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Still from movement, eyes burned from deception.
Grey umbrellas, shaven despair. Who craves the dark of carnivore pushers, peddling propaganda, strung out on cheese filling, the void of yesterdays dream? Cast out like some hunter in a vegetarian parade. Conquering the question of existence, stalking to conquer. Barry Syska
Ungathered Fruit
Lavishly looking Sensual yearning. Simple eyes can pull the rains. Spinning in her parlor. Fade to white sheets tonight, while ravaging internal? Soaking lust, ash to dust, if you must, trust your lust Intuity. Unfold the taunted crimson, eluting tongue of grace. Speaking a different language. Words to entwine slither grace upon your lather. Breath… Stretched across Eden. Skin so fair takes me there. I’ll take you where the mist dances In the fields of your horizons, Where butterflies sing lullabies to your sleeping enchantment. Take me to the forest of UN gathered fruit. Barry Syska
A sleepless night leaves a dreamy awakening. When the gentle songs of a
morning birds breath kisses the day,open eyes will see behind the shadows
of unconscious thought. In this grass of rolling hills, sit stumbled
on broken thought.
Clear to smell the trusting earth, a place where my loves child hath played,only to understand more of existence. What stories can these soils speak? What voices go unheard? What suns have broke the days? What moons have fallen into night? Today may the sun bleed into the sky showing no need for question? It is as it will always be, no judgment, no unguided yearning. Ridicule us as we are for we are only here in laughter. Then shall we laugh till laughter breaths a light of bliss? Cry your sorrows till broken hearts are filled with content. And may your tears nourish all of there gardens into bloom. In a mothers embrace, a child knows hope,knows security, knows feeling,hears the heart, song of endearment,taste the dream. As we die so to the child that can whisper to playbehind these closed eyes where they rest. Barry Syska
Drip
from the rafters fall to your pillow as dreams sift from your eyelids,
to pallets of green umbrellas. And he exists on thoughts under sheets
of moss in the thick of fog.
Repeat the shadows where they follow. Turn the wheels into opulent images. Pale faces show the cold. Tremble, tremble to the illusion of fear. But there standing out on a floating morsel waiting for left over wisdom to fall. He holds his hands to his sides, and submerses into a void of consumption. Barry Syska |