To stretch a life beyond the time of trees be ready for a glacial shift of pace. There'll be no undulation of the seas. To stretch a life beyond the time of trees, the tradeoff is what's quick will pass unseen. So, what say you, Kings of infinite space? To stretch a life beyond the time of trees be ready for a glacial shift of pace.
I'm queued into a file of lost psyches. It winds through time but lacks a hint of space, and something heads the line that's unappeased I'm queued into a file of lost psyches. A greedy devourer remains displeased despite the endless line and racing pace. I'm queued into a file of lost psyches, it winds through time but lacks a hint of space.
I dreamt the door looked out upon treetops and I could walk out on blue sky and cloud and see the world as would a tall cyclops. I dreamt the door looked out upon treetops, but in my dream I plunged into the copse. Sky walking proved more dream than was allowed. I dreamt the door looked out upon treetops, but could I walk out to blue sky and cloud?
Antibodies tell other from I. A thing my brain can't always do. To unbid guests they're never shy -- antibodies fight other not I. If It seems odd, they'll freely pry, to ID that old sneaky Flu. Antibodies tell other from I - a thing my brain can't always do.
I opened up a book to a strange land.
A storied portal let me travel through,
and I looked down an unknown city’s strand.
I’d opened up a book to a strange land.
Here, ironically, all great books were banned
to keep the locals home and quite subdued.
I opened up a book to a strange land;
a storied portal let me travel through.
That arrow can’t be meant for me
though it plummets toward my chest.
This is no time to turn and flee —
that arrow can’t be meant for me.
If I ran now, who would I be —
one of the crowd, just like the rest.
That arrow can’t be meant for me
though it plummets toward my chest.
The pounding rain will ease,
but still the flood follows.
The gale becomes a breeze.
That pounding rain will ease!
And stillness tames the trees
while runoff swamps the hollows.
That pounding rain will ease,
but still that flood follows.
It’ll soon be a monsoon New Moon.
One spark will mar the perfect Dark.
Sure, leaves and debris will be strewn.
It Will be a Monsoon new moon,
but darkness brings its own view boon.
In darkness, mess can’t make its mark.
It’ll soon be a monsoon new moon.
A spark will mar that perfect Dark.
[A triolet is a poetic form of eight lines (or using 8-line stanzas) in which a rhyme scheme of ABaAabAB is employed — where the capital letters involve lines that are repeated verbatim and the lower case lines are new. So, though the stanza is eight lines, there are only five unique lines and just two rhymes per stanza.
Leandra was the name of a much courted beauty whose story features in the penultimate chapter of the first volume of Don Quixote. After being duped into an elopement that was — in fact — a robbery, she was sent away to a convent. Many of the men who pined after her ended up as shepherds and goatherds, spending their days alternately cursing and defending the gorgeous Leandra.]
Bemoaning true beauty’s raw loss.
Swains retreat to the goatherd life,
as happens when the loins are boss.
They decry true beauty’s raw loss,
as their idle stones gather moss,
they mope of the lost scenic wife.
Bemoaning true beauty’s sad loss.
Swains retreat to the goatherd life.
the !n(tro)verted yogi 