The sailing sun whos smile restored serenity, warned the city (in (slow/haste) that they may receive a day of impact (profoundness). All caught in the comfort of its loving arms may/had been reminded they may never/naught return the pleasure. Sailing far in directions unknown across a sky teeming with clarity. The horizon severed by the promise of a new day. Not a sign of any delight presented itself that may have had any of us question the experience/events ahead. Stillness in motion.

Riches abroad laid before me like sheep to Judas goat. Glory is (a trait born with any heir to a throne) deemed tradition/(like a bloodline of child to king) /necessary, for it has been nothing but persistent. Garments of the rarest kind were filth when the bathed on our family of royalty. Equally well off as we were well known, none of us saw farther than the money held in hand. The wealth showered my family with the same warmth of the rising sun. Somehow, though, leaving myself bare in the eyes of onlookers. Born into this wealth, there was never a hope that it’s fountain may dry leaving us to fester the alleys with the rats. How audacity bathed me in it’s spit, the lowly stool pigeons had been seen laughing with no care in their hearts. Laughing to laugh would never bring a penny to the pocket of man whose stomach echoes, nor a dime to a woman who’s body is damaged/uncleanly by the elements. Oh, what a pleasure it was to be greeted daily by faces unrecognized. Still, my hearts lifts airborne by lack of comradery, and empty is my body without a heart filled with amity. A greeting is null if not poured from the same mouth held in abundance (?) that very next day, for most rest easy in silent knowing they may hear the song of love from the mouth breathing upon them as they dream.

Oh, how my body weeps in (empty dreams) slumber only to wake to a soul unnourished. No water nor sustenance is ample. A soul sick with ailments of desolation feeds barely off the body it resides, the body betrayed cries in silence as beautiful days pass by. Tears borrowed from angels (slowly?) shower beneathe dirty clouds

The eyes of my eyes held blank stares when looking upon the reflection in calm waters. My hand would shatter the mirroring waters (“not by my own doing”/unconsciously) if I were to gaze into it for more than a few moments, for an unknowable (inceptive?) knowledge of disgust bubbled from toe to head. The short walk away from the water left me stifled! For what was seen in my eyes that could not be seen by all those encountered? Do my tears hold no more value than the (hobos) wandering aimlessly through city streets? Does my blood not contain within it the worthiness to make peace with the gods if spilt from my body?

The (food) I eat sustains my stomache, but I am left with an appetite unsatisfied. The wine I drink opens the gates of sexuality, but leaves the morning after cold in midsummer days. The air I breathe shall never satisfy the appetite of lungs (frozen) beneathe a bed of snow, and if (fresh) untarnished (?) breathe does not provide comfort, then what alleviation do I yearn? What creature begs to dance outside it’s cage that has long been left open? Should not the joy of a day breathing clothe me in silk; material birthed by gods and used for the faithless.

Unencumbered bliss kisses the lips of earth for each child who walks bare upon it, every plant blooms to service the bodies scarred by intentions of cruel nature. Yet, the smile of a rose whose heart is opened by a loving sun does not reach the above the shadow of another’s body. (Does not laugh loud enough for the passer-by. Why must this be so, for do we not all laugh in the same language? The limited (amount) smiles wither by seasons to usher a spirit whose smile weakens in age.

A mother bears the pain of her child, she prays the child may never know. The child is left in bliss of the beautiful choice in ways a butterfly never knows the beauty of it’s own wings, only that the journey to receive them was needed

The mother sphere, gracefully provides, travels through darkness

Nay does the heart rest when fatigued, unlike it’s body which guards it. Oddly when peace has scorn the soul does the heart become calm and flow together with stars who birth us all.

The skin I form to would never see it’s own beauty, just as the heart within it can never escape to lands growing all colors of earth. frolicking in abundance.

The buried urn harboring guilt was unearthed each moment a smile danced through me, for only when my wealth was offered did I receive a smile at all. Circumstances stifled me, for is not (surely) a smile a gift no dollar can rival?

My mind (exhausted/fatigued), I counted the steps my feet made. The thoughts bordering ideas beyond it were at risk of entering woods where men are hunted and slain. The footsteps of my body fastened as to outrun the boar of a hunter disarmed, though ideas trample each other in a stampede orchestrated by the harmony(conductor)? of malaise.

No path already traveled could favor/complete the body of a man surrounded by naked women. While lust reacts to what is present, the heart is left colorless and screams against it’s ribs in mercy to no longer serve under the orders of it’s blind master.

My lungs struggling for air, an alley provided shelter. What fate was bestowed upon me that I may never know the comfort of breathe. The sounds of brush to canvas crawled to my ears, forcing my eyes to gaze upon the peasant. I know now, he was no peasant. Garments older than his age were wrapped upon his body. A studded knife and holster circled his hip, though a frail man as him could not hunt. Oils and acrylics had been smudged against his garments. The blood of another could not match the stains upon his garments. The ocean, too, may have been guilty for no amount of liquid could (match?) the stains of his clothes. It was obvious he had not been bare for quite some time. What body hates the removal of armor, to be exposed in the clothing we wear when leaving the womb? His brush strokes blew against the canvas, more elegant than a bird flapping it’s wings. (In first morning flight). The stretching of wings grace empty skies, and his strokes danced the way women love. His strokes blessed the empty canvas in ways no priest could practice. His body made me question who the canvas really was, for his movements were paintings also! Eager curiousity pierced through the soles of my shoes, forcing soft movement towards the painter

His gaze overpowered the protection of Medusa granted by Athena, for his stare sat upon thrones of beauty. His eyes scattered more quickly than the dance of his hands. Though no music was heard, his hands shared the dance of a waltz that legs dream of. The closer I came, (my prescence became part with his own) and/then/the more mystery shed it’s light. —silent spheres, speaking in the language of glares. Trees, too, speak often while gale(?) Winds break free the words traced upon it’s leaves. The storm within glares from those perfect circles cause plants to deepen their roots, though verily dost a woman retain strength by standing her ground.

“I paint to paint” he said
“What is it that you are so eager to paint” I spoke honestly.
“I paint the beauty and ugliness that exists within us all. I paint the bridge in which never and forever form. I paint the halls of nowhere and the paths of somewhere. I paint the world unseen, but that which is observed by us all with each rising sun.”
“I don’t quite understand”
“The sun knows not who it serves, but it’s happy to do so. The moon offers it’s gratitude towards it’s sibling by pouring it’s tip the glass of our land. The sun sleeps, but the world does not. What is within darkness is not understood, rather it is known. This knowing outlives the sun and moon, kept alive by the offering of both.”
“Please…I seek to fill my body with the love in yours.”
“I, too, wish to be filled to the brim with a passion that never empties. Wholeness has neglected me. Hollowness has made it’s bed along the terrain that is my first breathe to air we share now”
“Only the blood of —”
(The artists explains he is plauged with an overabundance of passion)
“Your ruined tongue lies old man! Your eyes embrace the rising sun. A foolish man you are to not love/appreciate/cherish the flames that douse/burn away the dangers of solitude. Offer me the vendible of your ambition, so that I too may know verve of the heart!”
“Your arrogance falls from your mouth each time it is opened, you will never know the affliction that dances with zeal when sun and moon no longer shine. Find solace within walls, and pray the pillars of sand bound along it are not touched by meddlesome waters”
His voice has become a mermaid who screams in pain. A theif steals to survive. A theuf I have willingly become, for the life before this died long ago. Trapped in eternal quagmire, the gates to freedom opened as blood fell from the painters throat unto my hands. The liquid (type of material?) of his body was heavy as (liquid metal) and more soft than a women’s touch. An ecstacy never known to mankind poured into my hands, and splashed against the floor. His last words struggled for definition while his upper and lower lip clapped each other. What wonder it is to see blood reflect the moon light! Especially the blood of a creature gifted with zeal! I showered myself in his juices the way a hot pigs lathers in mud. An orgasm shared between two lovers would never match the pleasure of his fluid. My clothing torn by my own hands, I lay naked but not bare! I have cloaked my skin in beauty. My palms hug one another as I dip into the red fountain I swim in. The cold red water meets my lips, a taste so divine my body shakes meets my tongue. The mouths of Those lost in deserts salviate the moment I sip, even they would gather envy from the flavor if this drink. No wine made in any lands consist of an ingredient so pure. More divine than an angels tears. His blood is our blood, our blood is my blood. We are one, we are full. I am whole.

The blood is put into a vial?

The wrath of passion attacked the stream of my being. A poison inflicted my veins. More sting than a snake bite, though it’s poison coarsed through my veins just as quick.

I traced back to the waters of the lake bed to bathe. I arrived to /glimpse/catch the sun breaking horizon in ways the baby seed tears through concrete. The warmth has blanketed my body as it always has, though the warmth of this day is unmatched by any day I have lived. Elation weakens my knees, my eyes descend as my head follows them. The eyes met on the still waters are not familiar. These eyes swallow fear and hang it’s severed head in colors on the iris. A blooming flower holds no beauty compared to the lush of these eyes that were now altered from previous sunrise. Eyes more full than the belly of a beast had witnessed themselves in reflection. Wholeness cuddled my body. A new mother holds her child with love in the same way she gaurds it with emotion, as it was with wholeness providing my body. Foreign sensations peaked, I jumped into the still lake bed as baptism./to remove the tainted coats of yesterdays skin which no longer served my body. –I have watched the quite sun, it now bears witness to a foreign guest. The garden/house of which it warms questions my presence. The (Mystic) eyelids of a -mysticism- run in opposition to escape the judgment my eyes shall conquer. Rise burning sun! Your flaming net becomes my ship! Your course, my desire! Hell fears the day I crash it’s gate. Oh, yellow light! Fly violently in my release. Expose fearlessly to me! I, too, am bare and burn within. Your unknown glory decays skin rendered useless the day before. Rise full, stand tall, and soar far as my chariot from this day!

First breathe inhaled after sinking to the bottom brought the heavens to my lungs and my heart danced.

Though the city remained still, what seemed a cage has now become kingdom

A thief and a liar are not cut from the same cloth!

Passions weighing more than a rewarding feast sparkled in his eyes. The flames of ambition cloaked not only his eyes, but his body! A creature of rarity.

“Your wish to know the endeavors of passion will be granted. The artist is gifted by the thoughts of a philosopher who’s ideas are never expressed, a dancer whose legs have been damaged, a writer whose words are shackled by language, a singer whose vocal chords have been torn apart, a musician who no longer sees harmony in their own propaganda/vendetta, an actor who no longer lies, an architect who designs in spit and builds with sand

—story end at the mirrored lake bed who meets a young man with all but passion. His eyes immediately remind him of himself at that age. He hates the young man with passion. (The power of passion/heart) he hasn’t seen such eyes in his life, but they hold the same emptiness he once felt. Main character warns of what a life filled with only passion contains. Young man dives into the water and disappears. Stares into water waiting for him to surface. As the ripples fade, the old version of him reflects in the water. Frightened and in shock, the passion within him begs to kill himself for the love of the self, the love of having experienced the lack of/overabundance of. Though young and vivacious, still empty. The bones of yesterday and the blood of today.

The ocean, too, embodies a world we may not enter. Lest we forget the depths harbor creatures who do not sleep. Flight is absent from our bodies.

Paints about three most horrendous and disgusting painting. He Hayes it so very much. It’s horrific. Death is in side is. Hold everything about him. The person he died it too becomes his lover somehow. Loves his paintings. His lover sees the pain. Beauty within strangeness.

Story of two painters. One young. One older. Young is rich for visual paintings while the other paints himself and is rewarded for nothing. The young is envious for his emotionally complexity while the older is envious of his riches. The young one murders the older one — and uses his blood to paint his best work ever created. –maybe—-continues to paint over and over with his blood–keeps some of his blood over the years(?) Extremely successful. His blood is all used up. His paintings becomes abstract and dissolving. He losses his mind. Grows older and older. Homeless. Everything gone. A young rich man crosses his path (ends how it starts)

He paints the way a man makes love to a body. His arms were the legs of a dancer. His movements were graceful and his eyes would turn any fellow observer into stone. A rare sight it was, for he had never seen such passion in another mans eyes. Indifference bestowed him. The same path was traced with mirrored steps to glance at the painter each day.