Through the waves of my soul,
I’m dressed in the robes of death.
Where black rivers flow
Through miles of exhaustion,
The cucumber flesh of my grain
Has mellowed down into my grave.
Free is the bird who flies into the
The golden buttery sight after rain
Has diminished gets absorbed into
My unencumbered spirit.
I walk downtown in search of a new
Light; a cycle unbroken by vicious
Callousness of a fierce fire.
It’s been cloudy all day, but hasn’t
Fighting dogs granulate the articles
Of survival where empowerment
Struggles to survive.
I ignite the fire within my heart
And let the rains of the past wash
Through me with their banter.
The equality of frailties found
Inside a windup doll administer
The foundation for the articles
Belonging to the riveter.
Let no man drive his tools into
The ground while he exhausts
His resources, and bleed his
Washing up in past sorrow
Are my forgotten years
Suffocating within, driving
Out sanity of the feeble.
However, I have enriched my
Mind over the years with
Fires kindling inside platitudes
Of knowledge waiting to burn
Further into my soul.
I’m beheld by a widen duress
Overcoming the distances of
The hours you breathe.
I can remove the remover
To be removed by the colors
Of the mountains.
There is a fever boiling
My glandular waves to cling
To the dying mandolin.
Weeping inside the extinguished
Flame causes a turtle dove to fly
Further up into the heavens.
The draught from which I dig
Erases my living, breathing
I’m humbled by the stout your
Words bring to my heart.
Can it be the rains have stopped
Pouring down onto my head
After the heaviness has gone
Into asunder living along depleted
I drink the wines from a fruitful
Seeker of the worldly woes
Is the only means for niceties
To be delivered by the cherry
Thirsting through forms.
These mathematic equations
Drip into my senses;
Yet, the power to be me
Has risen higher by the powers
I will not be withheld by the
Razor threatening to cut into
My quick where the rivers
Flow into me.
I walk further down the road
Where the light exists within
The city; therefore, it becomes
Me in the ghostly realm of
Cherished memories are an allowance
To the feeble soul marching for
His heart to belong.
Surrounding each petal of the red
Rose is velvety softness only an
Angel could resonate with.
For their allegiance to the higher power
Is all of all the graces I am to be in holding.
For in askance of a dream to create artistry
With words is my all mighty force for
Existence in an unquenched world
Driving me on my quest for knowledge.
There is no other measure I’d rather follow.
There is only the light burning inside of me,
Guiding my heart across the floor in this
Dance of life.
Diagnosis, the fire is the only inhibitor
Counting for high levels of acid rain
Landing on the roof.
Apple trees stretch their limbs
Out, and grab hold of children
Playing underneath it.
For the tree is there to tell a story
Of the past to the young.
“One misguided evening where
The stars clung to the heavens,
A great fire shot out of the sky.
It was a meteor crashing into the earth,
Devouring it piece by piece.
The fabric laid before my eyes
Is the event of the uneventful.
Reaching forth digging men, women,
And children out of their mass grave
Was the lowly host of the flames.
For he would not allow for second
The masses were extinguish by the
Great flame, and risen up into a
Better world in the kingdom of heaven.
Walking through this wondrous realm,
All the children ran up to the foot of the Lord
Who embraced them with his heart.
For he sent the flame down to earth
To rescue them from their own peril,
And bring them into a better life.
Piercing through my heart is the
Distant stream I long to cross.
Wading in silky waters enriches
The soul with the bread and butter
Bursting through the crevices.
Opening minds is a potent force
Brought about by the devouring
I’m forever magnified by lawful
Deeds bring me into rightful
Parades, but the nerves never
They broke into shambles
With the bombs dropped from
The sky, consuming flesh of
Every piece of life.
The hours have merged into
One scientific reform.
The fire is burning down bridges;
Yet, nothing is willful on it’s own.
The turnaround comes about with
A tax of a symbol stamped upon
Wax paper; the sealant forever
Binding man to his own decree.
Forever lost, forever burning,
The heart lives in the mastodon.
© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2015