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So the apothecaries of leisure fill my pockets on the plains of demise or reason. And so the essential sorting by postal votes unknown. You await the season’s ending yet again, beginning to fulfill on time’s presence in forgone land of personal and tragic epiphany. Uncertainty? I ask is this why she told lies? At the outset for me to unfold a degree of sponsorship? And eviction from home and family too? There is fight for honour’s last stand in this the evacuee’s, in black and pink  a darkened room of shelves dust laden, dropping trinket’s gossip. Truths maybe, in milliseconds of hearsay’s murmur. Hope, no yes no.

TimeliNe : time in line starbeached11

It’s a silent compass on the wings of desire which asks the fleece to awaken the heart not the soul. Hear the song again as the sun rises and melts in darkness again as it becomes  the letting agent of pursuit in a confident stream of questions.’Let me know if this is your perfect accession?’

It’s only a fact file of warning to ask me for the sort of meaning I know and want. It’s a direct conversation with the universe and with all solo institutions and as I walk in time and continue for a second more, then another. I dwell in the light of the saving gaze of my lover. I wish for no more,  only spectators eyes shift  my awareness  to sink softly and pitch up the dwelling of  divine providence in a mire which tells the story in its relentless fashion. Peter speaks the word to come. It’s an antithesis for glorious meltdown and chocolate sauce to garnish the bed in a somnolent dreamspace prepared for the husbands of the future grandchild.

Lets be aware of most occasions in splendid mediocrity and allow the golden fleece, which has become, to awaken the heart not the soul. Hear the song again as the sun rises and melts in darkness overflow, as it is always does, but does as always sing for everyone? I often want for more of those occasions to stamp their  presence onto my sifted dawn, as it furnishes an echo of dreams past-spoken for the angels of mercy.

Good old Leonardo in his mercury – he will always carry the tenderness of pain through its deepest shadow. I wish for no more again. It is spoken or dreamt of before life’s cosmic breath steams open the envelope of doom, laden with fantasies of sorrow and despair. Then understand how easy it is may be as gently gently  ’dear reader’ – to softly rise through the ashes, and tread again in a formidable landscape of ashes and light.