Whichever Man
Whichever Man
Beyond the window there is a stripping of the mind to the other side. Lost to the lost-world of pain, it gives way to blasphemy then begging.
It's not a touching side as yet but soon my dear sweetness soon, the branches say as they scratch away at the paint, you shall be real to me in the twilight and twisting in the wind.
Outside a variable hard to calculate to the mood of emotions. Many a fool has found no holdings without risk, without affection there can be no learning...this is the process to knowledge.
The footsteps is the whispering to the inner sanctum one cannot deny. The flavor worth the satisfaction in locked jaws a fate one must accept this to survive or just die completely.
Hard Whiskey harder men drink, some for clarity and some for the comfort in forgetting. Yet others dead and dying body and soul one the same.
Shadows a kissing stranger dine in hunger to the night. The owl says he shall watch no longer the sacred sights, and the wolf give up its howls forever.
This is a soloists journey of but a few, to the many. About the waist is my living space, where I reside my inner thoughts my muse to move to.
The lover left, has brought about confusion in all its many states of mind. I shall speak to you of far off things, magical by design with just my hollowed out eyes... sharing as if we together once more...in dreams...many dreams.
You'd feel the turbulence to the touch an aching only you'll know from satisfaction. It's all held in the eye sockets. Eyes now home to blackness and snakes, death the viprous thing killing in coagulation not wanted but a given.
You blink which says to me one more time if you please, you need to quake one more time...before you sleep.
Holding oneself a must for a sanctuary, by oneself the consolation in the tippytoed dance always upon my head.
I feel the fingers working as the chime strikes midtone and pealing, a rhythm to the rhythm it is in your step beyond my sight but all is clear to me now.
The taste of the goodly offering shall waiting to the hard floor and moaning to the arched ceiling then scratching floor mine to bear.
Tomorrow as many before, shall come with a vengeance in the dust storm and violent end. A full circle kind of thing wanting and yet not, drinking yet parched, found and yet lost once again.
The whichever man there watching the wraith dancing upon his head from the beyond from his window.
Why do I still have sight being the embodiment of emptiness ? I now live in the other realm of death as a certainty.
She my wondering soul will cry the river to shorelines of the unforgotten, love the master for remembrances, one gone and the other holding dearly to the ashes left in her hands.
By Renee Bousquet
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