Stones of age, sparkling in sun,
gleam at the light to hold.

A few dull—where nothings run,
Seams with trifles cold.

Pressure and pressure— more dull rocks won,
Nothing to shine in light.

They gleam their darkness to fade the sun,
Nothing to shine at sight.

With enough pressure,
And time just right.

A fissure,
A spark— sets light.

For in the weight of ignorance- of dull stones,
A spark, not wisdom, pulls blight.

Now,
For the sheer weight of consequence to mold-
The light, of dull rock— can first hold.

A diversion at play,
A separatist dismay.
To inform you of worry,
So that now you’re sorry.
No self for you,
You have what comes due.
Colors they besiege,
To fill their barbaric siege.
Tell them woe thee.
And now, worries see.
Weakness in what is selfless,
Holy what they draw out.
They slander what they spout.
They are superior,
For their inferior.
Nonsense at play,
So don’t let it dismay.
History repeats,
But you have the cheats.
Let them be,
So they can end what they see.

Gentle breeze,
Softness that touches ears.
It comes and goes.
It does what shows.
It is mutual.
It brings scents of sweetness,
Or brings clouds of death.
But to tell why,
You may hold your breath.
Do not worry,
It is not what’s due.
Love in patience,
Will always- walk back to you.

Mirage of lives,
Ever tell me current lies.
Mirage of time,
Sever bells that cries.
I live today,
But I died tomorrow.
I live today,
To see the old of me present.
Dead memories,
Unknown reality,
What shall wake me,
treacherous why.

Sometime I see,
Drift of serene shadows.
Sometimes walls float,
Amidst empty gallows.

Hard to feel
The taste of veal,
Hard to sense,
What feelings miss,
On Lee.

Not what I see,
Not shared reality.
All could be
What’s not in me.

I walk a shallow,
Its fallow hums.
Howls rise empty,
Fell the blue tree.

Cherry without taste,
A dream’s faint state.
What lies in my realm
Lacks any helm.

A lonely road I walk,
To Salk an open goad.
I must see
My illusions, gee.

It’s lacking,
No meaning.
What fallacy must play,
On killing today.

I map a function what is real,
To output something that can be.
A map of truth’s appeal,
To a boundless destiny.

The unknown it analyses,
The truth that is confined.
Black box of mystery’s,
Tools to set and find.

Axiom to choose,
Hold what not to loose.
Axiom of premise,
Domain of voice.
Infinity in what’s empty,
A category of noise.

The mystery to seek,
Is not all so bleak.
The joy to find what’s in the dark,
Can cast an unknowable spark.