"Sundry Awakenings"

                                        
                                          Its been a long time for you now; to
                                                               follow me down apprehensive evenings of Sunday origin; where embryonic night and crimson drapery coincide; to dwell and stumble down dormant avenues of pensive sorrow in bleak November. 
                                                 Apartment window balconies in poignant summer we're inclined  to remember; everything in its semi-totality; as you find yourself now; brandished and hollow amid infertile seasons of dry anticipation; did we foreshadow all that has come to pass; warily elapsing onto deaths primordial doorway. These eastern foothills are blasphemous, minute glimpses of transient humanity in concupiscent intervals; is this what we are condemned to believe in; autumn courtyards below brick concrete columns of mortar masonry; as a broken grandfather clock is hurled down from a third-story railing mezzanine.
                                        You of elderly visions and provisions; constrained to your leisurely recliner; morbid hypocrisy clouds your senile days and ways; dreadful decades of routine hands and vain gestures. Consuming carnal meat with carnivorous tongues; do not teach me what is of the mortal earth: I have eyes to see how afternoons unfold to delicate dusk; as its always been.
                                        Flesh wounds remain sacred to men alone; desolate in the year of pedestrian upheavals and inherited folly. Feline misinterpretations perspire from feminine lips; taking civil orders in neighborhood boulevard diners off polluted interstates. It is the lethargic daytime hours that wage inevitable war on our pliable souls. Through condensed traffic and toxic smoke signals ascending from automatic engines. Rapture comes to us in lunar midnight premonitions; evangelically and well hidden, our love's engraved upon 
                      illumined window sill bulb imagery, refracted in shadowy luminescence off porcelain tenement light fixtures.
                                       We have all become false witnesses; groaning through sporadic tumults of gas-station indigestion. To think is to lie to one's self; do not think; but be as the stoic ocean tide calmly breaking off Mideastern shorelines; the profane city will wear and tear us down to our self-inflicted marrow; putting faith in what is of this world, what more is to be expected than an inevitable death only this world can possibly contrive.
                                           Youth's passages deserted me upon prior timelines, nakedly abandoned amid sultry cornrow lineage. Night-winds came on strong from the silhouetted east; I knew not where to lay my soiled bedhead. Gathering all I could in loose time, making haste among the dewy September daffodils, I came across an ascetic derv possessing an flickering oil-lamp. I asked him where I might find an country house along the desolate perimeter, he replied "thou continues lusting vainly for things thou shall not find, what is the matter with naked children these days?; always desiring something outside to complete what thou hast inside already."
                                       I've prayed through logic and self-restraint, I've prayed with bruised fleshy fingers shackled tightly on either side; you can't take this away. To not live by the law of men; but live by faith. In faith lies reward in which law doth not provide.