The burden of over ease is boredom, creativity's nemesis;
a fell rumble of ideas connotes the future's sense of this.
Without wisdom's notion of unknowing delight
viridian skin is artistic and devoid of gloom or fright.
To change one's mind is to capture freedom,
yet to value and desire liberty is to slave for credence.
A brain stem machinated from a humble vermillion sky
animates the futile pursuit of life in a portrait we think can't lie.
These clouds of swirling mucous sanctification divine us
the way an unruly grin can console and refine truth's pus.
What is the atmosphere if not a nebula of undead passion?
The sky above fools us into believing in night and day.
We're photographs devoid of logical or emotional direction.
We demand development, crave focus without intention.
My body is illusionary soup, a chocolate lie,
solid in existence but just a marriage of dye.
Colors and shapes, inexistent if not for desire:
I pray, mother nature, do you feel me, is my soul for hire?
A vital face, covered in membranous silken pleasure;
surreal, worthless, invaluable.. what is treasure?
I am a cloud surrounded by mountains, only a human?
Ideas are propounded by impossibility, simply inhuman.
Save me from myself,
set me free from your arms -
delicately withering,
unnoticed
by all but time.
All but time is alive,
all but time will die;
time is inconstant
in reality.
Living
is propensity
in the end.
