Djjapp777
Bluelighter
Look... a mysterious sighting guiding one's curious eye.
My serious finding, abiding in a Future binding not so shy,
but abide to the bidding of a once delirious bridge...
between a past boy and bride.
The color of her hair I do not know,
whether branded in Gold or Blood, it is what Man craves, it is why Man fights his wars.
This golden Fire hangs from her head, rising from the mind and heart,
and just as reliable as Faithful, dangerously exhausts off her baby tongue.
And where there is a baby, there are loving parents, red from the heat, never to part,
protecting their child from the invading snowy skin...
Snow clouds thick enough to block the sun,
but soft enough opposite the demeanor of the young world they cascade.
And like the clouds, like the walking storms we know, most conjur words to elevate one's self.
She does justice in elevating the word as well, whether as a healthy flute or one muzzled at the nose.
It is the laughter, the whisper, the voice, and the ear - to which Amadeus faints.
Feints of Faith, we had a Mad Dash to a Sad Damnation.
Probation for us for probing relations, gestation of a revelation becomes summation of Complication and Pontification, hammered through in a slowed motion, crooked and bent.
If all this is true.. then what was the arrow's point if the arrow's head was not on straight?
Nothing, because Beauty still rises.
In the end Gold and Blood will fall to ash, but the Fire will always bring stargazers.
My serious finding, abiding in a Future binding not so shy,
but abide to the bidding of a once delirious bridge...
between a past boy and bride.
The color of her hair I do not know,
whether branded in Gold or Blood, it is what Man craves, it is why Man fights his wars.
This golden Fire hangs from her head, rising from the mind and heart,
and just as reliable as Faithful, dangerously exhausts off her baby tongue.
And where there is a baby, there are loving parents, red from the heat, never to part,
protecting their child from the invading snowy skin...
Snow clouds thick enough to block the sun,
but soft enough opposite the demeanor of the young world they cascade.
And like the clouds, like the walking storms we know, most conjur words to elevate one's self.
She does justice in elevating the word as well, whether as a healthy flute or one muzzled at the nose.
It is the laughter, the whisper, the voice, and the ear - to which Amadeus faints.
Feints of Faith, we had a Mad Dash to a Sad Damnation.
Probation for us for probing relations, gestation of a revelation becomes summation of Complication and Pontification, hammered through in a slowed motion, crooked and bent.
If all this is true.. then what was the arrow's point if the arrow's head was not on straight?
Nothing, because Beauty still rises.
In the end Gold and Blood will fall to ash, but the Fire will always bring stargazers.
