Y2: Day 4 (Learn To Free Write-write) The Days Of Many Freefalling

The days of many are succumbed with free falling adversaries who have come in abundance.  Throughout the years they feed on the sorrows of the meek, and lead them own into unholy roads to destruction.  For every leaf falling from the ground, the cinder continues to burn through the soul, consuming all light left within one’s vessel.  For it is the darkness which supersedes all sanity.

If the moon could be driven out of the sky by force where would callus findings beget their relative thought?  For to end all sacrament with the divine is the askance for all driving force to end life as we know it.  There is no other form of credence to come by when rivers drown in their own sorrow.  Milky eyes fill a broken down man with a poison breaking out in his mind.  All he can see is the enemy fallen before him on days gone sour by incompetence of the serene star.

For every tear falling to the ground all withering dreams get quenched by their desire to live through turbulence.  The fire held within is the riddle belonging to seeds of man’s deliverance.  Even now, mangled limbs are buried in the sands of time’s door.  Father time mourns the loss of all his children, not just a select few, when war breaks out.  It hurls the masses into the oceans body.  No one can break free from these chains of scorn when all which was holy is now filled with tainted blood.

For all the driven heard combing frail sands of the desert, the earth keeps herself busy in the tides of hunger.  It is riddled with disease in the stomachs of children left orphaned in a battered land where no one but alienation survives.  Hallow out my bones to let in sunlight forever glowing up above.  Radiating heat laughs at man and his undertakings as he flails about in his own bowels.

Only the lonely have no time to dance in the bloodthirsty piracy captivating wicked minds.  They are the fallowness withheld by the riverbanks, and a crust found on day old bread.  Maker of heaven and earth, hear me out in my songs of the dead.  I wish to plead with you to allow the founders of this land to stipend their existence.  If only the ways of the earth can sustain man through his fire for vindication.  But what is vindication by the wiles of well wishers spending each day saving pence for another rainy season.

Could the flamboyancy create a forgotten star in the minds of the fallen?  Only if the tides with it so.  For their strides are steady on shaky hearts mourning a dying man’s heart.  Deliver me, my Lord, to a higher calling.  For I wish to be graced by your presence, and shatter all illusion building up in my mind.  I’d like to drive all forces of foul out of the very shadows holding me prisoner to a past I can’t let go of.

Embracing all I am is encumbering me in the highest degree; yet, for every bleeding song I sing there is a mountain carrying a life force over the horizon.  Man is blinded by his own obscurity.  For only his mind can shelter him from atrocities of war through its own fabrication of a mad world gone quiet.

If I call out to the world from up above the world in the highest mountain my song shall be echoed back to me in the beats of my heart.  The light within me is slowly fazing out into smoke.  It’s clouding up the air I breathe, and filling my lungs with soot.  My airways are clogged; I can no longer carry oxygen to my brain.  For within our ecosystem is the fondue dripping over the hills.  They are alive with their own song filling the airwaves with vices.  I’m not asking for the remainder to become my truth.  For I shall seek truth in the highest light burning up above.

Lord, surround me with your heart and drink of my tears so my tattered soul can be mended, and my broken spirit can be welded back together by the power of your light.  All holy eyes satiate me with their sensitivity.  I languish every move they make to walk out of obscurity in the perplexity of my coming of age.  In the mountain I hail there is the rite of sacrament.  I’m driven mad by disease of the soul withholding my memories of my existence.

Who am I in this land of rapacity?  Is it the fire which tears down my sanctified walls I should walk through?  Should every cry I make in repented quotes?  Where is the time in my tides of sorrow?  I’m milked by the frailties of man’s heart.  He is the softener for his own gentile when every crying tear has fallen to the ground.  It is his pavement and dies out in the hours of his need to be quenched of his foul desires.

In all existence of man’s credence, what is his life expectancy when he lives onward over the falls of the damned?  Driven by his own illusion, he succumbs to wishful thinking when he tinkers with what he doesn’t understand.  He tears down every rightful will the meek sheltered in the dotted lines of compassion.  Who is the miser to question the ways of the holiest mountain when climbing the follicles toward his own demise?

If all deeds are held sacred by the highest of the highest then where am I to fall when the bottom has been reached?  Shall I ask for the earth to be let open and swallow me up inside its womb?  For it is there I shall feel sparks of fire singing hairs along my neck.  I bite down on my lip and bleed out the poison contained within my heart.  For all tender reeds are convinced of an aching need to belong.  It is their longing to will all happening to them to end, and become fruitful in darkest days of their earthly lives.  However, in the end it is they who shall be appeased.

© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2016

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