I

My feet touch the grass. It silences the warm urges of my impulses.

And I wish I could write like the burst of melody in the back of her eyes as her lips her close around mine. And I wish I could write like the surge of force that collides her hips with mine. And I wish I could write with the feeling touch of her flying hair.

And I wish I could write. But my feet touch the cold grass and it silences the warm urges of my impulses.

....

Time is the essence of our being.

Question For The Day(A Shout Out To Those Who Fill The Disconnected Void Of The Internet)

Is it possible to enjoy the solitude, and hate the loneliness?

First Light

First light resurrects the Day.

And She wakes with the eyes of a forgotten lover.

Caressing the body of her beloved everywhere.

Under the armpits of the arches
Beyond the cesspools of the drains
And the tongues of the streets
(which hold hers in silence)

A Voice speaks.

The Day is resurrected. And She rises to stand alone.

On Time

Time is perception. The hour glass is a pool which drowns the nothingness of our past. The hour glass is the sky which proposes the chaos of our future.

I am the eye. I dissolve in the meaning of my sight.

The present is a rose I widen for.

Wicked/Winged Things

Well, the pattern of flight is chaotic and blind but it's right
Cuz chaos is yours and it's mine
And chaos is luck and like love and love blind