A painted pastiche to be placed in the last Isle of Innisfree
What style and grace be seen in a humble peace and tranquility.
Free your mind to a lilac breeze and see my true hypocritical capacities.
Known will be the vertigo of a bumblebee and how it would to be – just a bee.
For E-pit-o-mE, this place my home, and in crevice, laments, made heart into stone, my Kentucky home. In crevice, laments, where the moss had grown.
Before the war, a winter’s snow, fairies lived here once – you know.
Seelie danced beneath the thumbnail, harvest moon and sang songs of labors ardor. Oh! What a celestial spring, voices in sync, but doves lay at rest in vacant hours;
Do the mystic powers sleep? Father time does blow and has blown year’s good-bye.
Baby New Year had a submerged spirit with galvanized notions. There’s no authenticity.
We are the current in the sea of synchronicities, causing ripples in the searching for something to make us happy. But the treasure trove has been locked since antiquity.
and Mother Earth is still key, raped red from relinquished endowments at hands of idolatry.
My fellow Mysterions, adept to verities, inherent to The Sophia and Socrates;
Redeem those who suffered for sanity. Futurists have an opposing psalm.
Those Argonauts are thought pure, but young blood, young blood will endure.
Drink from a fountain of truth, and you will see. You are an-o-mie.
For no apostate, laughing Gnostic can turn patina into the perfect hue of blue.