Seeded need...

The slightest greed growing in enveloping intensity,
the seeded need invested in the knowing of complexity.
Supposing a seeming abysmal singularity,
practices an escapism through inevitable polarity.

On the quiet...

On the quiet perhaps.
We could surreptitiously thrive
by a series of messages brief
and hastily filtered through
our idealised selves.
Cleansing and renewing
those versions of vows.
Forever faultlessly tender.

To my...

Moth of beautiful un-adorn
to my butterfly tart tattered palate...
Betwixt frilly and the fruity,
let us insects be...
Amongst the exotic inhabitants
in this curious cerebral hothouse.

into the new day...

Just view it bittersweet,
this delicious breaking.
Cracking of the egg
over dawn's horizon.
The skies experience
bleeding into the new day.

bend and not break...

What am I?
But to bend and not break.
Swelling into recesses
within the boundaries,
of your form limited.
You flow away free and
by a darkness and a glow
I let you...

Baby, Emily Herself, The girl and I...

This is a seemingly ancient piece now, but while doing some journal "spring" cleaning, I noticed that I never re-added the revised version. So I shall do that now.

Emily Herself gazes fixedly upon screaming baby.
From a perspective such as this;
it may appear baby has never been,
other than a screaming.
Emily Herself does, reserve a certain fondness for baby.
But more so out of habit than actual emotional attachment.
These years have been elongated years...
Emily Herself fixed, pinned to this wall.
This particulate moment, particular scene.
Baby hasn't much to do, with the essence Emily Herself,
of or relating to her minute discrete particles or substance.
Emily Herself minus baby.
It is merely within the line of sight.
Nothing more...it was not planned.
She methodically yet distractedly,
narrates the largely void and silently sentimental details.
Not much fussed with baby, is the girl.
Emily Herself seldom herself looks at the girl.
Only stares...stares, huge cavernous eyes at baby...
On subject of Emily Herself, it isn't terribly important.
Only Emily Herself to the girl, and therefore by proxy to me.
Emily Herself; thinks the girl, is one of those quaint names...
Ever so popular in the nineteenth century.
Conjuring up images of porcelain white suicide brides, abandoned altars.
Although Emily Herself, a plain woman she may have once been.
Has been lent a waning and frail bone pallid refinement.
The girl and her utter aesthetic contrast to Emily Herself,
is the primary reason she is so fascinated with Emily Herself.
The girl as Emily Herself with Baby,
has forgotten I'm here.
The girl is uncertain if Emily Herself is even aware of her existence.
She feels that her own awareness may be fading,
and may only be of significance in relation
to the admiring of Emily Herself.
That while defining Emily Herself,
She experiences a disintegration of her own persona and individual identity.
I often wonder, what The girl truly does see within Emily Herself.
What Emily herself represents for The girl.
The meaning of the silent daily observations.
I think it merely just exasperates the separateness of us all...
Baby, Emily Herself, The girl and I...

Restless...

A vexation is such,
that restless constant.
I shall be to decide,
forced between inky darkness utter.
And an all encompassing
particle piercing brightness.
Radiating like some demented beacon,
into night's insomniaic depths.
The conundrum lies within
an apparent phenomenon...
Where three sentences paradoxically,
seem equal to atleast three hours
of tedious sleep deprived dialogue.