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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Should we shed the boy and be a man? Shoot of spirit wild -to be tamed in the tamed land. Where is the proof that this cynical evolution; this cyclical passthrough is a strengthened constitution. A blur and a blink of vision to the dreams' vantage point perception and stance. Mustn't we give this their attention, and deficient disorder seasoned by times eroding sands. If we let them take him, no one will notice, be none the wiser be none but poulticed by deaths quieter slumberbed. Host-aged to the sin-drome traitor entrenched into muddled waters. A hostage to the devil. To his whispers of black become an indoctrone form, enemy to that wonder of Mother, female, daughter, engazed, inborn. A sympathizer, throwing the game, into the hex-index of antimatters' electron dissect. Enticed become, into the indice into the game of bones, cup and hollow shell lifted to reveal nothingness. Shone as the wage of the worlds ruby, a worn counterfeit headdress. The apparel, shewn down destructions fashion of show. The runway of fraud and its front of mystery-box guessing against what you already know. Undress from the clad garb; cast aside what you once wore, as your identity's mask, armored brace-pole ceeded to this brave new iconoclast. Shed your former foliage as if it wasn't the guiding shape to which you owe. You were potted in the forage, of homes nurturing music, and transplanted among the forlorn. A noise swallowed hole. Cutting your teeth at the mill of its grinding. Cut by this pseudo-sunny disposition left to die in the storm of apathy looming. Of greenhouse glass world and its ring of stones, thrown by those binding molds, molded by age, of those words bought, sold. Now desperately in forage, of the memories of better days. Gasping in the air grasping at strawmens way. Pulling apart any semblance, resemblance remembrance of youthful day. Believe you now those abetting hedge of foundation against cornerstones. Forget your roundtable code of newly christened warrior of womanborne. Turn against the tit of sustenance. Be ye turned, by doubts' facet overcast onto dreams undone. Be an old man spirit seeking again the path lit of rays' kaleidoscope, its banded wave of faucet of warmth; turned off, like a broken spicket, cog, sprocket, socket. Deeply layed hands, are these devious hands; green thumbs of eye gougers, killers of hungers light-moth; extinguishers of the quest for fire; of magic; Avalon; Camelot. By and by seeding a guilt of failed expectation moreover the expectant delivery of changed direction, master plans silt to cover. So then let the Father take hold of the memory of a spirit wild. The unjaded-bold, the inner child. Embrace, reclaim that one sourceseed of innocence of the youth, of old. Yes that one. That spark that flames of the original, sconced_urn. Look back at self and stare into his young face in turn, that of the Progenitor, retrograde that passion burn.
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