Departed trail & Bitter trials.

Eng.50 2021

At first I bang my head to the beats of my YouTube playlist;

then to pay respect to the bizarre endings following the darkening and fading visions of earth’s holding rain over thoughts and a mental valley of in between vales.

Second I wrangle up criticism from these hellish circuses out there in thrashing flames, haunting and creaking the paint of weak furnaces; line after line I edit myself before I can get to the next thought out. I wonder how I started and better yet how I’ll end it all.

Shadows in shadows cast from devils hands and run far from the waters everlasting when good men go to war with knives, daggers, and bayonets; I then recall the deals made on others behalf in misgivings by devils spells, that have limbs of malice nature that curse bleed virgins and weeping angels boiled in chemistry.

Third to come is the wanting need to leave the show as fast as a flux capacitor with neutrons blasting by the litter, as I breach the plans of 3D bodies that are higher and above all the power games spoken the living words birthing me in; but back to this golt of 1.21 gigawatts coursing at the stretching scream of brake lights, setting me back to writing line after line with Doctors at my head with brown dials ready to test me.

Please pull a consensus of appointed apprentices calling evaluation of these culture scars, please give me a bible of rhetoric that I wasn’t born under but take up face, and please, as I baptize myself in words of old literature, preach preach with a grin like it was a day at the beach; what reaches is the insurance of purpose by an insane instinct to: call people to work, bear witness and reap the over sowed crops that met the fold of fate’s “Deacon” of decisions, and in unsure passiveness with an unsurpassed pacifistness, please bringing in rational action to this.

Finally, again in repetition to music replayed. Respect to bizarre endings following the darkening and fading visions repaid, as well as criticism from myself as I don’t recall how it restarted; nor how I got to the end at all again. From shadows to shadows cast outside the image of goodmen upholding their sword like bibles against devils that go unwanted. The work becomes difficult but then a glimpse of actual thought comes in like a bottle of lighting being poured into machines that don’t need roads. Please bring this under evaluation under old english preachings and workings that bring rational editing to my idea of poetry.