#apttf

[diarhetic-blog]

Tr-us-ses

September? - 9-17|2017

Somewhere in the sky

 Couldn't believe the path you've taken lately. Strayed away, a way of envy. Watched from afar just in case you missed me [4] as you stood upon grounds seldom treated.

We'd meet again at different points. Stronger and taller without retorts. Short of purports and protracted courts [8] to reach out to form forms qualms thought greater in sorts.

In honesty, I was less than straight and narrow. Bad blood was what was after replaced at marrow. Pharaohs fell after soothsayers became sterile to avert what's herald. [12] I blamed my shape for the silence I gave once I foresaw your peril.

But somehow, we're on plane to remain as equals lateral. [14] I'm glad our paths rehashed in a simpler task foreshadowed in math and sabbatical.

[Old friends reconnecting through straightened paths and what was prophesied in nature all along. Your path and their path creates separation but never out of reach. Encapsulating where both have been is harder than what connects you two currently, but it's in this triangulation that you both exist perfect in form. Together as two singulars. Together abridged.]

[diarhetic-blog]

Between Woodley Park and Silver Spring

8-11|17

This window never had a view. Just a window used just more than not at all and only when I feel bad that I don't use it as much as I should; used guiltily to air out the opaque; used to let some Light in; but most times used as a barrier from the elements. My arbitrator. Most often (naturally), my blinds are down because it's usually not worth pulling them up to see what's out there. It's not the old place. I really miss the old place now that I remember it. My room was next to the town square and faced the pavilion where friends met and children were trusted enough to not stumble upon any risky activity. That's the main reason why I loved that window: the trust. I stared out that window every chance I got. I met the people who knew me best leaning out that window. Eventually, thieves in the night defaced my window, destroyed my window, peered too deeply into my window until we were forced to move. We left as soon as it wasn't customary to trust your neighbors and we never return again. These days though, my window stays closed. I remember the memories made seeing an oncoming friendly face to eventually knead out a space for them in my comfortabilities; the touch of the wind against my unkempt hair; honesty's scent too frequently encountered to think twice about; the taste of vulnerability. I miss the old place but it's an idea now; often thought of but never enacted upon. I'm content where I'm at now. I hate myself for forgetting more and more of that view as more suns become moons and back again, but I'm content. Maybe at the next breeze. I'll be ready then. I'll remember then.

[“Do you mean to correct what I say, and treat my desperate words as wind?” Job 6:26 NIV]

[diarhetic-blog]

Sanitized

?

>>>

Perseverance isn’t about doing the same action multiple times on a given course. It’s about continuing although the course has changed.

>>>

The unbiasedness of the rain doesn’t stop when you’ve had enough. When the drylands have had enough. When the river is just about to overflow. It ends when it’s done and must be dealt with until then.

>>>

Time is all but an existent measurement - purposed only for relativity. Valued at the highest regard, however, it is exchanged for our own existence for better and worst behavior; but it is in that way that it is constant.

In its existential duality, it does not exist at all.

[diarhetic-blog]

Herricane

January|2016 - February|2016

In and out my life, an eastly gust swallows the discretionary. Unexpected and undirected, trends were used to predict the present behemoth's next move. Destructive flirtations to what's beneath, only the eventual persons existing outside its eye are left untouched. Neither safe haven nor immovable object shelters those mystified by what they see. Empirically, they are amazed and insecure. Inasmuch her grasps weaken, the damage has already been done. Whirlwhen will it dissipate? Your form ignores geometry to amass to weightlessness. Often times, millenniums forget what was but eras remember the devastation. Ironically, short-winded men chase to be drawn into her list of has beens. Strengthened by warm acts, this fury is only obtained by the few to influence the many:   a natural disaster to be bore, waited out, reminisced about later.

[diarhetic-blog]

Squarrel

9-1|2015 - 9-2|2015

Your efforts are for you more than they are for me.

Honestly.

Lowers a king to his pardoning.

Unharboring.

Shows the lion’s team what starving means.

Humbling.

For the tree livers living free,

whom gorge upon the sitter’s seed,

eventually see its withering.

So they verbalize what’s internalized,

and plant some

to make up for their selfish side.

Whether they “forget” where it was buried

or do so indirectly,

their apologies bring understanding and fortifies.

Doesn’t fix the branch

but digs deeper

to the roots of a compromise.

Just speak it into fruition

for insight into Heavenly intuition,

Saying “sorry”

answers prayers

to grow more wise.

[diarhetic-blog]

Delta

4|2016 - 5-9|2016

Just between you and I, I scrapped some soul because I got teary eyed. Forced the jury, Produced a partial farcical to resume in my disguise. The clergy couldn't baptize. My words are not my words, so I debate my last times. A knife that cuts doesn't show its sharpness but its leveraged touch. Realization is often humorous; But the hubris isn't aqueous. To see is to recognize but felt when you have had enough. The waves of wonder push the boat asunder to meander into a different plunder. Straightened, however, paper ships are clever sailing whether weather is the bluest tundra. There's God and then there's everything else. Ephemeral in determining I'm blessed: Internal when boistering "yes"; I heard You, but certainty seeds grow after you've planted a guess. Shape and mold the path, so I can walk as directed. Every error equates at evanescent Once acrossed the land of Gennesaret.

[Under God's]

[diarhetic-blog]

Lambda

3|2016 - 4-22|2016

There is no such thing as accidental. Everything is purposeful. Revoked my name at once once I became lower case and personal. I think therefore I am, so I deduce that I'm reduced to nothing. Ain't that something? Filled with passion, words take shape into acronymic nothings. Nothingness, nothingful, I reach out to grab another tool. When sin peruse, the Word is never farther to be of any use. How do I infuse? Be greater through contentness as a witness to receive your forgiveness. For life is given To the florist forging florals - moving forward to see a different morrow: Lethal Limits. I refuse to say nothing('s) different. A poet's children are verbs usually heard and nouns spirited to be enliven. A descriptor's sentence Ends what you had thought to definite upon the infinites. A way with words may be wayward worlds wade to wave ashore. Confusion isn't the created course, But of course confusion was concluded collusive once careers were for choosing. Be more communist to what's common to the senses sent to better how we're living. At attention, ease my final mention to perceive the Ghost's intentions. For a pen in hand merely slips its grasps when descripting from their wrath. Speaking on their behalf, I pray that my freedom pass. What my Master has could never be amassed. For His glory is all I ask.

[when under my influence]

[diarhetic-blog]

Lullabic

1-27|2017 - 2-18|2017

Just before the subconscious leaks onto dreams' blackest scene, we coast inertly to leave the earthly to a place God made serene. Controlless in what is regularly scheduled, experiences become a peerless window: opaque in details and soliloquied; our conscious is filled with inadequacies.

Odorless to the operative body, a scent uncovered for dimensional rotting. Casted and directed, temptation is expected to be congruent as truants of the make- believe.

Randomized pastly parts - converge and merge then fall apart - to piece together what eludes the heart. The imagined comes crashing at the preconscious' compassing [com-passing], becomes stark, reharked, and apostrophed.