PaulDanielSmith

Come, my dear. Come, cry for me. Weep your heart dry as I sit here. Papers white and graphite faded, rough and ragged from my mind. Tearing pages from my mindbook, never happy, ceaseless wasting. Open wounds along the edges. Blunted pencils, sweet serrations. Rooms are quiet, full of people, comfy chairs amongst the corner. Rest my head on itchy fabrics. Radiators cold and hostile. I mitt eget rövarnäste ska Herr Olof stå å lyssna like no man had ever listened. Here I sit and watch the sky. Planes in pockets, ever flightless, plummet down and shame their maker. Guide me, O Thou great Confuser, pilgrim to my Christ

O! cursèd Heav'ns doth open to fwallow me whole, th'eternal lite of thy waking doom continueth to shyne upon mine head. Watch as thou fadest to't dark behind his sheath. I doubt thy words, O! demons fet free from their chambers o'fire unto our lands of green. Continue to declare thine innocence to'th'Almighty. Lo! belovèd Angels declare thine heart to thee and allow thy presence felt upon my neck. Thou art ftrong yet we feath thee wi'truth, thy fpectre concealed by thy raging arms. My goal be declarèd by thine actions, art thou true? or hidest thou thy feelings?

It's like the feeling of being alone, post-harmonious yet pre-realisation of the exact workings, the exact reasons behind it all. The pursuit of information and inspiration, once the inspiration has fled so ceremoniously. Every day I dream of re-acquisition, yet every day I fail to sleep, still lacking that very element. Surely God made love merely as a tool to trouble His creation and to sadden His troops beyond even the most familiar's recognition? I sense such things, as beauty, yes, it is a soured weapon, drawing the blind to the chase in hope of a success, success that never comes. Memories approach me, yet to them tel

Creation, yet moreso heightened by't wonderous passing of spentless time, watched on and questioned of every measureless moment, bordering all't seams and trims. Past seconds for a second Coming of our Lord. Our hiding. Our summ'ning. Examine from every side-alley the Dry Flood (sent down and damaged by the light of the moon) which paralyses our apprehensions.                    Come again, let us play,                    let us know, He is here                    and deliv'ring our fate                    to us. Sowing our seed.          Time passes once more,          like any other. I see no flaws and no faults, not in