V

black

(loonar)

250,000 miles away, his shadow still fits perfectly in. at least the moon shows ivory. His smiles few and far apart, occasions for such niceties even more sparse. at least the moon shows that thin crescent of white, on either side of the cycle. pitch black if he sits back, sifts back, patterns of ills wherever he rests and thinks at. rooftop, knoll, porch, stained glass, pane everywhere. at least the moon shines bright, like, its the very center of his universe. accurate. his animal spirit if you wish. too similar. dark surfaces, disillusioned to be light and, gravitational pull, causing tides and, bare all, nair side, tuned out, pharcyde plans. he in his pensive feels like 4.5 million years of sin, about right. silent howls, calling out to better, higher, bigger than him. time is running away, each day, each night, 18th, responsibility and decisions nigh. ethereal how connected he feels. ebony, ivory, he smiles at the familiarity. dark side, lost cries. 

perspective

 

w

Dont shoot me down ma, 

Because I cant exactly expalin the ills of the feels of the eels that slither around this decision. Quick, sliver another line, the one youre threading on is far too thin, have you ever thought of the falling off? The fall is on like another summer waisted in your own tissues, wailing like free nyky! O'nion, nights are longer but that still dont mean the stars align like Orion. Old iron, these bars are aged aches the heart to know of such. Steady pacing waiting, wake me if parole's ready. sentence after sentence intense more in depth more indebted to myself.. i've said, screw it all, what's the sense, nothing is write like all typed, succumb, surrender. God as a witness there is hope. 

the unreal. One in a million, 7 billion, resting as if everyday was the seventh. Work. 

Reap of it. Reams of it. Reek of it. Leek of it. Third eye back to this very night, righting this very wrong, and ridicule the past ills of the feels of the eels that slither around the decision... That i took.  

what exactly are rules?

Coin vol. 5

Not face value.

The rose, the quintessential flower. The face of things of (the heart). The color of love, the color of blood. Pain and content one in the same. The most familiar and with time grossly underrated plant planned by God to be the face of the garden, i see God in ya. The sign of the valen- times, valiant effort to quell the mutiny, muted angst and amped frustration, the flora is negated. 

Cue the Canna. He likes things 'different'. Volume 2 of the minikui, strange fruits hanging from the edge of his wavelengths. Self centered and misunderstood. Self-served into his likelihoods. The weird appeals, then fear of being too opposite to act as if he operates in the realms of the normality. Thought, manifest of the the same. 

Lillies and orchids and lotuses and tulips. All flowers, all to leave (this earth for). All striving to be, the most uniquely described, the pommerac of the eye, he sees. But this is chosen recognize the worth golden, unspoken rhetorics rest in quiet and growing, admiration of the very special and delicate, with the gift of outside and inside eyes, studied as a subject, flow wrists, canna the instrument of an uncommon affection, predicate. 

Not many flowers bloom at the water's horizon, but the elements of the scenery make it just as scenely as Eden'd be. She sells him sails by the surety of a blossoming liking, the unique formation and texture and look and sensation of what he twirls like the whole world is in his hands. The very stone, throws close to home. Pocketed like a pool, encapsulated by the fabric of instant and also deep lying fascination, and in his mindstate, safe there, like combinations of his brain where, cay cay, key, lock.

Twisted as his thoughts may be, accept thst he believes MH370 is somewhere safe and sounds like the aforementioned self sent her to realize his enigma. Afflicted as his eyes mighht be, conceive his visions, the closest rumors to a lost soul undone. 

In a crowd of people he cares not of, only once would concern be given, for the plant, the rock, the spirit he's fond, a strange swan. Wands are for fairytales, so in real, sparks here and there. Acceptance. Ideals are separate and severed froms sectors of the usual, eyes, deal kindly as such. Grasp no matter the gasp of sharp winds wound and bound to be, cognizant of the the cogs of his ant,ique and not weak standpoint. The hour for Strength. 

MINIKUI AHIRU NO KO TENSAI

Atlas, atlas, at last. The ceiling caves, convex, concave, conclaves of thought forcibly revealed and brought to the fore. One of these things just doesn't belong. A tiger in the woods still be wrong. Punchy drums and country clubs that's a contrast and all of time passes bye like goodnight, Godspeed. Tupperware when supper's near but also slumber. take you along for a ride trade youth alone for these stresses, stretching, elasticity in the blue collar. I bet the dalai has no problems. A commoner standing in a complete circle, staring at all the corners. Cycle. Life life life life life, scythe. Flirt with the sight of the twisted black and white. Hmph. Too much for likings, could've been a lie king but wings far appeal greater. Shred falsities. Detach.