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Everything that dies becomes the infinite suffering in dreams

“Dream magic always like ten thousand candles burning in the heavenly perfumed noches.” Are the last words I hear blindfolded to the red in my eyes.

forgive the wild flowers by the sea, listen to Marie Laforet, to forget the ballads in your eyes, the darkness who hides the stars under sun like side cars in a magic show, who parades between sad fingers and nights always to hide the moon from your thoughts. The darkness has always been me.

sun constellations

cruel diamonds stolen from the moon

Ugly fingers

between distant memories

thrown in fires to form shadows from shadows

littered in vulture screams

sleeping only with time filled hands

Prophecies only known to the blind . #phillypoets #poets #poems #phillyspokenword

Traffic feeds on shadow animals splinters, silent autumn, winter greens kamikaze idyllic kisses ,purple word conversations ,illuminated like dream , tiny smiles yet to be crafted among the codex in nights ,while genteelly pressing rewind to chatoyant happier times #phillypoet #phillypoets #poems

Blossoming magic in sacchariferous feathery fingers, each a curious deity filled with alleviated fortunes, each hidden in the 7ths heavens in our dear eyes, in the devil’s temple, here God resides, resting between mad thumb and wild pinky. #phillypoet #phillypoets #phillypoem #phillypoems #papoet

A pair of jealous hands laid before sad lateralus’s eyes. “What do u see?” Whispered the wind
The fingers just flickered and disappeared into the night. “Nothing.” #phillypoet #poems #philadephia #phillypoems #poetry #poertyofphilly #phillypoetry #Philadephiapoet

the holy winds, sweetly covered in tiny feathers with gold, living shadows, infinite perilous animals made of luminous dream ,fantasies made of halos covered in myrrh , secret conversations in transcending tomorrows, residing in grass, each blade bending towards the middle , the core and the void

The rich famine before us , the forfeited oblivion seasons taking toll of our Dostoevskyan hearts, hidden in the simplest of words, only dear Charles Swann, pawn to dearer Proust, whom set oath the fires to ignite , the mere obsolete nights under these fine nameless stars.

Hands are nothing but memories, each finger a different offering for all your failures, each nail a different missionary with screaming cat faces.