To dust, The old boxes in the attic, the old toys in the basement, they turn to dust as they stay forgotten, the cotton rabbit going rotten. The boxes taped close, as if reopened they'd grow and Molden. the small bed in the room, needing dusting, the frames rusting and the sheets clustering. the pictures turned down, the stand broken and the glass broken, the frame cracked and dusted. The kid in this room loved it, but moved out for peace, getting a lease and building a life, new bed, new pictures, new boxes and new toys for the kids they had themselves, and soon enough that kid's room will dust too. Not in dirtiness but in affection, showing how much it was looked in, slept and cried in, and used. SO if you dust it don't throw out the boxes, don't resell the toys, don't throw out the broken pictures and please don't dismantle the bed, leave it to be, leave the memories fly around, leave it as a museum until the kid comes into that house, picking that same room, using that same bed, ripping those same boxes and playing with those same toys. To dust, is to love.
In the palm of nightforest and rain
I leave imprints on sands ,
my flesh baked by the elements --my nipples and breasts darting towards the sky in full radiance of an alchemy,
where this womb in pure sheen becomes a cradle for ancient offerings:
tangle of thistle and roots sprawl on my bodice , glossed skin rubbed, flamed then offered to gods like mute lamb...
Slipping into this inner glow, I hear again men's whisper of my divine power
hidden within these molden eyes, fierce as sea glass , an amulet designed by Spirit,
my berry lips seemingly chanting of miracles,
of treasures untold...
I lay still among sandbeds and wait,
if chieftains and men would ever know
my heritage comes only from broken refuse of littered stones.
Hideous..! he speaketh. His name was Abe of Jabob.
His tongue was black of Ivory
his skin as florescent as the new moon
Hideous..! he spaketh again, mocking the molden doll, Sally
His eyes curve wide in the threshold of his magnificence--jester?
Oh, no, no, no, no!!!!!
This is Ernest Cumminway, the legendary Jack Sparrow the Skellington's...cousin.
He was still living, living in a molt-town World, where dreams collide of parallel wings that jester you into the Obvious things
And what of his dreams? they dare awaken. Whereas Jack Skellington dares remove his Pumpkin-like skeleton head on that wintery, autumn night. For they live in a world that plays and preys on their sleeping Dreams...or at least it seems...a Sin... They was the fayth of Final Fantasy VII thru IX, amidst 11 and 12 deliver us to neigh.
To meet someone of your perfection, I have beholden
I've seen it in your oculus glass, protecting the golden
You are the culmination of what life has molden
Simultaneous impressions of heart and soul bolden
Quiescence my happiness, in you, never found cold in
Will You Open ?
All these years later
I still dream of you
A day in the park
Late spring
Under that tree
Hiding from the sun
Half asleep
You
Tracing secrets
In the palm of my hand
Whispering a love's tradition
Of desire
In my ear
we may never pass this way again
through the dration of love permeates the very fabric of my existence
in solitude hearts melt back the fervor of resistance
join with others to humbly frolic in this love
You
holding hands together
kisses of sweet molden lava love escalates through my hearts door
will you open ?
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