Enlightenment comes from the stars up above in the heavens. I’m walking through the clouds at night when I drift into holistic streams. There is a merger festering up in the kingdom to ignite a relic to come back from the dead. For every calling bird which rings in its pleas, I fall into the cinder block of time.
There is the measure where illusion creeps up on me during my tides of emulsion. However, I’m drowning in my own sorrow, not being able to discern what’s real and what’s not. For to find the truth, I have to reach outside of myself to fix whatever is wrong internally. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
Your stone hinge doesn’t measure up to the standards of the highest power. For you are not creating the tender reed, but the festering disease growing inside your blood. Although the chamber is a place of solitude, my head doesn’t rest. My heart is restless and my spirit weeps for festering plains to open up onto me.
Where shall I drink my wines of sorrow? Will they be put into a chalice of which I may commune with my world, or shall they bleed out into the streets of fire? There is a jungle feeding on misery. Its tide is the completion of my sum. However, the bite of your moon has ended all holy walks of the light.
In 1862, the kings of in Europe signed treatise to end maliciousness among their people who pulled out every strand of gold from their fever. For when the mellowness of the sphere gets hold of my news, I shall be hailed by the furthest light in the galaxy.
Whenever credence walks with me side by side, I’m humbled. For it are my rewards to drink up bitter tears belonging to man’s hunger for his own revival. How can he be free of his condemnation when he walks along depleting shores? When his waters have dried, they ascend into the clouds to quench the hunger burning in his heart.
A fever boils within me; yet, I bid illusion goodbye. I leave my soulful melodies beyond the golden gates, and walk away from them. Can you measure up to standards brewing in the heart? How shall concave dimensions commend you when you elude all please to return home to your holy grail.
Your humble heart is extinguished, and the hours of need have come to call. A fire has been ignited in every vessel you carry with you. However, there is no end to the rage burning up the sky a crimson red. The spirit of the sun has been angered by battles of man, because he tore many worlds apart by his festering greed. Where is his ignition to find truth inside himself? Can he ever walks side by side with his brothers? When will the spoils of war stop breaking the bond between what is sacred and what isn’t?
For only time can measure up to nonexistent fear which burns up the sky. My waters rise in the tides of my hear; yet, my spirit has yet to drink sweeter wines you bend off of the vines. I tread on a thick wire holding up my limbs. For every stipend brought to me, I take it in stride to envelop a greater platitude. Fire, fire, fire, you belong to the cauldron whose brew has yet to come of age. However, I shall drink it not matter what, and fester up lonely stairways to feel the sting from you edgy words.
My hearth rests for now. There is no longer the need to bring for erasure of my past. For I embrace the whole of the sum, and dance in the moonlight. In your tears offered before me, I take a vile and scoop them up along your cheek. Sealing them up, I set them aside for a dried up world which thirsts for them.
With the salty waters you bring, man shall seek his reward. However, all he shall find is a burning sensation amongst his flesh. He harbors his own fears and illusions, and cannot run away from them. No matter how much he scribes in the sand with a stick, his words are erased, and left of to the spirit of the unknown to curate them.
For every song I sing, I call out to your withered soul to take hold of my limbs. I’m thrown overboard from your ship. I’m left to float above the earth’s crust which boils beneath my feet. If I sink even just a little, my feet shall burn up, leaving me nimble, and limp. I don’t know where the tides cry other than to shores they crash upon.
Walking through hallow paths; I follow up into the clouds where my spirit meshes with the Lord. Incumbency shall be you string holding you in the arms of the maple. Yet, when the drums stomp upon your nerves, you shall tighten all you are and jump into the burning walls.
I no longer have an appetite for honey, bread or other types of grain. For they expand, causing nausea inside my gut. Therefore, I’m stranded by convulsive channels which won’t let me walk through them. I plead into the horns of the deer, but all I get in return is the galloping wind.
Where is my inner power to keep me from falling into the cracks of time? What kind of scheme is your word against the stows of light? Are you seeking a passage from my layers of truth, or are you in the measure of quacking me until I’m broken? Create, if you will, your own foul your frolic with, but leave my mind, spirit, and soul free to move onto greater heights. For all you are in the lowest of deed is illusion festering inside my mind. I’m driven out of the light by your cruel measure where my heart is devoured by tyrants. If only you’d heed warnings of the dead who march through howling graveyards on their own sacred plight.
© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2016