consecration versus fear

my vision clamors to capture
the light of harmony, ever clear,
stirring in the midst of calamity,
which threatens to plunder the splendor near.
But what does singe the vivid streaks
of mighty, celestial consecration,
but fear of the trammeling the splendor's heat
as always looming is potential of defeat.

fooey

Perception bred of rigid consciousness,
conivictions bore of consoling sterness,
conceptions of required sturdiness,
condition the burly to readiness.

The Night..

The howling, thundering, brutal, bold night,
trecherously falling to sleigh sunbeams,
molests, with each arctic breeze, sound and sight,
morphing them into crude,sinister fiends.

The morose, melancholy, morbid moon,
slithering through hazy, gusty, dark fog,
does swim and drown and resurface again,
in a ballet that weaves through the cold smog.

Lusted famed

Lustfully, the eyes do swivel closer,
for compellingly some marvel has beemed,
cajoling so to, its triumph, bolster,
securing the eyes so its flaws are cleaned.

For when does the famed bear blemishes,
but never when does it live for lone lust,
and fame never shall permit skirmishes
lest its utter essence but melt or burst.

song of the lonesome

My baffled heart, singing its sordid wail,
has folded now, clinging lone to itself,
for when its curiousity does gleam,
so shall its vulnerability teem.

Anxious,desperate, my isolated soul
bellows in agony to be beheld
by any a heart who might its pain quell,
any soul to shatter the barrier shell.

Starlight-edited into sonnet + some more

Could, for my sun, not a thing compensate,
for what ever is else is lone irate;
There's not a ray of jubilance righteous
aside from mine but a hindrance, heinous.

A sky void of the vital star of mine
is a sky plagued by bleak, desolate time,
for what is there if not my esteemed saint,
but absence lest looms there a tumor, a taint.

A dawn to dusk barren of my luster
can nothing be but a somber shutter.
For what is lord and does all splendor make
but mine and if not, by time shall it break.

To cradle what has not from my heart flown
Equates to embracing some brittle bone
As ghostly as the bitter potential
That threatens to pillage my dearly essential.

My breaths, my seconds I only exhaust
For the sunlight for which my rev'rence bursts,
To which every pulsing morsel of my life
I beg be given without any cruel strife.

My gleaming gem glows so gloriously,
my eyes yearn its vision imperiously,
as my sight does crave ever strenuously
my light's each detail shining sumptuously.

So revered does my darling starlight thrive,
what does plunder its hours outside my hive,
but sheer fear eating my nervous flesh live,
impris'ning my heart to for lone me strive.

Should the weather ever tether my love,
should perish the divinity I clutch,
should flee from my grapple my dazzling dove,
the termination of elation would be such.

You

Wedge into that evil mask,
obfuscate your monstrosity;
hide your ugliness and ask
how ever could you decieve?

Parade around in false vanity,
for though by ignorance are you reigned,
surely have you the sanity
to know your true potential proclaimed?

And measely chance that there is much,
considering your treasonous poison;
Your lechery infects too much,
your cruel tricks stem without reason.

Cherishment < / 3

Cherishment I generously granted for my gem;
twas charity that sent my heart unto its every whim.
And dashing, dancing, galloping, my attentive adoration,
did swerve not once in all its jumps to reach the consternation.
But curtains rose to show the glows of growing obligation;
for twas not my treasure that did call as it was but my coming fall.
Oh, the fiendish beauty giggled for my foolish naivety,
for I had not seen my cherishing in any its braverity.

Seconds, seconds, seconds...

The seconds each breed for themselves great anticipation for so long, with such intense anxiety, merely to be vanquished, evaporating instantaneously. Each clamor of the clock's hands, each miniscule tremor that does sieze one of them, is the very epitome of dismay, for where so quickly did that second in which that quiver manifested itself depart? The moment discintigrated without hesitation and without warning, and the moment is always, always gone. For when does a second last more than a second? No second radiates more fulfillment than any other; all seconds are perfectly equal in their hollow architecture, their imminence, their inevitable, rapid leave. And, oh, tell me that second was not birthed in vain nor did it seep into the abyss of nothingness that is its perishing in vain- surely it was not of any lesser significance than any other second, now was it? Oh, tell me the death was not waved off, neglected, brushed into the oblivion one does imagine, and thus establish, making alive this place of nonexistance, so that nothing is something.
How long must one second gravely bare its burden of waiting? How long must a second wait to be stemmed by another's death- for how long must a second endure the guilt of knowing so many other seconds must die for it to exist- for it to be born? How long must a second worry for its own death? For only a second? Or for every second that must die before it as well? This line of seconds is neverending; death is neverending. Rebirth is neverending. The cycle is of pain and joy so long as the seconds' existance is celebrated, so long as the seconds' deceasing is not halted.

I am a rag

I am but a wethered rag
seething in my rage
for when there is another rag
still my employment is engaged.

Scrub my face into the grime
that did not come from me,
Scrape my wrinkles all the time
to make not myself clean.

Crumple me and soak me now
in your murky water til I drown.
Until again I am revived
and again I'll grimly frown.

{...

Detachment gradually seeps beneath the eyelids whose gaze is twisted into percieving all that was once so lauded now in a light uncanny in its ability to ascertain the bitterness bore of the dismal and bleak absence of legitimate significance. The eyes flutter only to permit the mind to administer to itself its vital dosage of what must indeed be reality, and reality is without hope, without exaltation, without the radiance it once so beamed with and granted life meaning with. What catalyzed this despairing, morbid conversion? What wrested life's beauty and, in turn, the prizes of gratitude and astonishment for that now extinct but once thriving, intricate artistry?
The touch of another..had been the most astounding ecstasy. Its utter magic had cajoled the expectancy for its constant repetition and for it to incite only more enormous enthusiasm each moment it would again happen. Though withered has not only the expectancy become, but the joy as well. The anticipation fell as did the occurences, and the elation perished next for the fret that getting one's hopes up yet again would prove as virulent a mistake as it had before, for it must now certainly be recognized that everything is eventually terminated or does slowly discintigrate, and when the end appears, when the start and the middle have decayed and it is plain the speed at which all is dying cannot by any means be reversed nor paused, one must face the loss of their elation's source, and such a despairing task can have its difficulty diminished only by one having recieved less joy from the source.

Yeah, stupid, whatever, too wordy

I. As the silhouettes of the meek, gently sloping hills were birthed when the sun had stemmed from the depths of what could have only been pandora’s box, their outlines merged across the pure sky whose whimsical blue had been weathered and eventually dismantled by the emergence of sunbeams that had claimed for the air a new color, a mesmerizing, sizzling yellow that had foreshadowed next the arrival of the king that was the sun, and it had floated up in a divine levitation to address its kingdom that was Earth. All the while, the stunted pinnacles of each hill were blurred and molded this way and that as the light beams were indecisive artists.
Beneath the ascending sun, this horizon seemed to quiver and pulsate in expectant anticipation of some sudden release of eccentric exhilaration that would strike the atmosphere with no less subtlety than a strong puncture being administered quickly into a delicate shard of glass, inducing intense fractures that would cleave the glass into a myriad of fragments. But no such abruption of energy was to seize or manipulate any fraction of the cloudless sky. Though lacking such a rapidly bestown dosage of surging enthrallment, the abyss of pastel blue blotched by vibrant yellow that consumed, with the hunger of a fervent wildfire, every particle not somehow bonded with the earth, invaded one’s senses and rejuvenated them in some ritual of rebirthing that does inevitably capture one upon the obtaining of the satisfaction that accompanies the embracing of a final decision, the decision to dismiss the temptation of sleep and, with great courage and determination and optimism, to immerse one’s self utterly into the rhythm of reality and the melody of familiarity, its unrelenting but often consoling consistency as durable and soothing as the certainty that another wave will always collapse upon and be dissolved into oblivion by the ocean’s shore, forever and without any hesitation from which the ignition of doubtfulness could originate.

Liarrrr

Oh, how fucking humorous. The rapid rate, treacherously flaming in a virulent pace that intends to approach no less than the grimy, ghastly face ablaze of Satan's poisionous lechery, the deceitful malace that twists and contorts and ultimately renders all that reigns in divine glory a distortion, a smirking mirage of disillusion, all for the sake of worshipping one's ego, for one who yearns to weave the religion that lauds and wails the precious songs of sacred exaltation for one's self and one's self alone; for one whose might quivers beneath no king and bends for no authority but that one's own; for one who yields to no law but that which was founded on that one's terms, terms which endeavor to construct no shelter nor gratitude for any other but that one; for one who carves pillars of caniving enthusiasm on which their own sacred wishes, but no others' may rest; for one who clutches to their heart no gems but those which compose their own pleasure and beseech no granting of pleasure unto any other, is the one who molds the path by which the glory of righteousness and mercy are sped down til terminated in the eyes of any audience unwitting of the origination of the righteousness as it is morphed by some demonic mirror into a scathing portrait of maniacal irony, the apex of its core's very opposition, blinding in its decieving viel of malicious darkness, whose depths appear, to the anxious onlooker, ever shallow as is the lust of the architect responsible for the betrayl.

deceit

The viel of Satan looms
over gritty, ugly fumes,
the vapors of the malicious,
neath the canopy ever vicious.

The painting, in sacred intensity,
does dispell eccentric sensitivity,
as the allure cannot a horror bear;
what but charm does the vision wear?

Jovially does the beholder
of the falsity fall so,
unwitting of the kindling
of for him eternal woe,
as while the seeping starlight
does bend the lines of reason,
beneath the singing sight
is a triumphant treason.

to crystallize the second

Does one always endeaver
to crystallize the second?
To clutch the clock's rapid hands
and fixate upon the moment?
And marvel at its gleaming craft,
the pattern of its puzzle,
why cannot one dismiss time's grasp
and against the stillness nuzzle?
If one could savor eternity
in one second of one day,
if one could wrest the fertility
of life with time tossed so away,
could not the bewitching glory
of the sullen silence of pure existance
clean of the ticking folly
of seconds consistent in persistance
uncloak the anguish of life,
dismiss its degredation,
restore the vivaciousness of youth,
revive the affirmation
of consecration?

Innocent love

Eerie is the tune of love,
too unpredictable a haven,
and striking and quick as the cherished dove,
but ugly and fiesty as the raven.

Its melody is murmured, muffled,
resonating in the ears of youth,
and these ears of disillusion shuffle
the truth of inevitable rebuke.

The pure and expecting mentality
nurtures a notion too naive,
beholds a love eternally
too innocent by all means.

Exquisite may be the hearth constructed
in minds with no fantasy constricted,
though what does cleave the treasured dream,
but lone growing age so it would seem.

The gift

Had the soul been granted
the most precious gift
or the foulest filth?
For the gift..
spoiled as it had claimed it never would.
And the soul was stricken with disease
that the rotted gift had spread to it.
The soul was punished
for accepting the gift.

Tricked heart

The heart was love and lust,
but mostly selfishness.
And when love it was given,
the heart devoured the delightful dish.
But the heart yearned for excess,
for all love that did exist,
but the heart was granted no more,
but torture in place in the blissful dish.

Time Vs. Loss

Many times the sun and moon,
ever trustworthy, rose and fell,
but could not in any amount
ever the despair of loss dispell.

What disappointment

The efforts from me drained
constructed what but disdain
for in all my words concocted
is lone the failure I've adopted.
Each articulation once of joy
proves now merely a cruel decoy.
Pretty was but petty,
obscured by falsity;
Pride was all disgrace,
behind a fragile face.