So I have returned to the canvas of wiled thoughts again

through the pen in old english script, shall I begin?

As Altair, the taurean prefect, mocking the wind

my tongue twisting blend of words, compliment

the enjambment 'pon lines of blue scape on the page

resting by the lotus pointed out by the old sage

who speaks philosophy to me while sipping grains

of rice fermented to wine, changing my ways.

So I indulged, swayed with the lotus adjacent

to me, rooted, as I slowly tip over complacent

with the sage, I'm hysterically laughing at this patron

who won’t stop practicing his art of over talking

about motion, the ocean, angels, and sipping potions

in the dead sea scrolls, yet he left out something

so related to this art of mine, the inclined poem

written by yours truly, upon this mountain.

Yet this script is not about the things I see

The old sage, the page, or manifest from his company

I want to make it random, a tryst of internal me

External responses as they speak where my pen bleeds

Who holds the key to the door made of sycamore?

Leaves me dumbfounded in remorse of its contour

Love stains war, nevermore shall they push forth

Upon the precibus of the natives tears, lost

To the floor, salt of the wound burns to the core

Tenderizing for four scores the seed so raw

As the crow stands unafraid, whispering nevermore

I open my eyes to make sense of this paramour. 

Sigh..in this deep breathing I become high

As the star that mimics me shoots through time 

Oh I wish, sometimes, to escape to youll never find 

Any trace of me, as if you existed blind 

Without the serendipitous push from the divine 

Inclinations to ones intuition to outline me 

As a black and white pencil colors my chi 

An updated version of lynx’s imagery 

So lost in mute space, I warrant it’s company 

This is all for now, stay tuned for what I mean.