Through the waved eclipses that transfixes all desire.
Remains nothing but that of a martyr.
To aknowledge the later is to become a slater.
Creating Feet at the bottom for the future.
But one needs knees to bend with a wave.
Or else death finds you as a slave.
And the moon dwindles at the thought.
And earth kindles on the spot.
Tears of oceans are mixed and caught.
Valleys are flooded and rocky peaks are not.
For an endless dance with the sun is betrayal to moons distraught.
To crave is like a home, with a white picket fence.
An apple tree and a tire swing, for the days that are nonsense.
An overlook, and unwritten book, for all the right contents.
Yet a flawless glare from the suns sinister stare shows clouds are nothing but air.
But the reflictive pair does not wake the air, and leaves it dormant for the fear it would
quake the air and the two would never breath their own fare.......
So what remains standing there, with strong bones and a clean slate.
Some would call it a gift and others would do it fate.
But a gift is food not that of a golden plate.
But a gift is food not that, of a golden state.