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Forsaken Art

and back and forth into forever it swings the penduluum with force , round the tables

ancient fables, foiled again by the course, laid to the waste the nothingness in flames

and found all out to be remorse, could only begin to falter the singing songstress it

seams the edges frayed the hood ain't clean the streets just are not safe, no, not at all

and when we go we go nought to find it again find me nought at the bitter thought of

a broken man with better plans to be made for a date on a grave in a garden sinking

from all of this rain this horribell weather it is just like it was back then, never a friend

always afraid, and, like the songstress seams the melodies for the harmony sung by

a fiend, that nightengale is a wicked fiend you fiend! i see it now the rounding out it

as a prowl the horde of theives moves forward, standing aligned in front of the mind

the cave the slave the roaring temple of fire made from out of nothingness a slight

flame it shall not be in vain, shall it be? i wouldn't not know my right from my left nor

left to write the manuscript, where was it again, that treee, that suicidal mystery creeping

round thickets thorns wearing lambskin and praying for, damsels in distressed jeans, I

couldst say it again! it is a vast vision encapsulated by a mindless drop of dew suspended

on a grassleaf in the garden somewhere grouing anew, somewhere effervescently new words

i am not a dictionary, nor have I the time against the sand counting grains for spider's veins

like legs wrapped up in chimes, making all of this, this horribell noise ringing out down the

hall, playful things they are, legs of the spider's and eyes of the serpentine rings for chains

mirrored shadow wasting away hopelessly the romantic slip of the theives upon glass plates

crashing through the best part of the play standing upon the stage held lightlessly, it, the

compass, opening up, swirling the emptiness with literal nuances of time twisting at each

thought and in each thought twisted another missed vision just barely couldst it be caught

upon the lips of a deader tongue closing it all up quicklier than a sandy bum, is that why she

is carrying an umbrella, twas just a rainfall upon the jousted cadaver, propped up beneath

the windows seat with arms all a'chatter, yeilding not to the viscious law, muddy boots, in a

room such as this, so designed and masterfully decorated as to be the whisperwill of a child

kingly at the walk, and evermoreso gently he speaks like a vast ocean smoothing out the

surface of the sheets, this bed, this wood, do you see it here now, you absolute fool! this

is where the sleep of dreams the dreams of sleep the life of death the death of everything

all in flames the words they create scripture from the curtains burning down round wings

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