We do not love things as we see them,

we notice them as deeper than they really are, you understand.

Have you found a final message

for the everlasting offspring you possess?

And still waters

float beyond our stagnant beds

and bells

and bells

and bells

ring so very loud

a heartfelt

reverberation

of sugar-sprinkles

in mid-morning.

A singing mother wondered

about the truths being

thrust towards her

while

cymbals

cymbals

cymbals

fluttered with the thoughts of seven sailors

and writers- bound to the feet of their lovers

and beds! with a staggering memory

and a thoughtful recollection of singular promises

told in darknesses, we stood

Knew it had been,

for quite some time, but still

pretended naivety along silvered shores

"You are a thing of mighty, shaking beauty and yet,"

Still I stumble, quietly against your feet.

I am

yearning but do not move,

while you, a prince,

shove your way into the Kingdom of heaven,

but who now is the stronger one?

Be not the controller of super-faiths but fall

through your present shiverings

to wild ecclesiastical thrustings.

pasting similar words, and giggling with a porcelain guitar but
did you still not quietly notice,
you were giving attention to a single one;
one you disliked most!

With violeted thoughts,

treading through enforested landscapes

fuzzy photographs

and a single one, believed,

was the turning point in serenity (in rome);

and rosethunder that perhaps, was a breath!

en estralia, manipulated,

and yet our arms are still thrown up in flames!

thoughts---

and a flower, lying on your chest!

explained about an expulsion, of physicality and light

and a remembrance, a familiarity

with the moon, and little tears

and gashes! and gashes!

flee from me, springtime, for it is your laborings that brought us to exist!

an expanded detail, but yet still, I love!

Acorn

Be close, my dear-- lest our love

becomes ruined by metropolis sufferings.

oh! Lilies, and

violets of two-toned fields!

and one in seventeen-

and desiring a twin, but needing variance

from a single multitude, held close, and O! As the one in the similar city!

Noticing, what correlations between unrelated objects hold,

like a pair of doves, and the leaves beneath our boots;

or even! Wildflowers falling from our hair!

Inside a yellowed albatross

in a jungled forest town

and a professor in a dulled shirt

and a treehouse overlooking the rustling bay

even--- to be dissipated

tomorrow, to be sad

and grey arched troubles

of harmonic gauges and

the freckled eyes

of an entire army

marching towards the sun

and eyes beaming into carbon particles

begging to be seen

by their stargazing lovers.

and bells tied to our ankles,

shivers make them

clash wildly into each other

demanding birds

to arise from their enwintred slumber,

under crumbled summer

weeds and frozen

bulbs of forever-flowers,

portals for our eyelids

and

tea leaves

held in our apron we saw-

a sparkling of light pink roses

from our knitted purses,

O, to be alive and wildly tumultuous!

telma

i am always shaky in the dusty mornings

when lighter-than feather thoughts

awake from their shuttering cocoons

and the sun sits next to me, in my fisted but delicate hands

whispering violet'd but opaque desires

through a coffee filter,

"i have become slower,

i have become at peace,

i have become a lover, but yet,"

and red bursts from beside my head!

o, and granules of sparkling water

are present still, in my almost-sister's weathered boots

like suns shining, we are!

her treasure walked through the painter door

hands morphed inside constellations,

draped above the slow breath she leaves,

a mobile in the night, and silenced waterbodies, held by plants.

had we held her as a child, (do not falter now)

maybe a painter would have emerged from her cracking bones

maybe a wonder would have appeared on the corner of madison

well, try to change my nested qualities

you will not, you will not, you will not

a drawing, lost in a sea of leaves

and even spherical candles cannot whisk you into a life undeserved

We are walking to a meadow

a little girl slept there

while her thoughts ran free

and wildflowers stained the seam of her dress

Shivering

under blankets

in the morning, and at dawn

black, just black, I noticed

in the core of

some differing notation

"I can be near, I can," but yet!

A movement under ninth,

a drab harmonium,

or a dreaming among wolves?

Through sketched maps of a future colony

I saw

hands enwintered,

or ruins raised up,

or braids disassembled

all while drinking tea in the meadow,

which we knew

would grow and become a garden.

"Yes, and even serrated misanthropes sleep in the dungeons of their darknesses,"

daybook

in a stuffed catalogue

we are three, astropomorphic

and greatest limericks bursting

through raspberry groves, where

i had (so violently, inside) left

the painted door cracked open

an invitation, into

a paralleled kingdom, but lips

were shivering under riverbeds

of drowned fragments

that had fallen from our lips!

and Yet!

Restored gradients, from metallic streams

but where had the dissimilar misogyny come from?