We walked through the pine forest, young, forever living in
the memory I still hold on to, looking for places to kiss our dreams, in
enchantment with magical truths hidden in the veils of consciousness. A creek,
barely running at all, from that hot summer, ran next to me, trees, arms in love,
swinging branches, faces, talking forms of lunatic youth. Now the tendency to
live in this scene, holds on to my vision center, where my third eye marvels at
the creation of imaginary lusts, never seen, but felt, and closing the door to
put all that nonsense to shame. This may sound a little discouraging to the
twenty somethings, but it gets worse, much worse, physically, but the authority
to now comment or even muse on mortality is justified with experience, and ages
of beauty in their eyes, having lived like a rock star, an academic, a square,
a student, a salesman, a teacher, and seen all turn to dust again, as it always
does, but legacy is in the words saved for prosperity. And I have the tendency
to drift alone inside the taste of sweet marriage with the evergreen forest,
just behind my house, a hill, more of a mountain, with her double, transparent
figure, in my outward design to grab this thing again, and move it through the
canvass of my choice in illusion, for under the umbrella of any omnipotent
being, the deception of choice is apparently too obvious to see.
There was a third figure among us that day, for some time,
passing through us, lighting up the bedrooms, where we would leave all to
shame, as the practicing crafts remains upon the wall, hanging upon a coat
rack, aged man, paltry thing. Turbulent
gyres of visions of the world and spirit, in between the lines of the sponge,
soaking up moisture of the past, to wring out on the mirrored reflections of
the prismatic self, always hidden in mystery of what you are to this world of emerald
tapestries, perforated with light from the August skies, the most troubling
time for all miracles to ponder existence every now and again. I wake up to the
grand illusion, and paint my mind according to prescience to follow these old
dreams to wherever they go. This could be anything you want to believe, but
lucid clarity may not be hiding any truths.
Hold the ears of martyrs, thorns and talking about the shadows seen at
night, this becomes a sweet pulsar jangling in guitars, to the way back home to
some Irish meadow, spread out to the sea.
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