The magics of the will imprinting upon your personal aura,
With the pineal gland transferring its shapes into your brain,
And dynamic minds essence corrupting not becoming purer,
Leading an individual's enlightenment to then become insane.

As I focus my thoughts into their densities they condense,
And my patterns of consciousness become a part of yours,
The weight of your actions consequences now so immense,
I Influence your freedom and nature through sacred laws.

once
each word was new
had not existed
had never been spoken

so
speak the word
‘seaweed’
for the very first time

sea-weed

weed of the sea

sea - weed

smell the word, flavour it
salt-fresh

or melting rot on sand
an unbearable decay

but savour the names

green-hair
oarweed
hen-pen
rosy-pink-plates
dew-drops
oyster-thief
kelp
irish moss

unravel threads of mermaid-string
drifting in your head

Pen your words my friend
Fear not the critics blade,
Who is he who dare to say
'That is not right, your words are frayed'?

The words are yours my friend,
To do with as you please.
To tell a tale, paint a scene
Of tempests wild or seas serene.

Pen your words my friend.
Fear not right or wrong.
Let your heart dictate
That words flow as a song.

Take heart my friend, be bold.
Let your pen glide o'er the page,
And when its done look back,
With a pride that you can gage.

Verse
My words
As I write
Show my feelings
My unique verbiage
Only viewed through my eyes
Not through the eyes of readers
Words that come only from my heart
Poems extracted from my feelings
Emitting my emotions from within

Between wakefulness and sleep lies the barrier of our dreams,
Creating its contextual essences in the realities of its scenes,
With psychoanalysis we try interpret what the elements mean,
From the violent and traumatic to the beautiful and serene.

Yet deep in contemplation we can focus the energy of the will,
And give it the intention to heal and replenish or to harm and kill,
So caution I recommend and true wisdom I shall try to instil,
Our thoughts create dynamic motions in an eather frozen still.

The shining stars, to no avail;
like dust behind the dragon's tail
were drifting where my eyes were turned
and beads of surly sweat had burned
accreting chide as pillows churned

and restlessly, the sheets were tossed
a dozen midnight hours crossed
while sanity was looming lost
...the mattress laughed at fits of fray
while scorching where my body lay

My heart sometimes lies to me.
It says things it knows I want to hear,
knowing full well I will believe.

The constructions it builds there
tell me love isn’t a burden.
But here I am, fooled once again,
as grief returns to collect its price.

SELF

A book is a place of reprieve
Away from the worries and woes of life
A portal to a world of make-believe
Where one can rest from all its strife

A book is a source of knowledge
A source of creativity and thought
It quenches the thirst of the curious
And its secrets can never be bought

A book is a window to the past
To the future and even the present
It is a source of enlightenment
And with it one can be content

When I think of you,
My heart skips a beat.
The universe pauses,
As the mellow bliss,
Flows through me,
And energy is grounded,
In the roots of my soul.
Conversing our thoughts,
The innermost meaning,
Of spiritual wonder,
And Subliminal essence.
Of the divine nature,
Of our introspecting minds,
As we question and explore,
In exquisite curiosity.
As our unique vibrations,
Drift in a gentle and sweet,
Slumbering sweet affection.
Thoughts gently settling,