The Elysian Beat

Is it true that yellow roses bring bad luck?

If they symbolize infidelity, then that fits.

When logic left, chaos tried to lure it back.

Modern roses look nice, but they’re fragrance free.

Splintered begging isn’t a good look. It never was.

The spectable perhaps entertaining enough.

Bring by your beauty and leave it on the counter.

You’re a natural. So innocent and brand new.

Backbone. She’s lacking backbone.

Hidden in plain sight, the tangled yarn tightens.

Until the tension is braided into tales of tenor finally penned.

A broken pinky promise isn’t all that uncommon.

They’re simply unenforceable and therein lies the cruelty of a pinky promise.

Personally, I felt inspired. The imitation of innocence was truly moving.

For a mere moment, on the twisty, twirly turn-style of time.

There’s nothing left, but you can still try to squeeze it.

Wring the rag of truth.

Nothing stratchy. No discomfort.

The many fine things to share with the latest love.

The white bicycle wasn’t made for two, or three or you.

Yet, it skates across a frozen plane.

The rider missed the beat until the very end.

Well, that was fun.

It’s a deep dive into performance art.

There’s light at the surface. Breathe.

For heaven’s sake, abandon the myth.

Burn down the legend.

Among the ashes, find the the world…

Along lines of uncertainity, awaits a saintly transmission.

From the happiest man on earth…the ultimate guru.

It’s the white dove. A thought. A prayer.

A hoped for child. The invention of the novel.

It started with a geometric obsession and ended with Chinese myths and legends.

And a man keeping score of whores and sea shores.

The pen did break when I when it came to the subject of you.

An ocean of sound echos in an abandoned egregore.

The best view is the longest one.

With whatever daylight is left, find the words.

Something more original than, “no mud, no lotus”.

Beautiful patience was the game changer for an otherwise scentless rose.

And you question Grace?

Om. The sound of the Universe.

The low hum of a ticking star working towards unity.

Where does one go to replace a lost star?

Are there such places in the known world beyond yours?

It’s the Golden Light, the breath of beyond this.

It’s the Red Thread. The Elysian Beat.

The simplest of vessels was designed to receive

A lifetime of unclaimed karma.

The cool embrace of dusk, after the realization of peace.

Of contentment, and ultimately of true love.

There’s no way to be fully prepared and approxiamations hardly count.