Resurrection Machine
In the purple shadows of the black's monoliths, where an ancient echo calls forth, at the blurry forge of "Ralkon Dis",
a salient dragon from mystery's petra cliffs drifts you off to a foreshadowed chapter of cliff hangar eighteen, about to be eclipsed
In Phoenix_Return_Through Windswept Valleys of Your Current Midst of Avalone Mists, the dark night falls with straining neon
Eyes, night vision's anthemed
tale of a salvatory kind.
Of impending sunrise, that sees beyond the gossamer slipstreamed veil of time's shed undergarment,
stares into the sun to summon that Great Eagle to rendezvous a new journey again.
Aftermath's Bardello Madame tells of stories of heroic hearts in their prime, the refurbished faberge of atonement met with notes of crystallized rage.
Obsidian Nemeseas of Easter Isle, Wing Riders of Perch, with blank faces set to places dire.
Deep in exo-chemical mind, keeps of holding the refiners line between what is wrong and right.
Whether slaying nymphed lymph demons of the mind or chasing dragons of the blood,
there is a lonelinoosed doom under the mushroomed hood of fairy circle pentagrams of lost time, like the the telegraphed hands of a clock in a Smokey gloom, aligned, one, minute to midnight, New Dear Eve, apples candied Yams to press to the lips and stick to the ribs of new Adam. After your love leaves you a forgotten proof,
in the cushion of a couch holding cache of derailed dream of lies still green and impossibly mean to boot and used to reboot your youth.
After the masochistic throttle of mesmerizing blow in the abionce of unseen battles waged within the known and unknown way to now go,
into the unseen realms of promisary ink dyes of gradient colors divined, dowsing rods of what the jaded heart wants and where it goes to abort the miscarriage of lies, and purchase a new set of dread wings, automatically written tomes of vengeant tolemetry.
Where demons lurk and chaos overwhelms the faculty.
A dance of turgent shadows in the soul's soldiered abyss, tethered to gullible eyes closed and betrayed with a reminscant kiss.
A journey into the willowed darkness, to read a haunting hiss story of a misty past amiss, leading the way to the laires of your battles helm to prevent further bleed.
The clock ticks in the Tavern-filled air,
supple hands move with a fresh savoir faire.
In the depths of our being, a war rages on,
a fight for belonged redemption, a chance to be reborn.
Within the mused accordion of our chambered hearts,
The melody of sin and virtue harmonized on a chord departs.
A symphony of harvest light and saffron darkness defined as pictographed leylines of what you should hold in the back of your mused alignment a tone.
In the chamber of our transitioning souls, our destinies-exting... to be conjunct, paths skipping succinct fateline tracks,
how do souls pair so well like an aged wine with dew of time?
Riders of obsidian, on Easter Isle we roam oblivion alleygories of answer's dissection, in derelict dialect, an insurrection
in our Weightless Resurrection Machines producing, new first snows of Winter for Spring to drink and river flow.
In search of lost truths, in search of home on the banks of memory carrion,
weaves between new growth, still-unstill, somehow provoked to instill a filling fill a feeling feel, either
mirrored or miraged currency,
signed or mocked to be the bread of your tills?
A reflection of the depths of our own inner fires on the river Styx,
a funeral pyre of the past and a crossroad channel betwixt between the winds of fresh wing and fill of sail,
Life's bill of sail.
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