Nezu

Hi Nezu.

a small token of kindness (25th November 2021) 
          
          fangs of fortitude unmask themselves from the rays of the sun and buckle in tenderly to a musty memoir. maternity remains, in most of its stages, within the sky's blends; like soft lather from a coffee's gaze. what is meant to be forgotten sticks around in the climate of the mind, as though music from piano's striking stars. 
          
          watch and catch, hold and explore, what the jewels of the night sing as a prose; as a reminder of its stretched solitude, from one bit of its existence to the rest; marks of slippery injury and sweat upon its body. much it begs for, dark after dark, in trillium twilights, in coffee-lit sunsets, in flickering frostbites and mourning mangroves. 
          
          in the obliterated shores of the abandoned seas, of the golden sand marked with diabolical tongues of caramels, there are present gleams of faded beginnings and unstrained marks of life's plannings. unbearably beautiful it is; they hold onto the fury of the waves and wishes the sea goodbye. 
          
          things that can lure the air into desolation, by their side and beside their gaping heart, are those black with loneliness. cradle the pink veins of the foetus with the thick knot of the placenta around it; a momentary connection between life and its second form. it is alone there, the new heart, in its own pool of sorrows. 
          
          every so often, it is apparent and seen, the mind making connections with several violins; and the foetus an instrument rare to hold. many a beats a heart uses, but none can it find close enough to even see. prettiness is a state of solitude; like a cloud of beauty but nothing to rely upon. and the stars that hang all night without a bed to toss upon. 
          
          mind is easy to befriend, like a balm of butter. it is the heart that is blackened with solitude, a universe mistaken as an enemy's ground. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (24th November 2021) 
          
          the veteran sun holds close the magenta rage; traces of maternal spine and a shadow of the constricted girl in a woman gulped by slaughterers. raspy words and kites of innocence, demanding notes and pastel shaded envelopes; a finger slashed with extravagant remorse. the morning king wraps a shawl around the human's mind, in a fire, wherein it burns to history and earth. 
          
          upon maturation, the queen of a every knight, flickers its snowflakes over the velvet-like pride of forests and flowers, lovers and lies. many then are torn down to serenity, their skulls exposed to burning tears; the moon an acidic hue. soft parlors of stars etched upon lips of beautiful fury; muddled reflections of an anxious devil and a heart wet with faith's dewiness. 
          
          hands and fingers stuck in cold windows, in the society's concept of a prejudiced prison; wrung by the stomach and hung by the heart, flung into the air like a sea's wild swan. mouths of rain and hearts of manners, time of today and aches of tomorrow; whirled between eternity and death of every second. 
          
          realisation has dissolved into thin earth, minds now poisoned by the devil's apple. run and run while glued to the present, die and die succumbing to the gone nights in the future. vessel of brass brimming with age, bodies and souls molested by suppressed veins. 
          
          we run; we run fast with names, we run as if to catch death, as if to slaughter the days. we run as though to hold the passed breaths, the warm liquid of yesterday in our palms bare and the beats of journeys scratched into nails. we run as the sun does behind the moon,  but never once sit back against the trees of time and watch home unfold with our blood of present smiles. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (23rd November 2021) 
          
          the sun falls upon the aretha of moments, decorating and brushing the edges with strings of silver feathers. the mellow pond speaks a tale, a fable of nine thousand glows and one of the rising  petals of dawn. 
          
          each man holds a sword to the night; a gleam of dancing echoes, a ferocious pilgrimage to the sublime stone. the tulips fall against the aging sea, bathed in turmeric and bits of achilles heel. what threatens it but a thing of love. what drowns is but a piece of land. 
          
          the war has submerged the scents of mind, deep in the bones of wheat fields. balance bothers the sky, numbers a human's intellect. what weighs and is weighted with words is never a feeling of flowers, rather a bridge of stone with the heart clogged into stone. 
          
          the stars on a palm's freedom would be briefly beautiful. in prison, however, like a forever depicted. the hands we have two, one for life and the other to choke, like flowers of divorce, the shades conspicuous of the lethal rides. 
          
          love from a distance, even from an unseen mouth, how distinguishable it is, how luring, as though a mother in devil. it comes from deserted feet and wallowing winds and ancient tombs, it comes from fogged graves and disloyal crimes and diminishing music notes. 
          
          true love is ridiculous, but so is life. from a distance, it smells like heaven's musk, like a glance filled with soft petals of dusk. but near, near to us, in us, never found. as though our soul lives far away from us. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (13th November 2021) 
          
          in the pictures of lost maniacs, there is an element of belonging, of a home hidden in smiles of terror and skies of disguises. where there is a gaping hole, there is a form of contentment, a curious driveway into the estate of the tangerine soaked imagination. 
          
          in the sun, along the rays, there are shadows of sorrowful sovereigns, of those who had melted into its arms as mere alphabets of lineages. in place of joys, a fool's paradise and in place of demised daughters of earth, a cloud of red and a ball of heart's mist of reminiscence. 
          
          where there are wagons of soulful singing, there are chaotic bundles of luminescent yearnings. moon attempts to draw a line of selection, a veil of poisonous repose, in what it shows and what it holds. yet the world sees, the sky displays, and the destroyers freeze its beauty in a casket of dead bones. 
          
          everything productive came about with a thing  destructive. life an instance of a breath and death of breathing. the face melancholy, its soul a desert's oasis. what holds the sun, holds the moon. what has a sweet fragrance, hides a passionate poison. 
          
          a mind is selective, its heart death-dealing. what can not be protected by hands, must be reserved by venom. behind the sun, there is a wall of burning fire and with the moon a reflection of its relative. for every bit of sweetness, there has always been a scent of protective toxicant behind. and with every morning, a dash of sunset. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of extra kindness. 
          
          there is a theody that a river of enshrined pomegranates wears upon its bare bones; one that is freed from the encumbrance of pleadingly staying onto the tree that had it bleed to red. the sky sheds its coat of honour upon the sun and the glassed finds; singing souvenirs to the minds of drunken devotees. 
          
          once a ground of ache blooms, the tragedies of the voices hanging in the air, sink deep, and deeper, desperately, for a place of the pink; for an echo of their existences.  the moon hangs about in cold laziness and in public perspiration, a side of it lost to the air that had it cherished until it resembled a ghost white. 
          
          by the riverside, in the vibrations of the fluorescent light, a daisy flows in agony with the sweet sound of the intact glory. under her stem, within her petal, she finds her fibres despondently linked to a master that would swallow her bite by bite; until her mind would swell and her petals would spread her dry. 
          
          to every heart, the monster is its mind. to every sun, its sky. to a rich river,  its poor inhabitants. and to delirium, reality. one must realise through the ashes, that the fire is a form of light; a little more intense that the sun, its close relative. what the sun can bring to life with its light, perhaps fire can do that by burning the old country times. 
          
          like the sky that unleashes its thunders from time to time, let your monster be a little free upon areas where harm would be least inflicted. but if you should still feel deeply ashamed of yourself, then begin the deed by being ashamed of the sky with its pain and painkillers. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (8th November 2021) 
          
          the clock of russet leaves and almond wings rouses the sun with a flick of pumpkin coffee; a race with the futuristic tragedies and constellations of adulterated secrets. what lives in it, a cage. and a pair of weeping hands that struggle to shroud the prisoner with a silken petunia. 
          
          and in the nights, the moon scrambles through the fisted stars; the mesh a séance of the gemmed fascinations. what appears is but a nonchalant melancholy, an ivory girl dressing the dark with its daisy's crescent. however, what does not meet the swallowed orb is the scene under the nose; only the tip of the ice berg. 
          
          within the vacancies of the oceans is a void of the laid laws; of the buried losses and alive tongues. what is reciprocation, what is history, but a repetition of the molded lie, of a flower set in Iguazu's mouth; the one that is drowned each day, every year, under the sparrow's sea. what is present is a pulchritudinous loss, clothed as freshly plucked darkness; held in a mother-like womb. 
          
          royale roses and blood baskets are a testament of the sky's shoulders and the heart of a human a casket of moon freckles, guarded in red vessels. how does this organ then be a coast of calm? why does the rib hold it at a knife's point? 
          
          the heart seeks what defies gravity, the luminous sin from a frosted envelope. it is not dirt that settles, rather a flamingo that grazes the pebbled waters. hold it, mold it, like the sky that shapes the sun and conceals the moon. perhaps that is what the aim is after all; to break the singular mass in you and reform it into the shape of universe. 
          
          for you are just half a heart, incompletely constructed. like the sun and the stars that are half of the skies and half of you. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (7th November 2021) 
          
          the scalpel defines the wounds of the dense sun, the world but a vanilla skin of the organ; of chrysalis stitches and butterscotch flecks. much of it blends into the greedy seas, into the wilting petunias of the shallow springs and the words of prey that are consumed by the foam of the lunatic cosmos. 
          
          the collisions are where the alike attract and the opposite succumb to a ground of smoldering verses; a casket of collected limbs. vast parts of its anthem are consumed by the purple of the living  wounds; a clean glow contaminated with the wailing dawn. 
          
          marks are left around, smells are planted like the crabapples that grow with desperate blackbirds, hungry are proposed with the helpful pledges of sorrow and the dances of the mothers are engulfed in a crown of their martyred uteruses. 
          
          what one knows is but a thing of newness; a fresh torch of obstinate piety and poetry breaths through flowers of chestnut. sourness of the fingerprinted  letters carry a hundred and twenty furies, each one a call, a summoning to your ten different beings. 
          
          without an understanding, what is love and admiration but a fool's plate of food? any life without a name is a treasure lost to the sea, like the pearl that remains canvassed between origami ornaments. 
          
          what is cherished, is discovered; stared at and longed for. the fumes, the inks, the curtains of disguises, the patterns, the scars and the rib veiled hearts are traced, with fingertips of delicate onyxes. 
          
          the sun and the moon are but the creatures of clay; unknown and unalive. however with identity, they are companions of the confederate roses; of bleeding hands and blackberry silences. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (6th November 2021) 
          
          there is a wave of longing that flattens over the sun in its treasured loneliness; like the beads of the blue sky that touch the breath bare, wishing for an acceptance more intimate. the frail lavenders harbour near the eyes of summer; like a deal signed by the deceased, sun a phantom of Medea. 
          
          octobers are souls of the ones who have no longer their minds within; like the moon that floats with its home beneath. afraid is the ancestor of the frames of its successor, while it is restless under the shadow of rusted regrets. without the burns of the sweet river, no body has been able to make time out of life. 
          
          decay is prominent, the bones a sign of immortality. what rolls away is skin, the cloth of the human; the mind a passion of the stars that stay through generations. beyond the scenic sunsets, there exists a socket of ribs; of those who perished and the vases of young ache a decoration of the monochromatic sky. 
          
          the sun finds warmth through the stories it holds and the moon coolness from its.  the warmth turns to fire and the cool wind to a rigid winter. where stories exist, there lives a mind. a game of tenderly using poison. 
          
          minds suffocate, they live above the rest. and like the sun and moon, they are a little warm and cold and a bit like burning winter and freezing summer. what comes from these sometimes is sweet venom; useless yet an addictive ocean. one may suffer, one may be pulled to the bottom. but there never really is an ocean, the mind a gifted ghost of illusion. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (5th November 2021) 
          
          down the train of dawn, lives a tooth of ember pain. it peeks each day through the window of sheer rain, one that is unseen to naked eye. oceans of grief and waves of shuddering leaves cloud the horizon, stretched across the marks of twilight violence. 
          
          the race of storms touches the rage of the lungs, the interracial mingling a sign of the begotten hills of home. where the place of honeysuckled childhood is abandoned and the one poem of earth is promised a tongue of submission. 
          
          land is but a design of permanent perishment, the sky a palace of parchment shielded woman. the presence of howling wildness amplified, the screams of green screened by mulberry blood. the cracks of the heart touch the scarlet springs, flowing with flesh of the briefly cuddled kid. 
          
          where there are miracles, there is insanity. a form of compassion with glaze of doubt. unknown hurts, the known scars. sounds of mocking, a maleficent knocking exists by the sane mind, the insane half a companion of the lost marigolds and blood. 
          
          insanity is pure; a part of normality, tender to touch and soft to sores. the sun is a friend of the indigo hearts, of those who value the anise of freedom; and a foe of the sane abysses. where there is sanity there are holes with prison bars; a plea to escape. paths and patterns are found in lost kingdoms, in grounds of the silence breaths. 
          
          like the sun and the stars that flee the dark abode, that race against themselves to find a spot, the mind must imprison itself, to become a bit on the loose. 
           #adropofhumanity