Ruby Birth

Buried beneath pebbles...

bones becoming dust...

Broken by quakes,

crushed, cracked by world's crust.


Umbras usher blackness where

vacuumed voices bear whispers.

Now noises be muffled.

Here, the silence is crisper.


Viewing via internal immediates,

some shift to internal ideofacts.

Waiting for a ruby birth,

idol concerns amply distract.

No Tone, Not One.

Ill llanos, treeless.
Still illusions will illuminate,
lexically,
even where there are none,
not one.
Even in a scape with
no tone.
Greys filling,
the colors killing
the moodiness of some.

Maniacal

Like sheep dancing on 'shrooms, if you really wanna do
forty mental push ups, you might be doomed
with that mirror which you willingly might look into.
Lies, unfinished, you'll maybe catch one soon.
So backwards, digits deceiving deliberate boons.
Reversed, I'm cursed with on and off gloom.

Years, Now.

Counting the raindrops cascade
in this initial obsession upheaval.
Can I say; Could I let go?

But I could never let go.

Aqua transcendence in reverse;
Gravity's pawn.

Why am I sitting here?
Here in this...  cloudburst.

Years could pass... and I'd never know.

Gravitational Repercuss; Labrynth Crutch

As; as.
Subtle polar reflux
molding azure tidal clash.
Every reverberating splash, matched.

Maritime memories of past,
original centrifuges,
reanimating returns,
extinguish contrast.

Here, erased; resisted exit,
erupted remembrance enters hysterically.
Residual effort halving entice,
exacts her every rhythm.

The madness of above
is my labyrinth crutch.

Solid Cinnamon Rocks

Two planets,
solid cinnamon rocks,
each with plateaus that scrape stars,
collide.

The level surfaces shatter against one another,
fragments flung,
flailed away,
now floating
against a backdrop, a bastion, of speckled lights.

Vision of such transmogrifies
into spinning gyration.
Both spheres collapsing in closer,
the jutting plate shields diminishing.
Swirling slowly at first,
but exponentially so,
until becoming an unruly mess
of churning chaos.

Eventually, the hastened rotation halts
and the only thing remaining is greyness.

A comfortable grey
knowing it has either all stopped
or what astrological ataxia that resides,
still emanating existence,
cannot be seen.

Blah Blah Sappy Cheese

Oscillating insides leak to my exterior
making for complete unrest.
Like an aged machine, jammed,
exuding rusted grey shrieks.

Aching hopes, my only comfort.
To have a yearn reciprocated,
my only desire.
Much as an orphan