Stream of Consciousness

I do poems like these sometimes.

Well, here goes...

This is the moment that presents itself onto the world.  The time for the greatest of our minds to hinder the generations that have come before us.  To stop the forwardness and the evident cosmos that encapsulates their dreams.  things that have no value, now the most priceless in our collection.  Their brilliance shining like a diamond in the night showing the true side of our own frivolity.  Instant gratification unbroken to the power of the toiling geriatrics in the field.  Lost.  Lost is the word that holds the world.  Just as it's been and just as it always will be.  The illusion of control always seen, spoken of, conceptualized, but always in the air.  The words on the paper float off and set the earth in motion.the paper stacks and the body withers.  Nubile are the forms who enter the fray, surrounded by the schematics of ash and decay.  Tears help to lubricate the soul, to break down the potential into the kinetic and give rise to that which could never be imagined.  The paper melts, the aspirations and illuminations of the old blossom through baptism of the soul of the fresh.  Crescendo is the sight, the life of plan rejoices to it's apex causing a cacophony that envelopes the heart.

Pain.  Agony breaks from the rapturous form.  Sweltering boils and soars pop fizzles from the open wound of progress.  The unrelenting pain slows the mind.  Hinders the progress.  Brings kinetic to potential, but the fear frees potential.  Aches the soul.  Drives the mass forward.  Broken is the mind as it swirls and falls as the tempest in the night.  The squall that cannot be stopped and will never be.  The emotions at the keep forcing the logic back.  Corralling the unstoppable leviathan onto it's intended path.

Sights, sounds, smells, feelings, and thoughts.

Ideas.

Horizontally potential until spring-boarded into the kinetic.  Corralled by idea.  Moving forward so you don't stop.  Backwards is the other way to move.  Not preferred, but movement non-the-less.  Too slow, the rhythm is erratic and lacking of any syncopation.  Quality is only the truth of the masses and cannot quench the thirst that drives you to victory.

Sadly it's lost to the bard.  Only to return at it's own mercy.























I want it back.