Large frames in small pixels
Pictures painting pure purity
Sizes in hold to smoother page,
Left over from a watery trunk.
Black fame in poetry's pot as,
Plain music endowed with stormy drums
While Dances in moonlight
Sing stolen lanes zipper crosses.
Let the roots enthrone the soil,
Like nature begging to be fed by wind
As seconds counter the time,
To the mother sucking her child's breast.
I hear footings in the caves of the heathen.
As pearly gates awaits the striking sword
Where his chi has built a stone refuge
And left the door of immortality open.
And as the weeping of leaves in buried
To stretch out branches withering
Upon the very rocks of salvation.
I hope the piper's flute has the notes,
To be played backward with the foul air.
So seeds will grow from leaves to roots
As trunks scare the branch of waters
Letting the growth solo-synthetic
You have no idea where boiling water heats from.
This picture I saw in the ocean
Floating amongst impure thoughts
Swimming through the feeble mind
As the whale-life sucks her origins.
I am painting, and you're not a canvass
But the image staring from the landscape
Softly telling me, what masters have said
"I am with you my childly ghosts
The one on board, the one on coast
Let heaven weigh her heavy boast
As we roll in hell to the roast"
Large frames in small pixels
Sized in holes to smoother the pages
Left-over from a watery brush.
Pictures painting pure purity.
© Rudolph Adidi N.
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