The mind is an ocean with no bounds. It drapes its soft wails of sweet words into my ears. A single wash merges me to its crystal sphere. Locked away, I close my eyes.
I made peace with the devil,
fearful I was,
the lesser I strolled,
reckless I thought.
I made peace with the devil,
brushed his arm aside,
and all of his subjects’ behind.
Behold,
hell was in a glorious design.
I made peace with the devil,
Neither for the credit,
nor ranks,
but to be free.
Lifeless is the flow bearing no purpose. Dimmer and dimmer it grows to outshine the growls of a lone hunter. The thirst prying on weakness is a revelation of the each shifting shade smothering one’s midst. Subtle is the slice of no remorse. A mammoth to fear.
Writer’s Dream
Cast from clay, he was a fresh bake from a rusty oven. He abhorred the immense heat steaming his brains. Lost in his mind were flashes of a goner. Glaring at the defects of his heart, he laughed.
Writer’s Dream.
The cold rattles my guts, weakening my cry. I swallow my pride, letting the soundness beckon a fold of regrets. Stale memories yet to be relived every single minute.
Writer’s Dream.
When men fly,
harmony lifts their wings.
The storm leaps,
devouring the earth to bits.
The trees speak,
as they veer far from their reach.
Thump!
The early warmth of sprouting life,
embraces their being.
A free spirit roams in the harsh depths of time. Whisked by a forged reality, it shimmies past the fragments of glass. Its woes come to an end, thriving like never before.
I see charm in her eyes,
she sees dirt on my hands.
The question lingers.
How is wholeness revived?
A tale of essence and lust.
A spark of energy,
sweet yet forbidden.
Warped is the world’s perception,
condemning our flare of emotions,
for our color was blue.
