PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Inhaling the smoke of dead souls and trying to pass off for sacred ritual.  No voice above a whisper is heard but in the poverty and tatters of moonbeams echoes about.  The cattle drive of mercenary outlaws herded off at the pass of some theoretical ranch.  The hypnotic spell of witches pissed on by the Saints of Nefertiti.  Trying to cast aside the early bird in the dawn of a new day.  Going without say.  We areyet in the midst of Autumn leaves in March air.  Unexplainable but the warriors heed the minute’s advice.  The Germanic blood is boiling at fever pitch.  Cool water splashed over head to diffuse the flame.  All detonations set off in a second.  Take cover—ah, hide from the shellacking.  The golden gates are held open by Augustine and Socrates and still the pagans have ritual sacrifice of virgins.  But at least, the rites of passage are clearly drawn up in the caves.  Nothing left to chance, the soul climaxing over midnight air. . .

a soul climaxing

develops inner vision

speaking to dead souls