The scatter black past tip-toes redundance
echoing in the ears of the tentative listener
unwillingly affixed in the eye of the sound.
I am a blazing son within the wrath of a fiery matriach;
she is circumference,
a tumultuous rhythm of reversly-charged enjoyment,
the negative inference,
the concrete societal pulse,
that primordial embedded culture-prison,
that evasive lure illogic-prism.
Seeds are dusted off for growth
(the evolution from extraction)
thus, a grain of hope,
as frail as threads of spider webs,
is endowed to one last shred
of mating sun to watered rope...
"Grow little one, grow and give us life again."
The lifeless chap of Earth
enslaved by current's breath
utters movement from its lips
as vague and dry as its arid counter-wind.
They dance with Kachina masks
Feel the whip of the solar singe
flex their feet to the sounds of drums
and feed themselves to the skies;
they pray for rain.
They are the vacant,
the 'cease to exist' without the merge,
for to germinate with rot
they are the plan that happens not,
the heat that burns the spot,
the ever-ending plot,
diminished from the lot of light,
without the water to fuse the fight -- for life.
I meditate holding the reach of Art
washing in the silver-white;
my eyes reflect with closed skin;
I swallow the pride of my yin-generant source
afflicted with the grief
of what has not, exactly, the power to change
but the power to destory within.
Her mind embeds and mates with my beliefs;
finally, she is patience, shallow breaths retained,
deep focused thoughts of centered-frame;
she is hearing the words I uttered many times
for the first time.
I slow to vocalize the pace of softness,
steadiness, and halcyon-logic:
"I am a man encircled by the gates of Hell;
they stand to criticize my loss of self
that which cleansed itself, I did, of gain:
the fall of greedsome-clutch of Pater's rein.
I shuddered once in view of they;
the longing ones who claimed the rain,
galvanized by the finite drops
whose current yields the life of day.
And here I sit,
a palm annexed to my stark surroundings,
ear to nano-tones of stress
perplexed in what I should arrest,
your sanction of attempts
to mar the mind against the truth
of which entails and runs the risk,
the proof our lives should not exist
in fashions like the one that sticks -- to failure,
depletes the rest of even ration,
shrouds the world in droughts, in floods...
to leaves those starved and kissed by death...
how could you complain while gravity insists to press?
Though we might abide with this sufferable acquisition, truly,
we are imagining this plight for light, the waste, or wait for liquid life;
we are the light of closed eyes projected
tunneled through the psychic spectrums...
we are in need of what was once,
to return to that which was and is
the true and better part of bliss."
I press the button,
end the pitch,
settle down in my success,
and listen to the hum of hearts parade to the beat of the sun.
They dance with Kachina masks
and feel the whip of the solar singe,
flexing their feet to the sounds of drums,
feeding themselves to the skies;
They pray for rain.