Let's flex our creative muscles; for the poetic heads in the house...

[keep the flow going.. maintaining the train of thought]

Gifts spark, on paper.
They burn with words,
like this..
aiming hail storms of bliss
towards paths of mist.
Gifts spark, from heartfelt words of crude talent.
Unrefined, hamlet.
Shakespeare swords
deeply embedded in songs of surreal thoughts..
of me. Us.
Dancing in the whirlwind, and breezing in the rain.
We are the gift, of godly grandeur. Crafting artistically on page less hearts.
We create the tunes, they follow the rhythm.
Our gift, our fire...

Tongues burning,
uncontrollably spanning
over rich horizons of flammable prose.
set on fire in an age of song,
tuned by lyre in a sage-like form.
poetic dusk sets in,
A metamorphic ambience.
stepping on mine, my own shadow and it spoke back. A piece of fabric from my realness.
I abused it intense.
In depth, seeing through it. Through me.
And the sun shone its due, playing with my position. Our positions.
Within time, we moved together
in directions defined by its aspect, its perspective.
Then God switched off, and darkness made us one.
For a moment only...

All is good?
Really?

Me not think so, for:
In the space that is no place
Shards of linear time scatter
Smithereens of a broken illusion
The psyche shudders,
Here we once thought reality was real
But no mind, for every thought and belief
No matter how wildly conceived or held
Leads inexorably on to that peak
The truth that all must needs acknowledge
Unity, it is all there is
No where
No when
Singularity
The one that be all

{{{{{ Mobb Deep 'shook ones' background beat.}}}}}