Let it die.

Turn away from the resuscitations there

the dream warrants the saplings, she

in the lithology of life, the posies leach in mother’s touch, stands

retracted in the tears from the ocean, weeping in the enchant as

I feel the shame of the eventide; the last breath to the inhabited throes of the shore if

swallowed in the vanity of torpor, a slumber to the tower of ice in the stars alive

Early dark.

In our face like waves, receded with flickers
That are evasive in our bones with ferity
Void of discovering dreaming, these fluencies
In evocative tremors, prospering the pigweeds
In the fallen dusk arcs upon the belts of snow,
Appearing to crawl, swaddled within a darkroom
In the depths of your mind

Valhalla. (Prose)

It is in the beige evening by the willows and a café restaurant with the golden leaves and their shards on the grounds, covered in a cleansed rain. It is in the illumination of shatters that broke beyond the pale sky that not only writhes among itself, but will be only among a frail sight like memory, a seed into the dead fruit of tree.

I’ll Remember.

As I touch the river that trembles upon my weak sunlit torrents upon a gentle lick of lilac,
And I shiver upon the pale wisteria of the eventide like a wounded deer,
For I wonder upon the dark lavender skies, and their cracked gentle weeping rivers
That glint upon the surface below the Acrylic golden trees, and their blossoming tormented thunders