In the spring, the time of the nausea, the ringing
Complancency is suppressed by melodic singing
However confined I may be, I hear, not see
The voices of languages far beyond me

This diminutive feeling we give love.
Staying up all night long!
Thoughts like spiders,
creeping, eight-legged memories.
Through the night you'll
spin, quietly webbing together

In the unseasonal wind
wet, so cold.
In the climatic meeting
simultaneous and dull.
In the handshake
it must be.
In the fevor of relieve
it must be.
In the embrace of a kiss

The prints along the shore long forgotten, yet the sands within no less trodden.

The Vertebrae of the Poetic
is not the cumbersome task
of seeking fame.
Though creativity creates
riveting sensations within
the least suspect.
No, its not a distinguished profression

A Grudge like Sludge
is impeding to one's breathing
A Grudge like Sludge
is demanding one's cleaning!
Grudges like Sludge
are content with due disdain
Grudges lke Sludge

So very heavy.
I’d seen you in a trance.
Yet, you were cut through.
Machetes.

Despite this inward decline.
We’d almost embrace,
Without disgrace, or distaste
Of a kiss