Maybe it was a song I heard, a wish I wish was not true
Resting on the border of a window pane,
Clear as this avenue of anarchy in an
afternoon sun
Unset, chaotic as a gaseous dying orb of
time a story balled
To smile the lines of weight misting out
the tragic days
Nesting here intimate as an empty pillow
held and mourned
Tomorrows buried with the shattered
glass reflected now all that’s past
Remembering the identity of pains
renewed, to try again and feel it true
The walking life of movement’s course,
to say goodbye to the expected north
Of all that is will always be, the
permanence of coffin streets
Laid to rest in honeycombs sweet as a permaculture
exodus of homes
The bees they fly here today, the
pesticides of love and all at once
The cloud departs and one never can be
prepared for a chamber taken from a heart
The function, the beat it reverberates
at a compensated symphony
To all that pass, to running from the
wings of every abdomen, a stinger
Every passage in the sun, a lie to ray
in the only one
Was explained in a gospel of the name of
a woman who lived a life
Before the stars clawing out the night,
a tapestry of Messianic time
People that never existed living lives
that never were
Fitting the blueprints of expectancy’s
curves, like tectonic plates of hopeless
Arabians and Judaic smiles the savior comes
and Romans compile
The truth in courts and judge’s scales
and I cry to you love
Tell me who you are, not this farce of
tastes, but the body from the star
Dust of other galaxies disbursed, you and
me, we are the same here of this Earth
I am calling like a rock to the sun,
alive as any hardened or softened granted perspective
That I am hopeful of the time to see the
sum
Of these days in metamorphic wait pay
out in the caress of lips to kiss
This stony face is breathing out his
nothingness, the blank façade of hopelessness
I give it all away to write a single love
poem, indulgence of a poet’s plight
Lying here ashore in
the tides of March
Nice
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