fortify.

as he drives he sees and perceives the lines, but can't yet accept the rhythm of the highway life. [having never been] such a flightless bird, recounting in the jetstream as the chill and the brunt slaps with the wake of reconciliation. sometimes while in arms the thought of those lawyers [you remind me of a lawyer, and i hate lawyers.] is persistent enough to force the frigid air into the seams of his jacket, coating and dripping to lose. the car's burning.

dried.

a swollen thought between the bolts out-of-mind [out-of-blue]
i've, down these steps to the wishing well,
step fast, step smooth,
steep stepping the movement itself.
a pass, col[lap]se-
i've, floundering in light of the view.
dimming the rays while the pas[sing] tolls
sounding off those few roots' pleas, twist and fail.
the son of my father is a thief and a cheat,
i've. [cease].

melting-

my eyes droop, and close.
op e n i n g
to find what's forgotten in seasons passed.
of raindrops, a bow
is strung to pierce the sounds we hear in wishing, seasons strong.
i'll catch the massive cold where i belong-
wronging grips
on a spindle freeze,
oh pleading the water's grip to ease
away. alone, steps in tides.
cleansing stone-wrought mother's eyes-
from seven lonely sides.
rain, rain, snow.

diving.

I am alive and a drip, diving.
transcending the smile with a scowl.
my bed is a mirror of the downfall of man
and i'm drowning the fault with these keys,
again.
as my ear grazes pillows, the echoing truth,
a hound and a flame both produce
the same, lies.

rust-free thinking.

If you're green, lie to me;
but understand i'm in.
When are you back to the Sleeping Place?
Carry me there, a blackness evermore;
if only (to burst)-
At last, Defeat! Plots...
A heavy trot i've heard- a song.
I'm living in a week of minutes as 
         you
               creep
                       along.

regards to a drifter.

progressing in the sense of delay...
truth be known, be shown,
to be an exfoliation to end the world.
my regards to a drifter, the maestro of openings.
let his chilled iron thought regress into bloom.
to these stacks, these piles, pillers, and peaks,
thought the one to the showers of nature to speak.
the golden? no. the iron, be done.