How still the waters rage
In stillnesses of day
Moving tranquil on their way
Across the placid page,
While simmering beneath
In silent, stormy stare
The torrent underneath
In boiling cauldron glares –
Between the lines the blanks
Bespeak in volumes swept
Words unheard in all their strength
Speak, where they are kept
Beneath the calmness of the page –
How still the waters rage –
Her beautiful misty eyes,
And sensuous soul,
Exotic and soft,
As rose petals,
Warm as candles,
And bright as crescents,
Are lost,
In the intimate space,
And,
Surreal,
Stillnesses,
Like,
a melody,
and,
her,
Love
Reynaldo Casison
Some life is like that haystack needle thing that pre drones a slim positivity
trance-a troubled parlay of sane stagnant standard stillnesses incomplete in that ailing aqueous humor annual invite of a psychic trio IdEgoSuperE overdrive dominant shortcut over your non-everlasting cruise control allowing that Soul-shoal-ization sucking effort soul short of authentic selflessness to out over never everlastings. like a wash cycle let's drain, spin,dry and fold our worst desires into an anonymous no handy-caped viral literal composite parking for the posthumousaged pilgrims, through fault of their ignorant owness, store some deformed drama defense to fertilize the fragile inner in you past potential and pseudo suffer maggot mirror memories that die so far inward, but outside the box thought-----a crafty corporeal corrupted conclusion coming to Humoversal conspiracy. Menu please.
Spinner, jammed into the vibration.
Collecting stillnesses and morning dew.
Waiting instantly for the beloved
web dancer.
Splayed, unusual balance,
moved by the music of wind and wisp.
Captivated in the net of longing.
Caressed, tightened!
A fitful passion. Bitten!
Swooning, overflowed.
Spinner spins her, then kisses
with the same
kiss the beloved does kiss.
In that melding, merging,
melting,
drinks slowly.
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