She's fallen from the skies
underneath leaves of green,
Angels cry and will abide
their lost & love goes unseen.
The grey covers over the blue
and down lashes rain and dew,
Skin, teeth, flashing white
will be lost from the light to night.
She won't be buried in a tomb,
but where flowers grow and bloom.
This is going to be a stormy midnight,
as her soul lifts and out of sight.

"All words,
Mother's last
Jesus in Christ,
take the time
for this rhyme"

He suffered for days,
for me its been decades,

How has being whipped,
and enslaved
and being hang,
for 3 days been horribly created
I could have endured that.

I won't wash off my father's
like what was of Jesus's
I was of our family's tree,
just another of the strangling,
Roped of the back yard gum-tree's

Blood is of a reptilic,
Frogs in the swamp,
being caught by kids,
and being splat to death,

Religion is not torturous,
ask the ones on the streets,
and the army of the fleet,
controlled is sacrilegious.

Ask the home-less girls,
who suffered more worse,
just true of their turf
and our minds still burst.

I've always been this alone,
but with this family,
I feel so much less alone,
I feel I'm being heard.
I've been stitched and sowed
into an average t-shirt,
plain with calls alone,
I've never painfully,
and felt a suddenly
burst of life,
raindrops,
discolor,
as the rain sets,
puddles.....

There's a constant sound of a crack,
Naturist sound as cards go snap,
as poisonous sounds
it doesn't goes down so well.
The moles from the grounds
comes up to a beaten map.
The eyes that do swell,
leads to fallen twill bells,
After the midnight hour,
and the beaten of flour.
Prostitution sells
but never-does-so-well,
and the lacking of the tinging
commercialism of tills......
Leads us down a path,
of targeting down a wraith,
sounds of ghosts,
our previous hosts,
Tides between the lost
A cast before dye bleeding.
Taunting of our breathing,
Tuiation of the black seedling,
or smelt the way its rotten?
There's nothing more to be said.
Have you never seen red seaweed?
Or smelt upon the way its worsens "death?"

When they come with a-plenty,
there an  inch of door metal
and fittings can't be smashed through,
and windows are smash proof
like the house of a detective's.
Its quite the bit of irony.
By the time they get in,
I'll be floating to the ceiling
with a *******.
I'll answer to my crimes,
my own Constantine way.

Freezing is the white bloom,
been trapped in this room.
with barely a day sober,
since my days were over.
I entered hell from day one,
of entering this clinical cell
I'll ask for my scattered remains
that never had anything to gain
to be here till bulldozer day.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A good day, spread out basket of goods,
which the curious ants wish to snoop.
By the river with clapping hands aplenty,
Flawless came opportunism dented
A lie of forked tongues shook timber wood.
White unseen kills wooden foundations.

Sunset rhymes
with ***** bets,
under the table,
for the able
exploit
the more vulnerable.
What we achieve,
and who we deceive,
can mean the guilty,
has no shame but to live,
Money will come pouring
before it's morning.

I'll never be a heaven's save,
To be carried away in the next wave,
There'll be no baptism,
A demon can't change suddenly.

Abyss now lays behind my black eyes
I've been carried away as innocence dies.
My eyes are more dead than a Raven's
My soul is that of a sunken Craven.

Red stains lay in my newly built chapel,
Nothing but my own ****** hand disciple,
sickness drains as the uppers stop working,
soon the opposite side of a puddle underneath.

It was always little touches,
like down on the beach shore,
my uncle and my ears,
fifty cents of the coins,
Reach down and he'll pierce,
and show me the silver.

My Aunty
teaching me piano,

Lost are the choir of God's words,
I am underneath my father's Burdon,
He loves me so true and unconditionally,
but he's my ***** and my enabling.

But he's not to blame,
I brought on all the shame,
and my disgrace-ful  name,
It is and always be broken,
but this is not my destiny,
I still see her little wings,
and lullabies
she would sing.

Strangers are freezing to pierce,
I was handsome in my twenties
I have the dancing in my memories
and short skirts forever teasing.

Now, I am but the movement,
made out of an artist's stone,
Leaving behind my youth,
Creaking and smashing a booth
to a woman that can finally sooth.