Does Goya mark my rest there is though no reason to my dreams just broken rhyme and bloody desires looking to be coupled in frenzied abandon with me as mute witness impotent to affect their will yet cursed in the darkness to be their chronicle.
I dreamed a dream of henna painted hands which seemed at first to defy all understanding yet upon a further thought as I a settled meaning sought these hands were heaven’s prayers assigned to calm my troubled brow with kindness while I slept to ease them all away. Thus these hands, though of the night did with gentle fingers stroke away the darkness to reveal a new found light.
when she wakes the whole world breaks into shards a million shapes which in countless colours shine as the night is left behind and brings forth calico dawn of patterned sunlight on the morn a tapestry of passion born
our monuments are nought but earth and shit and blood that only scar the world moreover where no sore ever should, and I see not ruined stones nor former glory with blinded awe but the broken souls of mankind shamed sealed within their cores.
these lines betray ceremony a composition’s liturgy which determines if these words are ever to be heard or if the page in time will burn discarded but should they form the poetry of those emotions known to me then the rite of how I write will find its rhyme and remain unto the world regarded.