he's a hangman's noose, with long fingers unfurling the tethers of his rope on her throat
shards of shame ***** the back of her eyelids until the tears stream down her cheeks
and he grips beneath her hips, uneven nails biting into
untouched, porcelain flesh with ferocity
drawing blood that would take a week to heal
and a nausea that will never stop rising

Rustic memoirs
decompress under
the kokoros era of ink's
fluid vibrant black belt disciple
submerged to the holy ground bridges
        where growethst the tiniest green lively tapestries caressing the      impeccable coordination of wilted rugs preparing to take off into  the open wide swoon for there's a landor on your lawn, a timber tale lotus blossoming towards the black and blue hues minglin frequency wavered jade bidis becoming the one
swarowski bidi on the rampage of
our wildest years yearning*

*   colours   fading   into     the    righthearted     unity   of    a     remorsed     graceful    residence  unfolding    the rocket      reggae    vibes   happily    again

My overwhelming Solemnity
is represented-
by brown fields
in Spring-time withering.

Nostalgia riddles me
with, and throughout,
my Life.

It is a Sweet candy;
Sour- like the taste of my gums,
as I reflect on my Experience
as a Living, Breathing,
flesh-Encumbered Soul.

"These are the pale, empty vessels of our spirit,"
says One, about our bodies.

"'Tis the final embrace from the Mother to Son,"
says One, in regards to Death.

"This is the end of a Turn,
of the Wheel just Begun,"
says one,
pondering the endless Circles
of Our existence.

But find,
in one Moment,
peace.
But see,
in one Moment,
the sun that revels on Our faces;
that dances like flames, upon Our eyes.

Don't weep because the moon crests;
because the tides rise;
because the the vivid flowers of Our mind have begun their soft decay.

Instead,
remember that Our dying bodies exist;
that peace can be found;
that the moon is merely a Shadow of the sun's brilliance;

that We,
as all Hope foretells,
as the Flowers of one age,
tread paths for the dying New;
for unborn eyes;

for the Shadows of Our acceptance.