a garden left alone with weeds and disease...

I point at my head, and see the signs,
the stars touch each osmosis on the contours of my cranium...

I was and I am the chain that holds the bracket that slackens the lack in the inteligence of our souls,
what if I was to let it go,
we would find a echo
and it will say...

Lets run outside,,,,,


then we find the toy, in the soldier,.
more of a toy then soldier....

then I found the shadows,
they cascaded the harm, in the karma, in all we know,
the cascades we feel is the heights we cannot reach,
the words we cannot pronounce,
the colors we cannot meld and blend,
I find myself more alone, and cold, in the pain,
of man, when they seek the bleak dreams, of a God who loves the path and lives mans dream,
I cannot handle the pain anymore,
I rise in my mind and beg for the minds to mend my mind,
as my eyes close and still see the frights of men in this mediocre mankind,
I am no longer looking down I am looking at the vows from the crowds...

Calypso called out to her sores,
and heard the collapse of broken sounds in vows,
As she forgot she burnt the darkness of shadows and shallows..

Once in a lifetime we saw the origins of decay, as she breathed the smoke,
in the chords found in the wild vines that were found woven in time, oh but wait,
it is a chords full spoken by the simpletons of even dwarves,
but I decifer the life within,
as the words are broad in strokes,
I see the braids in the brush,
and can define the finishing scratches that make the image,

LOL
its the spark before the boast,
the roast,

oh ya "slows it down"

So the scorned beckoned to a roar,
eclipsing the sounds of the waves of the shore,
we found the radius slurring the the chords,
that lead us to a beacon we called the shore,
yet we were contempt with the scorn from the blistering wind that gave us another birth to add some more,
as she screamed at the core the man stood or men stood begging for more life or minutes to mourn...

as the deal was set man was taught to forget....

I lay awake,
seeing the lioness of time try to claw her way into a ravine,
I saw and see the speckled glimpse of a sky,
that is no longer limp,
as I wipe the the tear from the dimple from the gimp who walks with a limp into the tree fort he calls of his sorts,
a place to lay and stay,
as a child picks up his toy,
and see's a macrame in his dreams,
I walk over to my neighbor to say I see the spirit pulsing in his veins,
and its blue with the hues of sorrow of old mcCoys dying in newborns dreams,
I fall adrift in the madness of a so called stream of beams from a source we call the naive of freaking course...

I lie still to fall further into,
the chaotic winds of death,
it has a out of tune chorus,
screaming louder then the wind,
and tries to surmise the demise of the physics of what it is we call men...

reply to post by Bicent76


My voice, stirs the echoes,
from a picture of a true course,
as we run for our lives,
my voice grows horse,
as I fall into the gallows,
and beckon with the whispers from the closed eyes,
I hold my breath so I do not drown in dead men who have cried,
I follow the light into a shadowy plane that is being seared by the running of fear...

Sometimes I do not understand the words spoken slower in the delight of the illusion of gravity...

...... To be still breathing is an act,
learned in act 1,
the platypus to the action in itself,
it was neither the right nor the wrong in what we have done,
we sit and stare,
pretending not to care,
we make it,
whether fair or away from fair,
we are breathing,
reaching,
sick enough to think we have a choice,
in a palisade we try to call our lives,
as we dare not raise our voices to the decay,
we dare sit and think,
and wishing and forgetting we are breathing in a time or space we take for ours to take...

the contortion stretched his out his hands..
Away with his distortion,
and hollowed with is his proportion...

It was laid so,
a placid placid of sand,
that had not felt the touch of the waves of time from the oceans of the many colors,
collapsing from man's will and Seville...

I found my calico calling for the peril,
yet I stood standing dry, cold, and unfulfilled..

In a Barron land full of pestilence and alimentary idea's from dried up men, that ate prunes,
to feel and fear the death of today....

trying to bring themselves further from this day..

all lost in the way...

men lusting the beauty of decay...

I lay and listen to the birds singing the swan songs....

the Constantinople called the vines of time to acorn the scorn of the face of fate,
it was a distant place, a while back,
before being born was our mother's choir...


their was a perfect place, or face,
that was before the complex sound of chords,
the prenuptial idea before the vocal chords..


When we could agree with the breeze that blew threw the tree's...

Where we stood straight, without making excuses for things that would fall..