Preponderance... in the echoes of contemplated surrendering... gazing quickly far into daylight nighttime lovers sky... whimper faint there's a cry... sour thinking glazed over by a maze of unending sweet melodies that whisper I love you and think you and breathe... I feel you.
Centuries of icky necks hidden behind the soft spiders crawl behind long... long hair and still the neck of only yours is the one reincarnation that brings back to me... time and time again... wealth and wealth again... love and evolving again. Slowly evolving through another century of symbols and men's remorse for mothers and mother like lovers lost to ourselves... our dreams... those fears.
Knocking quietly in private gazing... knowing that your eyes-essence of sexual liberation and freedom of freedoms knowledge, your mirrors are all to navigate someone in search of Avalon's shore. Avalon calls whispers of the air... the mist. Lock and key tattooed on your arm. A cross on your control. Knees open up. "Water is life. Air is life." Magic... I mean "my trick" is to see and show the locations of that most southern region. A southern region that notices the Pharaohs head extends to the distant shore of one that goes from North to foot and South to head. Avalon... in this stream of consciousness... is in you.
The Western Shore is yours.
Decades old long lost past sorrows past... I long for a near hand of wisdom. A pair of lips that speak in the quiet way that the stomach mumbles it's hunger to man's willing desire.
Fate is of the icky quality, comparatively breaking the molds of the slavery shackled youth of tattooed dissolution... misdirections... quickly put on track by a voice in the chambers of our minds. Body respond to me. Enchant her southern region to respond to my lungs... my air. Air be of my calling. Winds doors be to my command. I demand your water to nurture my drying soul.
What is there to be gained from a power swap... a power share... the electrical rekindling of ancient lessons lost in India's hidden temple mountains. The monks always spoke well of those mountains and how they taught a generation how to sail away.
Contemplating at the rivers bend along oceans shores of Norway's foundation of everlasting constant cremation cycles, lovers process to last the moments, calling of the magic hammer sword dropping into the Lady's lake. Arthur's table has been found. The sword in my hand and blazing from the supernova of your soul. I give it all to you. Quiet. Let's love on the lower rim of our desires. Table bumped toward me. Your answer beautiful eyes... beautiful feet... gaping wide with endless possible questions... Yes, yes, yes, yes, just yes to anything I can make for you or purchase with the chains I broke into half circle bones...
Skulls I want the Italian... hopefully she'll love it all until time freezes into her warmth for me.
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