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Misty waters locked up inside a cloudy stream, shed a lonely existence behind my weeping eyes. Deserted highways drift me away into my shallow numbness of my dreams. Murky rivers bleed me into the bold horizons where I strive to be the eagle that soars above adversity. However, sometimes no matter how hard of a fight the kicked puppy puts up, he just can't get any air in the end. Frolic inside the windows of your tulips, you honeybees who dance on top of my serene riverbed. For this musical storm shall breathe me into cultural platitudes that deliver remorseful tears to my hungry soul. Driven is the bleeding spirit who lingers inside the sands of time only to slip through the cracks of social longevity, and arise from the abyss to recapture the flourishing platitudes of this blizzard. Angelic hymns are sung by a church choir of angels who get absorbed in the hussle and bussle of the windsong. For I am the river that burns through your pulsating heart. I am the drifter of your solace, but you are the hungery who tears through the pages of my light. I am not the song of your hidden desires. For only you can hum the tune to your own existence. Shall rivers be not frozen, but must act on the guidance of heavenly hosts to extricate the wholesome dove so he can fly above whispering clouds and flow into the ghastly covenant of the thickened skin. Drink up your sour wines and let them embrace your paper soul. Cotton clouds drink up blind spirits that envelope you in the drunken bliss of driven beams of light.

I am not the staple crop of your blaze of fire. For these garments must be lead thru hallow roads of saintly delight. However, if the lasso continues to break fleshy mountains, then the rocks shall come tumbling down upon your razor tongue. Drive your beastly tendencies into the flames of rebirth, and send in the King of Truth to devour your everlasting essence. Wake up inside the holistic creed of your earthly body, and surmise your burning flame. For the angelic hosts of the golden gates surround your crumbling foundation with lavendar and thyme. Burn into my flesh so my hallow tomb can rest for the eerie sunset to rise above the rage that has built up inside the overflowing fountain. I wish to suppress this indulgence of your vengeful brigade. I will not be the match from where your fire is lit. For I shall become the road that leads into the tunnel of darkness, only to be lifted by holistic crystals, and be delivered into the hands of salvation.

Learn more about this author, Joanna Maharis.
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