Blatant Renditions Of Old Songs

There went afar in the rain a tomb crying out for thither going into the long night.  Strawberry fields played with plainly lighted bulbs of tulips who arose in the moon’s canvas to dismay of the shepherd who led his flock into the darkness.  For out of the darkness come quacking shadows who stumble down broken roads.  However, to them, what dismay are blatant renditions of the old songs.

When rain comes crashing to the ground, the tiger lily eats away at every soul with its passionate essence dancing in the breeze.  How come there are rain storms plights when galloping along streams lonely from death valley’s.  For every tear falling to the earth, a new breed of man stings his bloody brood with his wildness spraying out his candor.

Pre-approval is needed for temperament gone to flames while transforming my light into power I hold within the grips of my reality.  Where the storm marches on, chard canopy forbids longing in the distant star burning high above my head.

I’m at the last hour where there is no return from which the flames began.  Once the fire is started, it continues to feed upon the spirit of man until all the light in his heart has been burnt out.

Fever keeps me alive throughout the platitudes.  Only an escapade of vineyards allows every drop of its own essence be fed by their own acidity.  Sugars tickle the tinge of my existence.  I’m famished by the hands of the tides elongated by the remission of the ostrich bobbing his head up and down, burying his head in the sands to catch the twinkling zest enrapturing their flesh with allegory.

I dance in the halls of the almighty.  For it is the Almighty himself who erases all the flames, but leaves the sting buried with my soul to serve as a reminder of who I am and where I came from.  All the light in the world is fed by the power of Heaven.  Angels sing up on high and chant the rays of existence from the rebirth dwelling in me.  I withhold all my contingencies to requite all doily.  For it is the Lord’s oily tears which feed my heart with such sustenance.

How is it all man’s fields of gold dry up from the powers which be in the sunlight?  If all man can do is run into the road blindly, then he shall be struck down by his own brigade heading for him.

I don’t want to see he who has fallen into active volcano with nothing remaining.  He merges with lava, consuming earthly realm with its own afterthought.

For thrown out the window is the leg of the water bag letting go of his handle on the led.

© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2016


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