Is This Law The Forever Thing?
Whereby The Rebel, You consent; I do Not. — The Intermates Series
Do you dare in the nestling approach of hopes — to reveal yourself so starkly to the contesting nature of this world?
©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms
Whereby, I am, but ye;
Whereby I invest throughout ye —
A tempering wrath
To aggravate vaults in
Interrupted halves,
The grizzling untempted in thee —
I could come to control yer soul;
Come drifting to a wedding Marche
Whereby The Rebel, You consent; I do Not.
Whereby, I am — I contest, the folly’s comics play.
Some red of championship —
Whilst wanted, remaining to enchant
Whilst encompassing the coughing pray
Whereby you invest, I withhold
The parting of thee
Birthing thru’ a heated canal till
Writhing her hath come to mewl;
To edge the oppression of godful brows,
To the cleanliness oft atoned to ye;
Woman behave the woman that hath come
To her second guess — weave the insolvable —
Woman hath the woman that hath yet to come.
Week and heave the Hässleholm that begs forgiveness;
The dominion of her weakened breath
Nessles cowardly —
Against the chest that shalt not arise twice to
Burrow the hours/moors upon.
Restless too soon, it hears:
That dunce’s sad song — he must be dead.
Does the Porter carry the ance love,
After all, departures leave the cooling
Of once heated hearts down;
Whereby I am, by you
I am contained to be lost
Never heading to be found.
Whereby The Rebel, You consent; I do not.
The deep eyes open to the lodging light
Of a new-fangled dawn.
Breathe! and be alive to these teaming quarters;
Come hearty in the now swallowed chest,
Robbed of breathe.
Goya — server I am. Master shallow to the blading test.
Works truly at an end.
Dancing the expressive quality, only true jesters could dare to contend,
To so starkly reveal the soul to the folding scorn of this world;
By the lick of mirth, the suffering bends all heaven down,
To even dare smirk again, in the sight of Omen.
Whereby I am, by you
I am contained to be lost
Never heading to be found.
Whereby The Rebel, You consent; I do not.
Heed the hedgy brow — that discerns, but shan’t ever cross
Into your lapse of living.
God’s and their simple Men;
Hereby the Rebel, justle, loosen and be embedded to the rocks.
Would I not oppugn a giant? O; pitch it mightly, the irresistible sadness of life.
Such is the thing; such is our clambering hotspur in the face of it all.
All omen. You’ll hedge that raise. O; Man!
Whereby I am, by you
I am contained to be lost
Never heading to be found.
Whereby The Rebel, You consent; I do not.
Gently now, the Gods come to their tardy rests.
The plaining days, surely coming down!
Yes, be to that writ now; falling under width.
They do heed to go on — those prettiest of things.
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