Extery III

Some half speed-poetry, some half free writing :D
Okay, here goes.



So here's nine tenths,
But where is the,
Missing section, the tenth,
Because that's the piece with a name.

Yggasdrill,
Yesterday's flowing into tommorow,
Got to get another,
Got to get another,
And we've got a finite slow,
Slow which trickles,
Deeply fickle,
Ringing some bells,
Inciting some stale,
Longing,
Longing.


Maybe just some free writing now...

I mean, poetry kinda failed.
Is crap, ja? (H)


So I've got fourteen shades of sundown sunset cinemas. As the fiery glow of the sinking sun, like a ship lost in the amber fire sea of the azure, burning horizon, so illuminates our eventual decline into what we once happened to call a depth of sanity.
At any rate, the importance is left in a folded coat with buttons and eyes and a smiling simmerlip. Watch it crack like cement under a thirteen ton atmosphere. Watch it break into a grin so cracked and wide that it stands alone from a face, so that it is like someone has stretched a grim mirthmouth over the air.

Trees are tall, great serpent-swirling roots of wood and moss, like a thought laced with potential. Just as the entangled roots are a network of snakes so too are the potentials like a thousand different winking eyes, ten thousand different voices which all groan the same word: "Here."

Here... the place which now begins in because this is where we are. Here which is impossible to locate but in which we never leave. Here which can be so long from where you want to be but is always where you want to be irrespective.

Stuttering out over the page is the rattling drone of fingers falling onto keys. Whispering out into life are the words so dripped onto paper. Green is life, and a forest with a cacophany of colour sitting just outside a door with a million shimmering beauties crisscross miraging into the single sigh of a single sight.
A flower.
A flower in a tree, like a beauty in a power, like the single word of poetry in a war chant... "To battle, to blood and honour and to a morning which is ours!" A selfish and barbaric cry of ownership, but a morning is beautiful. So like a morning with fire blossoming in a sky, so too a flower which aches so much for it's own sight that it quivers with beauty, shimmering and shivering as if the extent of it's colours were a winter.

So listen if you're asked a question; you can have a million answers and nobody needs to know what's right. Because we've got every hope and dream tucked into our arms.