Welcome to Poetry.com

“A SHORT TEXT:

Poetry is a muscular principle — an Olympic athlete humming diligently last nights underground Jazz Blast. Stage floorboards quaking, glasses of Gin, Champagne, and fine Brandy thrown among the spherical, half-florescent basement torn light.
And to be bleak as silvery-blue cumulus clouds hanging in the air lowly like rusted iron anvils.
Poetry loops, sending from the helix, expanding within our lives.
With a tattered, crimson-bound grimoire
—we can at least pretend to meet our old selves, cloaked in opaque-silken gowns, hoods veiled the sketched faces underneath—LOOK!
Perched upon a blue-indigo snow-capped mountain peak or to be festering, trapped away inside infested New York City subways of rot and decay.
A view of new perceptions, watch from afar, yet near to a distance — a silvery matted wolf dances from afar.
Glimmering morning light dancing through the autumn tree branches baring crisp, amber-orange leaves.
This is now the Twlight. Tread in silence, and breathe only through the molecular chemistry brooding in blood and tissue.

A body of meat falls down, exhausted and hypothermic, and draws a long breath of a picture framed fear illustrating the Beasts of the Long Night. And to what need?
Before winding trails that lead nowhere and mirages of valleys cascaded by consumed foam and salt like each element of sight.

He is found by the others. They are torn to the bone by ice-cold winds sweeping over the trails once charted by the People of Old.
The youngest boy removes his tattered, ripped hat, and touches the dead man’s stale, blue lips, and a menacing grin invited them to leave
To a place untouched by the European disease.
A groan echoes from the top-most tree boughs
And small, black birds fly aimlessly into the sky’s uncharted paths of vibrant evergreens.
”Boy! Do not play around! Get back to the line and see to the mules, I told you!
The young boy looked back once more — groaning and looking down to his old boots with menace and taking action.
Eye brows frosted over, skin pale-white
—powdered like Parisian woman of the court.
Yet a stale, stiff body decaying among high passage and snow-fallen dismay.

The young boy thinks to him self:

“My time in this world will not last, and I am a child, and the cyclical plot of life rotating and shifting endlessly, like stricken railroads, foreign ballads, and herding sheep of Highland Shepherdmen, and long after the collapsed lung drawn from his last breath. There’s an end to the beginnings prosperity. Become a bright star and shower the eternal vacuum of matter planetary design assimilating nothing of real flesh to feel.

At last, the boys last and long, drawn-out breath diminishes as the hour freezes still like an early morning Coloradan lake untouched by the days pastoral glow.