Was The Peregrine To Mine? — A Sightseer’s Poem
Black as the narrowed sky at a screening night before the final cogs and turns of Battle
Square.
Square. Unobjected by a point that can be all and none to a wall; for that abstract is the garnered reach of Humane Height; Oh silly jay, to narrowcast as that!:
A Square stiff with sight — prior and blinded to, comes bethought tonight.
Red Square: Now lifting to the nigh unto fear, caused by the rising of such heightened birds that consume their prey on the wing.
Yellow Square: Taught with the belittling tears of fear that shake and cause the heart to thud without a discernable beat — pity was it, for death would come swiftly soon thereafter.
Blue Square: Loose, compared to the last, yet so sunken in the shallow Aquila of tipped points of pride and conjected brides, its fate seems so trivial to mine now, that therein belies its ruin by obscurity; pray for my jutting ply.
Black Stiff; Black Square: Though many of you would rather have it as transformative or loose in separation by its jade of color, it cannot be; It is Black as the narrowed sky at a screening night before the final cogs and turns of Battle;
It is Black as the despair felt in the fetching pyre of fear, that is the humane cause and effect whereby discovery beckons the black away but only heightens the fear by introducing more fear by the now unbeknownst, rustled up at your feet.
It is Black as the depression that soaks armored breasts and nude arms to a loathsome state; one never conjected upon too greatly by the suffering, but all had in jest by the observer — Aye, that could be the true black state within the humane bode of thought living and idol crunching done by reasoning.
Though wretched as the thoughts may percolate to be, I figure it a fancy higher to deeply condense this into a contemplation — which, is an acclimation often lauded by the ones’ who never possess to do — often sits in the rocking chair under the chestnut tree of forgetfulness, ironic as bruxing curses so be.
If that so completes ye — circumnavigating to one’s being under this wistful and vapidly caprices stars in that widening cosmos beyond humane rational, why isn’t it applauded as I would do so for a beloved friend?
The eye of Humane fists of Terror becalmed by the choices had and known through the contemplation that affords itself the sanity of being becalmed by the possibilities — but if the Human mind wasn’t so riddled with contradictions for its sanity and wellness, where would most be employed at now?
Man may so be super in the night before me — lauded to the lands possessing him almost entirely — the last thing we need, I quake wistfully is his unbridled attention to serendipity.
Man may also be so splendidly foolish to his own choice before that super-land in his might, I might as well continue to turn my ways from him and ignore him; though, you fully well know, I cannot turn my back away from them all, even to the blistered sights — a mere sightseer, if I had to be anything to it all, it would be that.
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As ever, Dear Reader.
