September moon,
celestial skinny-dippers,
sangria soirée, so soused,
starlight swimming,
summertide celebratory,
singing soon sepia snapshots,
streaming in soulful sisterhood
psyches of sorrowful separating friends,
sadly, still scattered,
sweetly soliloquizing of
September of ‘76. ~
A circle of Stones never in rows
~ Stacked on one another a mystery it sows
Broken in Pieces
~ Mends in Tears
A path of death Embedded with Thorns
~ Soaked In Volcano, couldn't resist the Burns
Twisted Fate of Disaster
~ Pain Inflicted by Roster
The Days of Anguish
~ Preys of Couldn't Vanquish
Suns that let's out Burn
~ Our Worthless Tegument Torn
The Nights of Darkness and Fears
~ Soliloquizing it's Mares
Seeking the times of rest
~An Abode to camp and Nest.
Stowaway Hopes
Merging the present
to the darkened distance
Stealthily stealing our future
Sliding away our hopes
Making a slideshow
Of our stolen past
peddling sorrows
To every hallow mind
Where fleeting thoughts have taken wings
Yesterday have come to perch
Resting with our past shadows
Soliloquizing our stolen dawn
Stowed away with the darkened night
Wey Wey - Stoic
After soliloquizing
in the darkness
we struck a chord
making rhythm
as we march into the light
now we come
we do not come to you
pleading for justice
we do not come
to stay your fastened arm
but we come
just to face you
and voice it home
that our hope is not lost
Vast
candor,
might I fly,
celestial
beauty soliloquizing soundless songs
with mystical timeless transcendent tones
otherworldly
flamboyant
splendid
sky.
After soliloquizing
In darkness
We struck a resounding chord
Making rhythms
As we march into the light
Now we come
But not to you
To plead for justice
Not to you
To stay your fastened arm
But to face you
And voice it home
That our hope is not dead.
Beside marble fancied grave stones
You waste your time
Snoring on your bed was the best usage
Rather than for charity you spend on flowers
To lavish on empty graves
Soliloquizing, longing to be heard or felt
Kneeling before nothing, shedding tears
Oh so unfortunate it is all vanity
How can you be so fooled? Regarding your stature
If the dead can hear, why bury them
Why do they lay still, could they be acting?
Dead memories are imaginary, not real, so can’t be cherished
Stand up and go home
Their you’ll find bunches of living memories
you wont have to cry but smile.
In the midst of flora I stood in solitude
dreaming of the garden of yore, Eden
under the sun's fierce face, soliloquizing
near the fellowship of waters, wandering
nodding and nodding till tide brought the stars
under the blanket, I saw a war unwinale
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