Harveststorm

Poets, listen to hear.  The eleventh hour is among us. 

Truncation, tarnished in upkept sonic anchor, deep in the code, echoing in subjacency and the erstwhile logical. 

Tonic of symptomatic quasi-formed inclination, invocation of their bucholic ridicule dressed in superiority and comforting rage. 

Comporting the messenger to transcriptions, ebbing its way to the intuitive, domain of their harvesting the hypothetical, imbricated in the instillations of indentured omniscience. A passive God, punishing Job, a sadistic God, indifferent to human pain.  A blessing God, rewarding arbitrarily in appeals to the imagination.  A puppeteering God, who cannot see his strings.

There is an anchor in his heart, connected to the one is his throat.  Hush listen, the silence...a call... time to dance.

Dance with me for now.  Perfection is a short lived satori, feeding further insights, born in the steps.

He feels the feverpitch, increments of the infinite, not again he thinks, inwardly "again", he says, a part of him sits in judgement over him like a tyrant he plans his own overthrow perpetually.  Portly pontificates whisper whipping inclination, divining imported imputed inevitable eventualities.

Pimping division, to the rhetoric of a seduction, deep in the ion, culminating in the suspension of the atomic, contortion is the sign it's working he thinks, everything is normal.  There are shackles for the shackles...provision is dead, they design hells who design for wants alone. 

Arbitration of inclined absentia, she lifts her head to see the stars again, wonder is a romantic notion she thinks, and as she meditates on this, the unspoken ritual of every being in every crag encrusted regolithic custom sifts in dreams in comforts divined by their implemented distinctions.

To dream alone of heaven is a kind of hell he thought.  What?  she says?  And he is comforted.

He says beauty is not just a place but a thing powered by inevitability.  If someone takes the batteries out, heaven blips on the screen like an old TV just a dot radiating and dissipating back to nothingness.  We Buddhas with our vicious wisdom. He laughs, she laughs along too...this is enough.  Harveststorm.