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The Overall Poem
The Overall Poem
Ode (pending title)
To Keats
The Doctrine of Walter Sanchez
The Earth And Pluto
Five Sonnets On Life And Death
Ode To The Scarce Widow
To King
About Me
Favorite Links
Contact Me

The shadow from out which my skin had centered with presumable significance of assurance, of the gloomy dusk and the severed suns, and the coldness hue of the verbal nights, from within the deceptions of the scenery, was among like of those mere senses of ever less justly walls of create. Upon what an imagination of mistaken resemblance has applaud of desert ness, as throughout the frame of the property, I had silken my satire with matchful feeling of matrimony. Beneath the surface, I had walked without assurance to the mansion, not of intrudance of disrespect to be reckoned unto my heft. There was a lackness of concern for its well being to become of furnish and relaxation.

It was a miserable feeling, saneness as a mystery to the wearer. And the sights that I had conceived with but careful tip-toed pace I had stumbled to many acquaintance of framed poetry along the woven walls of the mansion. As only the curiousness of my health from battered being to needless adolescent, my own sense of mental had companied these works with the hesitation of justice to their respective artists.

The frames were outlined in squares, many crumbled of age within themselves. There among the wall as from dimmed aperture, accumulation of severe and deceive verbal alertness. But from it became such illusional enigmas, the faces of the historical material. The stairwell beneath was of rotten oak, sensed departure from cedar along the base. Created among ruins of unsurpassed maple along its breast. An apparent disease accumulated my every core of tissue which had held upon the muscle, and down into my stomach. A pain arousal briefed itself without welcome. A clear resemblance track had served my vision with follow. The well being of this mansion had aged with the years. A bypassing morphemic allusion appeared to my suspicion as another accordance without event.

Again, at my attention there was the framed poetry, the poetry of Solomon. An appearing mixture between time and the importance with the bounded pen. The writing was a sprawl that ran over the ink with the loophole of the lip. All the words, though appealing and very identical to any reader, were connected end on end without an ending line until the closing serum. With the words were images of the environment, as a comparison to the feeling of mutual gratitude to nature. Along the stairwell of continuous inspirational tuning to the mind.

I read carefully and more with each new line, hoping to catch a glance of where I might be in my presence, a certain resume of my ease at numb. I had begun to lose coherence with the step, my own waving to their own ground and the floor still as a crackle on the wood. An increase of angle had swayed over the left, my vision had begun to go parallel, my left rib oppressed by my own heft. Among the atmosphere I had endured from the wealth, and the many queries sensed at my nerves became a subject of service to my breath. An immediate satisfactory state of mind had consumed my imagination and the scenery became as dull as the rotten blissful map. My location had concerned the physical adherence with my shadow, once accompanied by the light, but my vision had now depended upon candlelight.

My thirst had questioned authority based through the mansion. A strong pace forward had sounded off the ringing of the bells; the midnight toll seemed to be shortened by one. My certainty and assumption came from the moonlight, hidden beneath just from the brow of the fog. An immense fashion of deception had consumed into the fade; an impartial image of fortune, a tune to Bach at my ear within my memory. As a sudden gleam of service to my lungs, and the remembrance of the longest somber inside my death, there appeared to me a darkness at my wealth from the unjustly creator. I had risen to my feet.

Upon taking my first steps since the downfall, I had accounted my sense to another poem, one with no imagery, one without a clause, no signature post.

It was shorter than most of the others, but its verification proved it to be of such authority. The ink had been runny, the point a little smaller and harder to digest to my eyes, and the pale sheet seeming lonelier than my own spirit. It had inscribed the senses between life and death with five sonnets. I held it hollow, high to where the angle surpassed the ink with decidedness, it no longer ran out it self, the underlines were fragile, but the words remained. It quoted….

“Pain above thy brow, shrill surreal wave of tide and joy, Of those who whither her arm too loosley with scared minds. O, they fill surrender until thee could mock unsuch deploy, And dose much through the heart of many kinds. So gypsy like she walks among the heft Of those who make learning untolerable. Such guilt came to thy ear as but a whisper And the tide ceases within the parable. Though she may borne upon senseless inpunity,
Her sister claims a jealous tongue of wealth Thou unravished bird of torn effinity, And the words of war are indeed of stealth. Take thy bow without thy spirit from the shelf And if thee desires such of follow up of unrested health. How untender such a name can mean unsaid, While attending understood spirits of the tenderness. Thus of loft with much unforeseen depression hath paid. Sadness had touched thine purely without a mute And taught the bone to suffer such impurity. The sorrow that both we make with mess With sounds according to those undressed insincerely A sleepy seam upon thy breast The skies above do not dwell with pleasure.Cornered by such confirm of situated flow Through the blindness with soft slender Their veins own a marvel of pity and thorough Within the wavered of such dying hearts Thou enriching detailed face of ever less motion of prime. O, my Loneliness-if I shall surrender to thy army of swell Let it become such to that of my peer Of such holy encounters of sleep and numb dwell In the labor of delight’s purchased sheer. It’s holy corrupt and flood of unreal reality of agony It had never spent what my fortunes keep Utmost prompts of abandoned searches of child employ. Shivers-the coldness I forgive with much immediance Though I sought thee by my side as I trace these spells. A bitter traverse had opened my unclosed eye And read the words that suffer by defiance. I partake the pleasures within the humility, Among those kisses I have awaken with such offend I had taunt with few condolences which impale thy pity. Thy sleep saith unrelent among thee sheet Sorely impale amongst the bone-togeather hued Henced through those of spiritual glee Nor though had then the patient of thy flu. Ye! I say to them I mustn't dime Or for then the prophecy I most awaken was true. Ah, thee blindness says it has despair among the past O, the heart tells this sketch must thee drew Or the past paves thy nail through my fail I hadn't saken thee-for thine heart still suffers And I pen my spit within the tomb of ail. Tastes of shiver had I never but to sought Nor the pace thee with but solicited pit I writ without a lack of the fought. O, thy weeps within those spent hours of thee My travel has much unstepped among the grass Sullen much with thee on commitment glee How thine hand breaks at the peak of its bypass. The sun scarcely reveals color among the field And the moon has her tongue upon thine eye And the winds are motley filled with lack bliss Nor the trees aren’t their own without yield. Much deanery is reclining on my neck Or dreary upon weakening amend had my attent, Such meaningless vows are spoken from broken heart And my words are meaningless and definite. O, my flower remains when I saw thee stand down Her redness blush merely wears thy silver crown.”