04 December 2015

ews - waylayers

so bright, i have having done since closed my yes, so tincture of the mind, scandalous rapture, breaking disasters, somewhat disliking thje rain, desolate choices of slovenn rejoices that I wshall have to tell you again, i made a field and trimmed the grass by hand, each blade i carried like my fashion to dalliance tarried thru the desert and the ocean and the snow, in the precence of the heart of a star, i drink emotions and lie about my age like a river of rain attacking the ocean for the semblance of shade in the midnighty day the tempest denssest wave, the wind of familiar thoughts the price of temerid loss the way that migration sleeps beside the shores while it climbs aboard the mountain where is the warrior of the peak in the frozen light, a diamond sky and worlds across the bifrost, in the ground i push my thoughts and to banish all the roots that hate the way i sleep, of what i keep, and i take down all the leaves and pout them there;

i crawl thru the leaves like raven thinking about to many ravens as if a knife was sullenly craven that the, hands need talons while the sickness seeks a balance in the hoarfrost and rime allocated accosted, their accustomed, until the lifeless are craling like the dead, that feeding on thoughts not their own had them grown of fatigue, and the dead as well are the races of hell and i sit like a feather of sharpened silver a collection of birds called knives in the trees that sound like their name, and for the ending of twilight for the mourning to feast there should leave by the least a new garden of the knots and colors of sometihing else without staving what the seeds were somedays craving to  fall from the first tree to feed on the burning in darkness to the winds of forgotten silence to grow on the trails of furrows the sings of lost time and the forest of shadows that i spoiled and will follow to mention my first death, a time to go longer where so many eager stronger to ask why the better were cold had they seen as things passing go faster or the cyclical wires the thrasher by the piercing rains of solar disaster make this a fire of the souls;

these are mysteries breaking to the devestation of the vision by this i mean the missing from a new, i might beg the difference for suppsed and lofty thriving biolence and ad-living, there are replicants, and supplicants, and dedicants and stones, where fire and space find river throwing styx and taking soul, when the journey is outnuimbered have long winners to've gone home, wasted this time on the indolent and savage while the work will break my bones screaming reticence and ravages will take the window of a throne, making pretty words of wisdom by measure and wroth and tone, convince to the same weakest symphony that i was not to be undone, and a song and up and down the typing judgement on the stones make me sick to feel the death of me like it shouldn't leave again, i cannot remember the one who was smoke and fire i was better off, and still i know not what it was, make me better to the bloodshed my sweet ignorance of love, tell the clergy of the nonsense that i am proud and lo hungrier, to that it is a mountain made of wind and leaves than made of what is something on its own, for the summit stands to greet you when you walk so long,

a wall of the second darkness, just a memory, never question hatred and voiceless, not hidden but this and uncertain there would will be a valley of broken bones as had been once already, blasphemy and threnody i will make meteors of emptiness and empires of will, startestry of fantabulousness time apart, i had not the thought to have forgotten hate, and had, i had better eat with out them then within them feed the hell, like this convo for amongst them shall they list-about at the knell, swords of fire chains of poison, rains of brass-colored petals, chimes of bones and teeth and skulls, the mirrorseems like it haunts them, there are never any stories where the like would turn to war, a safer prison has to stalk them, and their hearts will taste like rage and the grace will take my cage and i could sleep, i see it is the days of endless dusk and the glares when clearwater pools have valleys of theirs, i shouldn't have mistakened your slumber for my waking but there's no one keeping score, we could say it isn't sleeping, but who'd vouchesafe there won't be more