Steep of grievance
Your lift is softly parallel, and twisted be thy fingertips. Tyrant, and tangent, for each written letter, and twice some other. Am I blind to the beauty my own, to the views of another?
Perhaps I’m a friend of Philosophy’s, be then thy lover? Not be there many fears? And might my lonely musings, artful choosings, cometh, at once, to take far death from me? And must I rest, and must I sleep, and must I quest, and must I sink, to dream, of the ever many?
Heaven will be but only greater, for my having in my hands its soft expectancy. Ashamed is the unclothed moon, who gives but just a half of he, and only shows his back to me. The sun that rises, lifts above the city structures, many structured caves (with his violent delights, and his taste for the summer). Human is the moment of surrender. Against ourselves, we hang the slanted moon — with its ivory pearl, and a canvas of ebony;
Orbital falling to earth, with his silence, and speed, and the violence and vacuum of space! With time, replace the lofty poets, modern, graceful dreamers. The written guides, who glide along the nightly skies, cherished poets never die. Murder, Caine, and Abel, scenes of the things divine, when spills thy fine divinity!
Mindless, and screaming, like children, we turn in the face of reason. The human knows the end of the self begins as what it seems. Plato told us most and clear, that man can traverse the darkness, if only for a moment, the secular scene, a canvas for many the happenings.
Man sees his face on the face of the sea. Concept reflects from the image of he. When the seasoned vessel puts his lonely husk against the rocks, downwards, the peril in his ship will flood the sea — ocean as victim, and victim as thee, the sinking, selfless spectacle. Downwards, always, thy cumbersome moon, who stares at the object of his face, and sees, still there, the ocean of meaning. His lone reflection: conscious recognition.
To be a poet, and sing of thy beauty, and often, to the self, as if the poet’s duty. To wait with the dreaming, of hope and of rain, when thunder from under her wing, it became, so few are they driven with purpose! When truly he plays with his wings and his tongue, and gifted the poet becomes.
No one wants to be a poet, painful be thy poetry. And noxious is thy patience waiting, hapless sorrow, overtaken. Still is he with sorrow, still with pain. Thy essence needs to bleed and cave, beneath thy distant lover’s grave, or life inside of conscious cave, must have its human slave, and miserable occupant! Gravity draws near to our every sin, with an essence of evil, which purged him then from thine ripe Eden, and be him now away.
The body cures infection from the wind. Thy violent fever comes, to visit home when Death should come. No poet be a tempered soul, but distant, hopeless dreaming! Wisdom is always the better, with lesser a value, the whole, dividing its parts and defining the soul. Completion, have I had thee long since waiting, feeding for survival? Within the course of meaning, earth, and man’s arrival, this, his genius, be, thy steep of grievance.
