finger prints in condensation. fade revealing the liquefied sand, and it's warped reflections. i close my eyes.Your intuition is always with you, You are guided by the freckles on your skin like stars in the sky Smile at the wind as it blows by, Let your eyes mist like waterfalls and softly land on that which you love, Let your soul flow like a river upon the thirsty ground of the self, Allow your art to be un-wrapped and consumed with pleasure, By a child who with chocolate is in love.Time twists and contorts my mind, While words take me to another place, Get me running at a different pace, Their tiny glass beads, From a larger mental space, Not defined by race, But space and time, A conversation of your cultures mind, Your own personal manufacturing Saying that, I’m not saying everything. It’s for those of us that have detached over time, But yes, the conscience, we have control over our minds, Caught and confined, Under this black smog, A veil of our own choosing, From repetitive imagery we are never free. Without a sound, another slips to the back of your crown, To haunt your dreams and distort your wands, But for those of us who have forgotten to listen, To wisdom of the body thinking, To say the wisdoms of silence, I need words, But I have already drowned out that experience, By standing in this space, This noisy city place.A wolf whispered to me his tail, A tale of a spider that build a silver soft rose, And said he was but the sharp thorn, Sighing a deep river of words, Around a small bellbird, Who in actuality was nothing but a desired blue bird, I knew of her She was tying herself to the story of a nightingale, A wind from nowhere blew moving the moon with its secrets, The king from the tale was but in the bluebirds head, Is what the wind had politely and gently left unsaid. But the spider knew that’s why the rose was not painted red, It was gently covered in dew, For no tears can fall from a spider’s head. Smiling shallow with lusterless eyes, Until she flew again, In far away but seeable skies. Come lets tie beauty, Into ugly things, Until they are but one thread he said, With the sick kind of knowledge, That it was he who had done the untying. But knowing is the key, To a twisted and unbent neck, Lying in the gap between the meaning and what was unsaid.Get your layout on
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