Cold wind conditionary.

First-person is such tranquil reciprocity.
They never mentioned themselves
as though they were just in line.
She validates the cold accord by changing
what she felt when the storm was a fresh scent
in the air, unmarred by the pollution
of the factories she built to change the organic
nature of everything they had seen.
They embarked without her heart, pacing like the rest
but realizing she had left it, refusing to let it go,
she collapsed and bled from a hole in her chest.
He desperately tried to seal it but the pollution leaked
in and changed her and she began to cough,
a circle forming around them disappearing for days.
The scent of the air became toxic and the geometry of the landscape
cut them both in myriad ways.
"This is the ends for such a human existence?"
was the cry from the young lover's mouth.
The people around heard nothing and continued to romance
the violence and drink in the poison of the air.

These colours don't run.

Diplomacy
just doesn't work you see.
When you're dealing with
such an extremity
Because their war is a war
on humanity.
Preemptively, speaking,
a strike is the option.
Which gives us dues
of creativity.

Because we're different races
different faces.
Our insides are rearranged
in opposite places.
We'll win all of this,
and keep the death on their soil.
They fight for blood.
We, for blood and oil.

So if it returns and stars getting you down.
Just pretend you're not hearing the sounds.
Of holes being punched on voters cards.
Or our holy cause exchanging machine gun rounds.

One day those animals might all see.
The flaws of their sac religious ideology.
And D.C. will continue,
to let god run the country.
Red, white and blue.
Blood, shit and money.

(OLD) "Ssssserpentile, the Brave"

With the threat of a grave we folded our bodies like paper.
One hundred bones breaking
each time we tried to show the world what a mountain looks like.

And remember we were walking and we saw a bridge
that had been torn down to build one up stronger,
or add to the city's degree of pride
in their material accomplishments,
I promise you this is nothing like that.
Eden,
she has escaped a stare,
and the tendency of eyes to glare into her direction.
Dissemblance,
an empty heart should not be wasted.
But the places we've thrown ourselves
have been rough ground
where not even the lies grow as time continues.
Dissemblance,
I looked for you in a Birch wood forest,
but couldn't find you among the white.
It used to be the only color I would look for you,
since I couldn't picture you in anything,
besides a wedding dress,
or standing anywhere,
except behind a picket fence,
kind of leaning on it.
But now I look for the color of blood,
and that bridge we saw,
well you're more likely to be leaning on something like that.
Dissemblance.

Gravel.

I saw a diamond on a beach, in a pile of gravel.
An extreme of the stone's attempt to sparkle
even in the sun.
But the way she spun light into attention
and filled in grateful vision.
She was as bright as a star.
And as humble as a raincloud.
I wore her a ring on my finger,
and never touched my heart.
I kept my hand near my mouth,
and spoke to the diamond with words.
It disappeared one night, while I slept.
I woke up and my finger no longer stole
my speech as it had the day before.
On the beach in a pile of gravel.
A pile of stones.
I can no longer find it in a pile of stones.
Perhaps the diamond was gravel.
But she twinkled.
Oh how it twinkled.

Future World Leaders

Consciousness
Streams of Exaltation
Consistency demands allegiance
allegiance to all of this is killing talk
Living in preparation
your in the commencing the habit of a:

Future World leaders
Future war leaders
Drink socialite poison and count the bodies of your failures
You're such future world leaders.

Capitalist universal
Exchange of the rolling world
Presidents and CEOs
Accidents of corporate woes
Stock market/downtown motion slows
The skeleton shows
The wealth of such misfortune grows. It grows

Future World leaders
Future war leaders
Drink socialite poison and count the bodies of your failures
You're such a future world failures.

Future World leaders
Future war leaders
Ivy league grads and future wall streeters
The rhythym defined by your marching in time
Future world failures
Say what you mean.

Day Two: Thirst

Trees are a river of that which swallows light.
I remain wholy unimpressed or satisfied by those aspects
of nature that were added mine.
Within the cycle. Containment.
My memory is moving between,
like a carousel it rotates.
Control is an illusion a prediction a joke.
Now I am lost in the confines that I have created.
The thought and insight I need to leave,
was traded for such a vain exploration of everpresent
landscape.
I AM ONLY WHO I SAY I AM.
Beauty's water is filling my eyes, my blood is drying up.
The gorgeous surroundings are reason enough to never let
another drop of that cold poison past my lips.
Lucid, is just a word.
A vestigial organ on the tip of my tongue beyond my teeth,
as I attempt to satisfy my body growing in desire of water.
Sweat soaks my shirt its all I need, but the last thing I want,
all I want is to succeed in the failure of physiology.

Day One: Belongings

Encircled in blades of grass, my mind racing.
I am frantic, imagining the line of silence between light,
and the lighter light.
Every image is a recollection of two hours, differently arranged.
A vague picture of walking, of leaves crunching underfoot, small sticks
being seen and stepped on simultaneously.
IS THIS WHO I AM?
Ventures, feelings, longings, aspiration, right-and-wrong.
Every boundary has been crossed, except that single line of silence.
For now, I believe I'm hearing the sounds around me.
Light sings vivid symphonies, my senses are breathing in everything.
The cawing of distant black birds, the soft hum of the woods, the irritation
from sticks and coarse grass, the bursts of blue,
and overwhelming white radiance burning through the leaves above me.
Today is Thursday.
My mouth begins to tremble, I lick my lips
but the rain brings no satiation to the desert.
My body will get used to this.
All of these colors, these sounds, these feelings, these smells.
They all belong to me, and their name is Sepulchre.

-End of Day One.