The truth of the matter is having been in this mode : I have fashioned myself into the weapon most lethal against me, I.
A rough ruddy rose; past the eagle’s training eyes, upon it swoops.
the least intended
saint wrath borne, saint otherwise,
sitting askance this heaving, swelling silent screamer,
I,
the sun sliding off my irises.
It went like this. some how one, I, made a delay…. when coming to sexually associate, I,
one who dis-associates.
this is a comfort in a nursery for knives;
security guards line the playground.
the churches are unusually far from here.
the imperative of the friends of Death,
is to understand the shapeless tongue.
~ ~ ~
Post-Dawn-of-Rocks
Immediately i see your face in the sky. i sit far beyond its colours; there is no raining conception of what it is like to breathe with You.
i am a diverging river. and in smiling state of understanding, know the confluence cannot be forgotten.
it is not the way of rivers.
nor is a forgetting like the rage of ocean waves.