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Literature Text
Metaphysically meditating metronomes…
You help mystical muses manage to make me whole.
Well, almost. Abstractly acknowledging the alarming problems
my life seems to create provides punctually persistent perception.
A psychic – profoundly paranormal – you peruse the pendulum of life and space with philosophical pensation.
Lifting lives from lowered states you look like a king among lowly men.
Look, nay! Nary a native in these narrow lands could nauseate normality.
I know you use your useful tools to open up huge doors.
Clad in crispy yet click-and-clanking cold hardened metal your clairvoyance astounds!
Bright, dark, and in between your feathery, leathery into-you-I-see wings, they wrap around.
Coddle, cuddle, and kiss the tops of every single nose that scrunches
But at the end you still smile and sigh at how silly simple people are.
Asleep, awake, but lonely still, there you sit 'pon windowsill
Looking out and looking in, fighting through the barriers, thin.
The words, they fail – Flaunting faithfulness yet fear – yet they figure out how to be famous.
The rain, it pours, your eyes, they search and yet they cannot find their goal.
Searching, seeking, one who simple cannot steer away;
The end of the day comes creeping in an coyly tells you, "Bye."
A whisper – wistfully, whiningly soft – wails sweet nothings in your wandering ear.
Opening obedience to obsessive, obstinate objet d'art you press into each orifice like an oozing, persistent obligation.
Shimmering, iridescent obsidian lines your skin like ice on tar and a touch sends shivers to the hearts of all mankind –
The fragrant phrases carefully spoken were meant to find their fate.
You reach inside and find the things a person tries to hide and even then you quickly go before they have a second thought.
I sigh in sadness not relief when they signal for your sabaton to be shoved up saccadic sarcoid sacks.
The looming dacnomania decantates to my devilish, demising heart.
Quarenders hang from branches like quoits from their peg and a quasi-epiphany ensues:
Wakerife ones will feel no wamble as the waveson wiggles close
You help mystical muses manage to make me whole.
Well, almost. Abstractly acknowledging the alarming problems
my life seems to create provides punctually persistent perception.
A psychic – profoundly paranormal – you peruse the pendulum of life and space with philosophical pensation.
Lifting lives from lowered states you look like a king among lowly men.
Look, nay! Nary a native in these narrow lands could nauseate normality.
I know you use your useful tools to open up huge doors.
Clad in crispy yet click-and-clanking cold hardened metal your clairvoyance astounds!
Bright, dark, and in between your feathery, leathery into-you-I-see wings, they wrap around.
Coddle, cuddle, and kiss the tops of every single nose that scrunches
But at the end you still smile and sigh at how silly simple people are.
Asleep, awake, but lonely still, there you sit 'pon windowsill
Looking out and looking in, fighting through the barriers, thin.
The words, they fail – Flaunting faithfulness yet fear – yet they figure out how to be famous.
The rain, it pours, your eyes, they search and yet they cannot find their goal.
Searching, seeking, one who simple cannot steer away;
The end of the day comes creeping in an coyly tells you, "Bye."
A whisper – wistfully, whiningly soft – wails sweet nothings in your wandering ear.
Opening obedience to obsessive, obstinate objet d'art you press into each orifice like an oozing, persistent obligation.
Shimmering, iridescent obsidian lines your skin like ice on tar and a touch sends shivers to the hearts of all mankind –
The fragrant phrases carefully spoken were meant to find their fate.
You reach inside and find the things a person tries to hide and even then you quickly go before they have a second thought.
I sigh in sadness not relief when they signal for your sabaton to be shoved up saccadic sarcoid sacks.
The looming dacnomania decantates to my devilish, demising heart.
Quarenders hang from branches like quoits from their peg and a quasi-epiphany ensues:
Wakerife ones will feel no wamble as the waveson wiggles close
Oooookay. So I've been working on this very last poem since the 18th of December. Many things have happened between then and now and I'm just ever so glad I finished it. If you would be so kind, pull up a dictionary and/or thesauraus because I do not I ten thousand question about what words mean. I wrote it at the request of someone and I'm very pleased at how it turned out. Also, before anyone asks the only word I had to look up was "waveson" (last line, 9th word) because I couldn't think of a word that started with a W that would create the effect I wanted. Enjoy my dear.
© 2012 - 2024 taelifay
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