This is the people want
So this what we do now
Pull you out
Coalesce
Put your body under
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The becoming has begun...
Yeah!
Enter the Aya, Sophia
Flow of Remorse
The ocean decides to breath
And whispers some tale to the moss and trees
Lining the coast of eyelash dust
They bend and sway in recognition
I can hear it now
On the wind whistle, as always
Your mind self-revealing
Swollen juices in the mist
I just can’t think of a fog
That enters my lungs as such
The effortless rhyming of lovelies
A beckoning forever’s touch
So here in making of candor
Of progress and birthing of hope
I danced like the raindrop on ice
Hooked to the feathers and gropes
Legs wrapped in black stockings
With subtle intentional holes
That only a woman could cluster
In the sex mocking feminine flow
And whispers some tale to the moss and trees
Lining the coast of eyelash dust
They bend and sway in recognition
I can hear it now
On the wind whistle, as always
Your mind self-revealing
Swollen juices in the mist
I just can’t think of a fog
That enters my lungs as such
The effortless rhyming of lovelies
A beckoning forever’s touch
So here in making of candor
Of progress and birthing of hope
I danced like the raindrop on ice
Hooked to the feathers and gropes
Legs wrapped in black stockings
With subtle intentional holes
That only a woman could cluster
In the sex mocking feminine flow
Antonym ONE
Antonym ONE
The seed of war grows in unstoppable blossom. Overwhelmed in silence, the weak rise above the smell of their own rotting corpse. Laying down the bricks of a flattering fortress, the blessed slave relishes as masters and warriors are tethered to the cunt of the schism. Awaiting solitude, the crowded stand unbending in wretched wind.
A scabbed and dyspeptic dog sorts out the flesh from the steel. His condition worsens as his senses are peaked in carrion fields. Although forgotten, this being remembers a pit dug in the late summer sun. Shrouded in clouds of stench, the grave poisons the earth.
Digging deeper now…Released from his own spell, satisfaction comes in the form of a mineralized embryo. It wasn’t born there.
The kindness of man is waning. The warning is steeping. The brotherhood of the quick is gathering with eyes set behind the sun.
“What burns in the East? Now obscured in my memory. Now tainted and perforated by the story of my love and misery,” asked the apothic.
“The River is running red and rust in odd correlation. A strange mist has formed near the center. Will you join me in redemption there? Will you call to your gods even now, at the end of sound?” he answered in strange bliss.
“But There is where I noticed the flame. Rather, the sound of flame and voice,” and other words of shame.
“I believe you have heard the ruination and its swine. Shells fall from the sky when the fearing have lost patience with the sea. No woman can birth them, now. Nor would she wish it. Nor would I wish it upon her. Nor would this be possible in the wake carnal determination and rage. Phlegm carried them in their youth, and now the ether placidly subdues them.”
“I would praise your words, if not for the jaded voice in my company. I look upon the dismantling of my home and sorrow takes me. I cannot understand this banter, but I know it warns me in trembling remorse.”
“This is the beginning of your first indubitably prophetic dream. In time, you will know this language as truth and anomalous comfort. You will begin to feel yourself slipping in and out of this consociation as if playing with your childhood friend,” he riddled. “ Know this vision and familiarize yourself with the sensation that stays with you upon returning to the waking life. Your eyes may begin to tremble before sleep. Faces will become two blue eyes set within a strangely empty brow. Do not fear this, for it is the passion of the epiry. You are beginning to change, now. Pneuma has become you.”
A scabbed and dyspeptic dog sorts out the flesh from the steel. His condition worsens as his senses are peaked in carrion fields. Although forgotten, this being remembers a pit dug in the late summer sun. Shrouded in clouds of stench, the grave poisons the earth.
Digging deeper now…Released from his own spell, satisfaction comes in the form of a mineralized embryo. It wasn’t born there.
The kindness of man is waning. The warning is steeping. The brotherhood of the quick is gathering with eyes set behind the sun.
“What burns in the East? Now obscured in my memory. Now tainted and perforated by the story of my love and misery,” asked the apothic.
“The River is running red and rust in odd correlation. A strange mist has formed near the center. Will you join me in redemption there? Will you call to your gods even now, at the end of sound?” he answered in strange bliss.
“But There is where I noticed the flame. Rather, the sound of flame and voice,” and other words of shame.
“I believe you have heard the ruination and its swine. Shells fall from the sky when the fearing have lost patience with the sea. No woman can birth them, now. Nor would she wish it. Nor would I wish it upon her. Nor would this be possible in the wake carnal determination and rage. Phlegm carried them in their youth, and now the ether placidly subdues them.”
“I would praise your words, if not for the jaded voice in my company. I look upon the dismantling of my home and sorrow takes me. I cannot understand this banter, but I know it warns me in trembling remorse.”
“This is the beginning of your first indubitably prophetic dream. In time, you will know this language as truth and anomalous comfort. You will begin to feel yourself slipping in and out of this consociation as if playing with your childhood friend,” he riddled. “ Know this vision and familiarize yourself with the sensation that stays with you upon returning to the waking life. Your eyes may begin to tremble before sleep. Faces will become two blue eyes set within a strangely empty brow. Do not fear this, for it is the passion of the epiry. You are beginning to change, now. Pneuma has become you.”
Pneuma
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