---

Allow me movement,
tossing gently
among your domain

falling as if
well flawed
in awed perception
over which you have

complete dominion;

a rare masterpiece, I,
if softly subjected to your
hidden palate of corruptive;
influences...

grand achievement -- you;
once muted tones
now effused
transformed
from utter simplicity

As expected
spices, too -- now woo
the idly curious few
who drink
from this
the corpulent vine
a tainted view

transferring problems;
yearning for

your

misty dew.

as any who linger,
feigning mystery;
how miserable
they truly know they are --

Breathing musk of
deep-set marks, and
lifelong scars;
they dwell,
among the faint,
and distant stars;
stay hidden; deep in thought,
of answers sought:

and tangled webs been spun,
from every false emotion's tie;
exposing life undone
as crafted sticks
that neatly lie,
and drip bold tears from
unforgiving sun --
helplessly they cry;

as stacks of life
from towering heights;
are frayed
from once and shining glory,
taut veins
are now displayed

and so -- the problems here,
become -- the answers there;
elsewhere,
a forced and strained allegiance
delving to the inmost depths of quarry's fare;

begging respite
from this shallow realm of reason;
through painful passages of doubt
to brutal, ruthless scourge of treason;

flowing from the wellspring,
that spills afar,
through trees,
along its path
into those bubbling, waiting seas;

a journey long self-taught,
drifts, as all --
tangled feelings raw,
their travels now recall...

forces that portray
their lives to
you in symbols;

a day

within a single
moment lived
inside those well-worn
thimbles

Allow me please, my plots and schemes
Foremost now, my wicked dreams
that hatch, with purest thought
becoming but a twisted ruse; caught
among white veils compounding
vacant minds, constant throbbing, pounding,
from walls so high
above which even doves can't fly
and clouds now growing, seething
as mere dread now stalks the sky
And floating secrets
hold bewilderment, yet slowly die;

now inert and longing
for slightest motion,

the cradle rocks

Among the folds of dunes and locks
as hourglass holds fast all our clocks
And stills the rush of waterfall
Waiting for the echo's final call.

And sadness told and then retold,
must dwell

within, far worse;
that deep-sunk well

than surface bricks
with polished shell
and mortar that,
upon first glance,
appear to quell...

Yet swell with dry
and spreading spider cracks
that run the length
and form life's newest tracks,

The viewer yearns and aches
within her grip; living out her skits

as she now proudly sits
atop her throne --

alone;

solitarily, grown...

and plies her taunting weave of wily vision

and well-drawn themes, and plots derision...

locale of her next

psychological incision.


Copyright 2004 Jeff Mason and Albert Swanson