Of What Wyrd May Hold For Threads ForeTold

A Cup Of Tea,
A Swirling Sea,
The Relics Of Disaster,
Gusts And Breeze,
They Cut And Seize
Not Leading To Their Master...
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A Quest To Light,
The Rending Sight,
Where Faces Meet Their Hand,
At Tables Layed,
For Pieces Played
By Baubles Filled With Sand...
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A Word For Such,
At Which To Much,
It Beats For All To Squeeze,
It Whets The Start,
To When The Heart
Minds For What It Frees.

An EverDieing Game Of Graciousness For Its Disappearing Act Of ReAppearing Intact

Her Carved-Ivory Vision,
Pulling ItSelf Tight InTo A Redeeming Pigment,
Clad In Red Felt And Skinned In A School-Roof'd Co-Existence,
Lips Pursed For A Cooling Of Condensation,
An UnFinished Hole Leading To Its Ravenous Other,
To Swallow Hardness And Then UnKnot Its Will,
For Delicate Necks And Bulgeing Beaks,
Earning Her Jewellery-Box Recitals Before Paper Hearts,
Fidgeting Upon The Arm Rest With Berated Impatience...
...
She Fiddles With Stolen Time On A Hook,
While Her Feet Seek Stirrups...
...
OutFitted For MotherHood OutSide A Convent,
Still-Life Painted Into The Payroll,
Her Cathedral Mosaic Sustained Through Nailed InVerse Fractions...
...
...
Marathon Run For SideWinders In The Tossed Plains,
Breached Borders In Contempt With Her God's CourtShip,
To Bask In Cathode-Rays Before None From Troy...
...
...
Silent Her Black Seas... If Not Of The Lies Of Nostradamus,
For They Are As Eyes In Her Sockets,
And With Every Rotation For Golden Fools... To Her Place By Lost Grains...
...
...
As They Too Will Sprout,
From Her Relentless Mud... From Its Strangled Bloody Roots,
To Fertile Shallows... Then For A Clasp To UnClasp...
...
To Barren Shadows... Then For A Collapse To UnGrasp.