Sapling Worlds.

A longing for a new and spiraling perception
Through the same twisted-green eyes as always.
To search through infinite ranges of mountains-
Descending the aurora's purple valleys with a floating ability-

And to swim shimmering empty space's dark depths,
Breathing airy atmospheres of lands of dreams that hide
In a lunar forest, deep in the labyrinth of a hermit's lonely mind.

And to drift through an eternally green-
a tribal, south American green,
field that blesses me with lavender smells
That immerse my skin and eyes with a new understanding
of the soil's spirit.

And for a newly found center-
Entirely centered within an abyss' clear nothing.
Thoughts then flow, and form their individual
Sapling new worlds.

This I look for and continue to accept-
This free, free world.

Mountainside Air.

A berry twinged white tea, cold as ice, flowing down the jagged crooks,
Protruding out the face of a wise and knowing stone Buddha,
11 thousand silent, brooding feet high; high on that nature's air,
The air that rushes slowly around my outstretched and reaching arms,
Lifting me into those soft, welcoming, clouds, that accept my voice and weight
And carry my open soul to a cave that holds death, truly, and takes me in.
Breaks my expectations there, releasing me to a soft soil
Under an elm's sap-encrusted and Golden bark.
Breath that air of nature and Oriental Dao-
Feel its detailed currents breeze within your cold and begging soul.
And climb the mountain's top, and don't stop there, says Japhy,
As he runs the height of a mountain, and instills the Aesopian morals
Deep in my heart.

Personal Walden.

You know, there's a reason I love nature so much-
And trust human ties so little.

Conditioned from birth to see ulterior truths in personal love.
Yet not once has the world betrayed me. It stands to
Open my mind, and fill my eyes with beauty
Beyond comprehension.
So cut your ties,
and join me at
Your own Walden.

Neon.

A neon figure is the anti-thesis of this natural day.
He moves, I stay.
And nature is again only lit by its own fires
of a slow death.

Autumnal Paradise.

Finding spontaneity withing an unmoving
Dense terrain.
Its soiled and earthly shimmers
Scream to me of an
Autumnal Paradise.

I answer with appreciation.

Frost-Bitten Mind.

These branches.
These charcoaled and knotted branches.
Reaching for a grip upon something that my
Frost-bitten mind can't begin to comprehend.
Their upward roots point millions of fingers
At the very same thing.
Even the spotted few leaves, refusing to let go-
Until they notice me.
And mockingly fly, again, pointed to what,
I don't know.
But I'll sit until I do.

Eye, blinking.

Runners-
In a marathon-like number,
Rush past the same view that I pause
and inspect.
All their colors blend into a nature-ignoring
Eye, blinking.

And the cars!-
Zooming past a chill waterfront that holds a marine soul
Unlike any other.
Their mechanically mammalian bodies
Don't even try.
But I do.

Mornings.

An Arctic cold encases me
But I gladly accept,
And ask for more.

What can be better
Than your own breath
Being the clouds on a
Brisk morning in a park?

Technological Bruises.

A monumental metallic snake,
The color of a black Death.
Spanning its length over a winding dark night's blue river.
Statues of technological achievements bruise
The natural scene.

Wheat's Soul.

A blowing field of
Yellow and brown wheat,
Extending its soul
In a winter day's air
And lives.

Acres.

Acres fly past my awe-inspired eyes.
Try to appreciate each one.
And a sad organ sings notes
of hopeful pain.

At Peace.

Tufts of soft cotton suspended in a tranquil sea.
Now the dead, but eternally standing men of nature,
Craft dancing shadows upon my view.
Finally a balance, and so is sky's beauty.

A distraction presented, but personal will drives me to truly see.
Nature's metallic acoustics reach me now.
My mind drifts in a dream's lake.
At peace.

City-bound Bus.

Biting cold gnaws at my
Bones as I board a
City-bound bus.
But first was the walk-
The musical and sun-endorsed walk.
Shade on wheels now.

I Am One.

Two lanes, infinitely going,
Pushing all,
Forward.

Imprisoned emotions meet imprisoned animals,
Staring as if-
In a mirror.

Such caged similarity,
Now conversing,
and understanding all the same.

As I watch my insides and out, clash,
And now, mesh.

I am one.

Night's Love Story.

1. She extends her hand,
Promises divine emotion,
And a true, utter escape.

2. I push, craving the intent of hers
To always beg for my allowance.

3. I begin to cradle her hand,
Cupping its soft, pure, and warm aura.

4. To feel now, such immense retinal pressure,
And still not embrace her back.

5. Wipe away those dreaming tears,
And take me.

Frequencies.

Almost silent,
Frequencies higher than Burroughs
drive chemical paranoia deep into my thoughts
and music-oppressed ears.
As I resist sleep's beckoning hand.

Baker's Dozen.

A baker makes a dozen,
and slips an extra two,
to show me my habits.

Points,
Highlights,
Exemplifies,

An urge to find inner peace,
But what the cost?

Memories, maybe some.
Personal, hopeful naivety-
As slip by another baker's dozen,
and then some.

Outside Dreams.

Soft whispers of intoxicating melodies
Reach me as I dream outside a moving pane of windows.
Lights contrasting against night and air.
Demonic trees and infinitely dark abysses.
As I watch.

Aerial Shadows.

Space's black;
Imitated by a dense forest's haunting limbs,
Casting an aerial shadow from God's night eye.
They weave upon this backdrop,
Climbing stairs and dancing to nature's hushed music, before my eyes.

Despite the ghastly image, it invites me in,
And I follow.
Dare not question in.

Now a hill is ascended as if no other option is presented.
Each step uncovering a new piece of the infinite landscape.
All being formed mere fractions of time before
I'm allowed to view.

Finally-
Light, pure night's essential light,
Radiating this newly created environment.
Steps taken, beauty found.

A Natural Spectacle.

Faces turn in awe of a natural spectacle
Clouds illuminated by the off-white, off-center
Circle.

Brakes pulled on the highway just to watch.

Be.

The things I do,
The places I go,
Things I understand.
Be.

Entertainment.

What is entertainment?
You know, I'll tell you.
It's appreciation of anything you wish.
It's contained explosions of life as you love it.
Be entertained.

Mirrors.

Downtrodden into a pool,
With a lunar reflection,
Showing what no mirror can.
A face of contempt found in the yellowed orb.
Even the night's dew-encased grass shows the mirrored sky's truth.

Stand, and accept nature-
Mirrors too.

In the Circle of Thoughts.

A circle of thoughts,
Some of conceit,
In a garage of antiques.

Unaccepted presence,
Ironically,
Holds the loudest voice.

And then, emotions.
A flow of desired attention.

And a voice, emitting contrasting beliefs.
That voice, dreaming of self-fulfillment,
Is the loudest voice
In the circle of thoughts.

Pierced Perception.

A buried, possible Truth.
A Bible suppressing faith.
An arrow pierces the covers, pierces the words-
Pierces perception.

But you keep reading.

Dream.

Pt. 1

A societal space age relates to a moon's view of sleep's dreams.
Ancient branches secure a resting place for observation.
Stars gleam for a thought to escape mental prison.
And from where comes this land?

Pt. 2

Dreams,
Please dream.
Escape,
and now Observe.

Tomorrow's Dreams.

And so,
a very exhausted mechanical beast,
tracks still in place in the mind,
releases its stale steam into the air.
Wheels screech into place,
cemented infinitely,
until a Natural Conductor allows more forward motion,
Tomorrow.

Accept Art.

Sometimes, rest is desired,
yet simultaneously forced.
Thoughts paused, life continued,
Art emerges; creeps like a wounded hound into light.
Maybe a hospital is passed.
Allow pain, accept Art.

The Psyche's Trick.

Pt. 1

Pain, so rich and mentally maiming,
reaching a point of comedic value.
No longer recognizing the boiling rage,
a face undergoes a true metamorphosis to embody
a lie;
A psychological trick.
And then –
Calm.

Pt. 2

But still,
memories,
knowing,
and pain.

Live.

Displace any lack of hope
With truth of beauty.
Stop, and start again.
Life is beautiful.
So live.

Degradation to Self.

An equity to the mammalian state of being,
Degradation to, in truth, one self.

And to rise above?
Nothing but an immobile fantasy.

So I stand, and think.

Lonesome.

A lonesome life is an eternal experiment.
And only one judgment of failure or success.

So please, accept death.

Nothing.

Such daily nothingness
Should be reached for,
Dreamed for,
Desired.

Instead rejected
Set aside for hurt,
misery,
yet thought.

Oaken Mysteries.

The most complex of simplicities,
Of survival, of life.
Branching to a sense of continuation of self.

Root self in soil.
Allow beauty and truth to grow and feed
From the nature imposed ugliness of fulfillment.

Suppose death overcomes this trial?
Its mark remains, beauty continues.
Survival in death, yet in life.
Now branch, and grow.

Birds.

A final;
Twilight tries to display God’s hope,
and is distracted by the Birds’ incessant chatter
directly into the nature-encompassing ears.

Noise or beauty, misunderstood.
But for truth, these ears and birds must exist.
For it is Birds that I crave.

Existential Ranking.

A last,
gasping breath over a
flood of false truth.

Success waits to step from
fog-coated shadows in the mind.
Belittlement of existential ranking
is a self-imposed handicap on freedom.
Time will aide success.

Prevention of falsity,
be a yellowing moon over the dark forests,
forgetting society.

But the next surge comes,
doubt and overpowering fear.
And the last,
gasping,
breath –