Burning echos into memories of dark nights, silent flights of the soul seeking solitude, sharp spirals so devined of travesty. My savior of implications I can no longer imply on the life whose limits let the limitless die, the resistance of concrete evidence will be believed to have existed without of the soul. What about the confession of those holy in word and vow, enlightenment a satirical attain-- mention the tide that will bare me and bear me away. This is no glory or harvest, a skeleton gesticulating praise in the days of the repentant sinners and eager disclaimers trying to sell your soul so you save a buck. The rates are discount and even those too poor to see can forgo a meal to heal with that lost tempo, lingering sway a hypnotic lingo equipped with no sense of time, and I rhyme poetry silently scribbling on walls in black ink and because it will not fade they paint over it erasing my message and obliterating my voice. I am a true prophet of a prophecy devining all of the irrational complications of life's softly sifted realms. We can all blend our voices into one song and this harmony will outlast the broken ceremony of wine and blood (those willing to feast on their friend) and foe the stoic poll bearers of historical mediocrity in this complex perplexion will anyone be allowed to remain free except in hesitancy to speak bolder and cry harder than the wind can rustle the old and haggard leaves from the trees? My ideas are cramped like my style and my smile is too bright but will it ever be so obvious that I am in need of some light in a dark tunnel day dream of sighs? I am art so raise your voice and howl at me There is no need to scowl for there is no organized pattern of revolution continual evolution of circle and sage inevitable in the arms of the raging deluge, have you forgotten to flood me the dreamer of dreams undreampt before? Do you pray for the the broken tatters of an emblem? I am a devil forgiven, an angel condemed, and a servant of the last religion man will turn to in the end--a relief to those who fear order. Let chaos sweep it's great wing over my bones and the echos of mortality ring in jealous arcs over the hills and over the stones. There is an eclipse of flow: uninterrupted inhibition, and a startling lack of contrition in these eyes. It doesn't matter what I put down in these lines because the edges are still broken, lives taken and words misspoken, smiles upside down in hearts that beat the frown of spiritual monotony and idolatry to false gods and similar puns. Mortal or immortal wingless sea? But I don't think they understand this query and I am alone in this quest for some uncertain sacred divinity.
you do have talent, this read well, got the impresion you reached once or twice for huh, ommieness (sorry that may have been a bad choice of word) but i realy liked it
