Phoenix and the Forty Thieves
They handed us the paper.
The kind that had no lines.
We are not distracted.
We just escape sometimes.
Sometimes an angel sings with the voice of futures past unawake awake at last breathing beauty into laughs.
Laughter giving sense to all the days we often spend amending ways to comprehend the plays that slip outside our grasp.
They always will.
But thats okay.
There aren't words.
There is no phrase.
We are alone.
They don't explain.
But we can.
Our speech is laced with arms that reach unleashed enhanced by walking feet unseen by grieving heartless freaks between the art and all the sleep that leads to nothing dreaming speaks.
But that is all and when we fall impossible is only from a thoughtless call that law describes as comical and fear is what we're offered from the office that we crawl upon.
On and off and off and on the thought arrives to climb and fly alive just while the carpets drawn and drawing is the voice inside.
The only thing.
The singing wings.
The wingless sing.
Is that all?
There is love.
Feeling fourteen in terms of means to leave a message.
Dreaming forest green cause mother nature is the lesson.
Things proceed just as they will results are walking proof.
Compassion helps us understand us humans get to choose.
Dependence is a thing that wraps your fingers like a ring.
Shiny bright impressive til theres no more songs to sing.
Shiny bright expected til the knuckles bend and break.
Everything is lost when the blood can't circulate.
Brush strokes riding buses riding planes attached to rope.
The rope weaved from ambition tied to boxes full of hope.
What the fool believes.
Is the same as me.
Swinging from trees with legs and no knees.
The ocean the quotient.
Divided by waves that pound on the sand.
Hard to reach branches without any hands.
Went missing from drifting.
Got lost in the teaching.
Just a few wrists.
Are left from the reaching.
The sea can swallow you up.
But the beach is exhilarating.
So we go there.
Walking art and painted skies,
a land formations middle eye.
Full of vision sculpting dance,
the end of roads for every land.
We leave a footprint in the sand,
then waves crash us a second chance.
Footprints and nonsense.
Breaking through a rhythm quickly running from submission.
Admitting every instance of a doubted recognition.
Wishes only listen if they live with an ambition.
Permission to continue?
Having issues with the oceans when the fishing isn't clicking throwing lines out every instant looking back into the distance breaking arms from the resistance reaching grows with the persistence taking shows to find a witness.
But what if you gave up everything to live inside this vision,
and at the end it never exemplified your existence?
Three for the crown.
One rides creation.
A database single.
Two muse relations.
A dance for love.
A footprint placement.
Ponytails and bridges and widgets explaining our visits.
Unlisted and always listed insistent on social midgets.
Media persistence and brains touching nervous victims enlisting in our existence's means to remain consistent.
Overdrives and hard drives and digits that move the system enriching our walking vision but stalling our future wisdom.
Writing stories. Without words.
Paragraphs. Read absurd.
Stuffed in ways that lead to blurs in our vision in terms of verbs.
Intermission. Now thats absurd.
Screenplays and dream walk waves on sandbars cause dreams wave.
Behaving madly what they say and they is she cause she hates.
We play the big game with empty pockets. No shame.
Art flames inside change.
Untamed and no named.
Thats what our name tags say.
Window no panes.
Theres no pain.
Windows to the soul the hunger is so old its flying through our veins like a sleigh from the North Pole.
Bringing gifts to masses attached in artistic fashion alive and so attractive perhaps in reaction to action.
Thankful for our reindeer.
In a storm that rains fear.
The eight that pull the way are made and weighed with unity.
Community speaking loudly.
Is a memory of some theft.
And whats to the left are endless barstools and fools still enjoying breath.
Rows and rows of clowns awake with smiling frowns and shaking eyelids down and toes up off the ground cause clouds are walking now the worlds a lost and found.
We lost the world so now we are our own crowd.
Shit is unpredictable and typically inexplicable.
So we live on our own principles and give til Earth dismisses us.
Functional monks of destruction.
Tearing down walls for the feeling abduction.
Swords on a mission alive with ambition.
Hot air balloons on the face of existence.
So much love.
So much pain.
Still there are swords.
With every art form.
Dicing through hearts since the day they were born.
Trials of the endless arrangements.
Filed under dependably painful.
Raining while the sun hits sand.
Broken arms with rubberbands.
In a maze.
Never too dark or too light.
So its gray.
We wonder as thieves if our joy is perception.
Choosing the gray.
Or the full painful spectrum.
If you saw a plane you saw from a star.
You’d love such a world with ambition so large.
You could smile for them but for you its too far.
When I’m returning.
From an inward place.
The state is space embrace awake.
If you see one thing that looks like a star.
Its often a plane that you saw from your car.
Perhaps the words shift from the work to the bar.
But as long as they lift all the balance within to the edge of the scale so the chances are slim that the balance remains cause the constant is change.
Unbalance is king.
You could turn off the music.
But we would still sing.