Unquiet Light.

Pseudopsychosis.

When the hand lays on sights, dead,
That collapsed dust from earlier time,
That acceded some time beyond the winds, lead
With the lining, cried at first breath.
Doth the rooms that kiss the gold of night
As when the mutters of veiled chance
Bested the light that silence commended, strife,
As the rivers bound to death as the unquiet light.
When thy heart withers at unborn tears,
Beyond the dressing of the sea, condemned
By the forthright waves that wallow sails
And willow them too, no more from a valley dale,
The rivers that reflected the moon
That dream for light to chill the dell
And when among the intone, it broods and dwells,
The everlasting song, thy unrest that shines the wells,
That laid the dirge of the last sight,
With unrest from the earlier time (which is change),
With the lining, alive, above a river of dead…

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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

My Hope Arises.

And I pray, inclined to the retired hues of sandhills, The moon had lowered its light to my hands, As though I was passed by its shadow, never forgotten, When the dark dusk covers the squill, a pack of doctrines Laid memory in sight, emaciated by the mercy, The cries caressed my overlapped palms to the words I impart As these alone could not touch me.

Mid-Dream.

Winter beats the cold orchids into the wind that is frail as bone, Where memory passed darkly as the ocean-white dream That is the faint mesa that trails of rocky red in the sun-set, Which is the winter mid-dream on a night of silence, my sorrow again, That will dwell in faint winds during the late dawn Blinded by the hyacinth that gave silence within the moorland