Solipsism

Manifestation;
Probity;
Clemency;
Two rats. 

Isometrism

Armidallo'd,
he ran the acclivity he couldn't stand,
or was it:
understand?
The mind; variegated.
The soul; turgid.

Bursting black. 

Sacajawea

O, Sacajawea;

Your rugged complexion,

Yet tender membranes

Coax me to lose my inherent gumption.

Am I not a red coat, or simply painted as such?

O, Sacajawea;

You find purpose in the prairie.

Squeezing the teat of a buffalo.

O, Sacajawea,

Might I know the totem that lies

on the banks of Saskatchewan?

Will the signals, oh will the signs

Undo the shackles of this mead?

O, Sacajawea,

Is it not simply red dead redemption?

Or am I wasting my time at the gate of El Presidio

O, Sacajewea,

Hast brother Jonathan not dreamed

of this sacred blanketed land?

Your veil, although elusive

Deludes but the weak.

We live not in a world,

But in what we perceive.

O, Sacajawea,

From your fairest face,

Your lushest bosom,

To your cracked heels

and worked arms.

O, Sacajawea,

Your gait and stride

Knows not but a thousand peaks.

Preach, O worthy

What we were destined

to learn.

Show man not your valour,

But instead the light

As you are far from guilty as sin.

O, Sacajawea,

For I love you so that I tell you so;

Flee, flee Sacajawea,

Sprint your buffalo

Sprint your bison

Sprint your men

and Sprint your younglings

For the axe shall fall.

O, Sacajawea,

Show me composure

show me salt

show me light

For I have cut ties with

this Ocean of Apathy.

A Danish Elegy

Skism procreates;
Unto which Nero bathed in sin.
He bore the gore of his sins;
Only to find flux at the pavilion

"Skril" he moaned,
"Skril; Skril";

None were present at his burial

Apogee

Atlas

Unknown by the followed

Known by the formed

He feels the Deimos rising

Uncertain of the passing gleam.

Shadow.

Leaking strawberries.

Vermillion serum seeps from the flesh

Grass did not sway

No haunting murmur

No breaths

No beats

All time ceased as absolution was attained

For none could fathom how the Moon swallowed the Sun.

a Ripe End.

Flickering away,
luminous dreams.
We know it nears,
We bow in it's aura,
the Devastator.

Helm low, hope high
is it really about the end

Or was it always about the start.