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Stream
Shimmering portal that holds a gaze,
The flourish of which rips the internal unknown,
A tease of what might become sown
Into a dream that has rooted and grown.
Pulsing, the part that leads the way,
Waiting, for the eventual day,
Inviting a glimpse of a smirk to maintain,
The pulse that I know I can feel in your vein.
Decimate of sense or knowing,
The lost piece that makes the hole then nothing,
Clearly it’s from the id’s new cunning
To keep its piece from the whole.
Invent a construction
Using your tools
Completed eventually
Look at this fool.
Missing the meaning
Some content devoid
Not a man
But a Child,
Not even that,
Just a toy.
The rushing of the flow plants the seed for the flower,
Harbouring the boat that holds the treasure we devour,
Only sustenance to keep up this heavy bloated scrounger,
Now I sit, empty ship, barely a glimpse, when I thought I had.
But I floundered.
I like it!
you are evolving and as I read your words, it brings me to the matter at hand: it is winter here in the backyard of the “super bowl” and high time for a warm read. The rolling Arctic express keeps a continuous flow of snow clouds above my head the cold cumulonimbus. These cold days will expire, but do not let your writing passion subside; I say continue on your journey, you started now write on, right on!
Peace
Dylan
"One of the best results of life, is the torment of love"
Dylan Eliot