The First Consultation

Let the rain fall down upon your cap.  For I won’t fall down the roller coaster with you for one cent.  There’s only one thing to keep me captivated.  It’s your smile I find the most captivating.  I feel a throbbing pang in my heart which turned to mild itching and then disappeared only to return again.

First step is to drink your melancholy holding you hostage to your bassoon.  Let the tides run forth with your route to evergreen follies.  Only fraudulent dreams can foster each passing moment.

If there were such a thing a dangling caterpillar with a fold in time, then I would befuddle every emulating heart with fire.  I don’t care if the whole world looks.  I’m going to show up on the day of your falling petals.  For each petal is uncompromising, but not tranquilizing.  I shall bestow upon you by the Graces of God the everlasting light.

Time is ceaseless; yet, not unfounded.  Censure not your voice to captivate every monumental steed which encompasses you.  For I wish to elate a broken palate, if only to taste the buttery flavor of filet mignon.  I’d let it melt in my mouth, savoring each and every piece.  This is a continuity of all hallow be thy name words belonging to every soul enchanted by a rainbow.

The first consultation shall lead you into the light and carry you out of the halls of weariness.  All remains hold up the easel written with drops of His blood.  In lost lands, the winds whisper their secrets in my ears.  I listen to them closely while down on my knees, lifting up my arms in praise to the Lord.  I sing my hymns to angelic faces burning inside my mind.

I’m carried away by thunder and lightening.  The hours can never mend broken wings of the white winged dove.  Only the stake through my heart can bleed out the measure of time’s reward bestowed unto you, if He wills it.

I hurt with madness consuming my soul.  Cowardly walks mankind when the light burns out.  For their spirits walk in darkness where there is only coldness.  Every tear which falls brings about something bold.  What may become of the mister withholding his tongue from your fire.  For his own fire has diminished.  There is no more light within him.  Only emptiness remains after his long walk of the earth.  However, what is his walk when his own body is no more than the anguish upon the bruised face of humanity who licks their own wounds.

Caress my soul with your fire, my Lord, and I shall remise all truths bestowed upon me by your word.  Ever longing before the heroic sandwich is never to be confounded by grieving.

I carry my staff up the mountain.

© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2016

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