Prequel : {A bounce back from the previous poem ‘Serendipitous to You’}
Short: Nothing to stand upon
How could I allow myself to write so soft,
Release and reflect, quotations of the springs illusions,
Just before the falls delusions, frozen, cold, contamination ready to ferment.
And freeze my poem stiff.
… To see two lovers in delusion?
The heart in my mind crumbles a continuous confusion
Like shattered stained and wrongly poisoned glass.
It suffers more than the warmth which stays inside of my being me.
Someday past the alcohol colored eyes of my crying.
…’He’s busy’
Me too, with my mind full.
Complicated, complexing, confused confusion about a beautiful nothing.
Just like the poem itself; nothing to stand on.]
By night time singing,
Wondered she,
“How could I allow myself to write so softly,
in a confusion to release so elegantly,
To reflect, quotations of the spring’s illusion?”
The time was just before
The coming fall’s delusion. When a frozen,
Thus,
a cold,
contamination, of a fallen season
Set itself steadily upon the the ground,
And it was ready to
Ferment.
Pop the top off yet another
year
“Now the season’s cold soft crying skies
have come to freeze
my poem’s
twinkling eyes.” Said she,
“It is a setting sun,
This man, with whom I want to be,
who’s ready to run fast and far
Away into a dark abyss –
Into the night of a million memories.”
He was leo,
Steady and spiraling around her earth,
confusion.
“He’s moving.
We’ll become memories
As corpses fall into a hollow
Wrinkled temporary, Saison.
He’ll be a far off star,
Winking at me, as from a dream”
Barely awake, except through the fire of emotion,
her eyeballs were masked by drunkenness,
red of crying, they sang of
unslept morning,
They spoke in the rhythm of lies,
Fermenting
her confusion,
upon his peaceful sunrise.
In her mind, was ready rest,
to lay upon his body,
Feelingwise, she craved, maybe just one more
…waved rise.
A sticky sprinkling of fall seed..
Thought she,
“A hidden gift to remind me,
will you leave?
If it’s not your permanent hand to comfort these,
old sailor woes
Then I will silently cry for…”
maybe, a baby
:
“Hurry now and gather rainbow leaves,
These last dropping of the summer’s trees.
For soft changes, set like frost
and turn our faces, from sun set
to, in the darkness
lost.”
Lamented She,
“The tears, these icicles on my fermenting cheeks,
will also turn to frozen pond, our emotional playground”
Exaggerated, thus, She spoke: “And then only lasers
and diamond hearts…”
A sigh, “Something of buddha mind,”
And before some light, whispered she
“May make what’s set between us art.”
Hollow’s Eve Pt. 2 – A lamentation of delusion
“Did I try to see two lovers?
the heart in my mind
Crumbles into a continuously
soft confusion.
Like soft petals
of the trees
that crack and shatter;
They are leavings.”
“These images seem to me, to be
like stained,
clearly unclear,
Like me… thus then, because of this …
Does he not see,
that being I need from him,
to not leave?”
She knew, some see a fermentation dirty,
soiled and old
Old world ideas, turned to a rot-in gold.
Spit words fallen off of what’s meant to be angelic sky.
And out of the contextual angle of The Spring,
A confusion, fallen by reprise
Was eager for warmth in cooling eyes,
They were like fall’s blue skies; He was.
“I say to you,
Do you not want me, fermenting, exclusively?”
She felt alone, but for her similarly bottled up company.
People left in wrongly poisoned
bodies of tender transparency.
Hallow’s Eve Pt. 3
“I see through these tall clear bottles like the trunks of trees,
Through them are my fallen worries.
In the winds we’re dancing
crystal-cell memories of long forgotten dreams –
Stories of who I with … :(.. could be.”
These hallway hanging thoughts went long ago
to hiding
‘I’m finding fragments, Photos of a different season’s setting sun.’
Thought she,
“Once borrowed from my warmth, ….
In retrospect,
I am at home within my season’s trench, and it
is dug by the roots of their
once exposed bodies.”
Break now and make the crystal shatters
“Let this crying morning,
form my winter’s ice.”
The season leaves of Maiden, past the Mother, of what never came,
Now let it turn to Crone.
Call to me, a storm.”
‘For this idea mind,
it suffers more
than the warmth
which stays inside
of my being me.’
: A soft death.
Now away from him, softly thought she,
“Someday past the alcohol colored eyes of my crying,
I hear it like a wind whispering a story to me
‘He’s busy’
And I too, am,
now with my mind
complicated and full of complexing
Writings
Absurd lies like
soft quilts
of a fallen winter’s season
A crystal fabricated story,
Some delusions
of warmth ,..
that burns cool to my touch:
for he alone doesn’t hear
these ideas
or see what they speak
Because,
he is busy….”
Thus it becomes like ice
that this confused and growing memory is
liquid from from the dumpster,
like the city slicks,
She comes Into a bottle, dumpster dives, to find
a beautiful nothing.
“I’ve found a fall, broken bottle colored,
just like a word smithed tapestry
that tricked even me,
Its color made in delicate rips like ribs of my emotion;
soft words, as smiling petals
Pedal past a fall of restful eyes,
of lying skies
The sun is not for warmth this season,
When the wind,
on its horse of winter’s form
Makes deeply crying eyes
fold before me, origami pages
and closes,
something more.
Lies fly on
petal wings and delicate memories of sapphire strings.”
“I saw, that one of us had mantis eyes;
Praying,
For the last one standing, is the one that sings.”
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