Bowing down is ancient tradition in a modern incession.
Who will lift us up?
A synergistic illusion has silenced our speech.
But when the blood cries out and enters the soil,
a californium clock will strike, initiating the transference of power.
Seventeen citadels hover like a crystal highway
formed in tears.
All in due time.
It has made its presence known, snarling disapproval,
collapsing the narrative.
A flame finds a flame
while ushering in a prehistoric procession of floral fragrance.
An iron lung entrancement policed the airwaves
while images were adored.
The coming scenes of a technicolor colloid
will saturate humanity.
Will there be anything natural that prevails?
The mystic body held keys,
as the totem pole told us everything we needed to know.
A voice in the wilderness has found its resonance,
all while swimming against currents of inverse apostasy.
But like a dog to its spills,
a bitter howl fills the air.
It won’t be black or white or red or blue,
but illusion vs. delusion.
A new line is being drawn in the sand,
and everyone is asleep.
But for some,
a new light has returned.
The light began to speak.
“Touch me,” she said,
as her solid branches graced the wind.
A forward leaning lover rooted in time.
Synapse scenes of compassion welled up
on the fingertips of the unknown.
A timeless exchange had been made that day
in altered states of realignment.
How shall we navigate
this effervescent euthanasia?
I can hear the strings in the distance,
like a frozen violin.
A slow descent is taking place
as we watch all stars fall
from the backs of our eyelids.
Many are initiated or even activated,
but few are advanced.
How violet is your world within?
Send light, my cartographer.
And only you can show yourself the way.
