In the Snow

Dine with the days of conjured control, sweeping through a weakness that is bound and sold, to the minds that dance in between sunset and sunrise, breathing thought’s through a powdered mask taking all things into account, there is no way to adjust to this borrowed boarded city found in rust, still these days are paved over like hate and out of the cracks rise sunflowers shading the hardened parts of the city where the minds lay down to sleep, taken and baking are the pondered days, that could have found a shadow gray, blades of hate fall flagrant upon the streets with a weak clatter, hating all things that leave empty and un solidified, like the sold to any ways of Christ, dance these days under an umbrella of fallen scriptures, mixing the minds in a cauldron of consummation, joining star bound recluses as far as the ground was flowing tar from sound excuses leaving bars owning the freedom of another dead poem, all alone in the snow.

…Finding Wings For A Junky…

…Finding Wings For A Junky…
By jaria saent


sold days dance before dollar drawn carriages you'll find both sides of the street paved, hating the fallen stars that now dance before his collared eyes, drawing from within the ultra-violent behavioral studies of laid down in time beings, this is what you think of me? conjured through the hollow grasp of a saint that walks the trails torn and tattered no more, but bound in thorns to find the roses dance before his conjured interior having a heart seemed to find the feathers of fallen birds resurrect the tortured beings, ghosts float through hovering over the theories that mind-states can't find the damning denials of ugly duckling philosophy's, gift the moments, torn like tokens in the amusement park that frequents the breath of this torn through giant, flying with wings of crows, a murder, torn for certain, an accident bound by ambivalence, a scissor cut tearing through paper mache ideologies, leaving an open sign between the sheets of this torn through junky prodigy, sure the good die young, the old find their way into the hearts of the masses when their hands where torn from bleeding fabrics of familiarity, surrounded by cats, bound and strapped down, fighting the whole way, to find the days bound in clay drawing out tears for the fallen angle guided through the days, saved, as the streets paved, find a heart and juggle it in the dark, leaving the worlds far apart, never to know those who live as a dream in this torn through world of art, not finding a way to believe in the start.

Feed The Moon

…Feed the Moon…
By jaria

Crosses dance before the diving hearts that bathe in the silence given since the birthed through rebellions caused by the masses and the moon rises into the faithful skies causing the chaos that breathes through the hardly beating rooms full of hellions into the pain you gift the chosen beings with as they shift around the rooms with painted silence, I die with the waking sun wishing for life without subtracted violence, lifted gifted scripted and listening to the dying minds shift around the night sky, and crosses conjured through the pale breathes fall upon the ground shivering in the adventures of the conjured sky and oblivion moves through the weakened moments, crows circle the thought process ingesting the mindless heartless masses, catastrophic damage dining upon the moments gifted through these lessons, digest the intolerance as the minds rise through stressing to feed the moon, gift her silence with the well placed identities, and listening to the mindless masses cast the ideas into the black night, I bath in stars shining on white lights, conjured like the waking apparition that thieved through the silence and was pegged to a cross and weeping are my ideas, full of light hearted identities, fully bathed through word play, and I know the morning sun shines like a dying mind gifting her the abilities to grasp an offering, and shifting with another deadly day are the ways that pave the way, paved is hate over the ability to drive the cars of mindless day bound heartless masses casting what they feel will bleed upon the days, are chains, guided by heartless masses, finding that this is similar to the days the find their hearts breathing through the ugly realms of what Christians feel will help and no day will damn you, so they do with their stakes and bled through minds, raising fires as their own to take the witches down to hell, with kaleidoscope eyes fixed on the horizon, I sleep on the setting sun, bed made traded sanity for the ability to die with her eyes saved, I’ve felt the waking minds tear through my days and die with familiarity, like the pain of seeing the heartless masses gift another dream bound for the hearts that play upon the mind states of sanctuary’s gone gothic, finding nothing upon the living dreams but the days where the cliffs of reason fall into the insanity of daily word play conjured through subtracted beings, dying with what they feel is choice, give back what you have taken, never knowing the day that breaths through the ideological identities and shivering is this poem against the well placed walls of ideas and since the beginning all things fallow hollow dreams again to days, and I wake each day to torn through dreams dancing before the audience of given worlds, and so instilled are my darkened dreams that I hear their screams gently rock my to sleep, so I dance in a ghost bound world, so gifted is that cross that rocks along the waking shores of conjured dreams, so I capture and release more identities, the rapture is pleased and bound in relevance and the moon rises just the same only with the running slave bound looking for the painted prince to free the slaves again, bathed through rebellions, mindless minions, and I gave sanity for a glimpse into the future conjured waking dining upon the daily denials of presence and with the hardly beating minds gifting silence around me with the screams of torn through days hoping that dancing along these marry paths are the plush dreams of some prince who does more than dance with welpish identities but breathing with pain is simplicity conjured through the plato algorithms that breath with nothing more than nothing less, and abused again by adversity with the daily reminders that my dreams are not mine to bath before the gift of silence, and no matter how many conjured days given, Philemon will no longer find the time to bathe free, he will be tied down and beaten for not following their dreams to the dying places for dollars and dining mingled advertisements, so find the paths that are given and take your time with the apocalyptic gifted breathed through worlds that bath in the nightly sky, driven was many days and followed hollow dreams to lay down upon the alter and drenched was my pillow now I flow through mellow, dreaming of days of peace, laughing with the chaos gifted, and leaving are leaves, as I lay down to find sleep hoping that all things conjured find their way to bring peace.

God When Waking

…God When Waking…
By Jaria Saent

As a shadow I am weak as I walk along the beach breathing the air of purity, walking next to the existentialist ideals of dying minds I see death as I bathe beneath the peace that silence seems to bring, I see laying next to this path that I am on three glowing rocks that begin to shutter and come alive, three dragons dance before my waking eyes, each speaking simultaneously granting me wishes, each torn from the fabrics of this dying world, one seems to say with greed comes destruction as the resurrection of the waking worlds, tearing the dying minds that grab hold and flee to bring forth more destruction than man can find in the aisles of torn through days, the second seems to breathe through these realms and die with black eyes fixed on the horizon bringing everything to a shuttering stop around me as the third seems lost in tears as he begins to breathe life back into her tangled heart, lost on the beaches of time, if these crosses where less than an apparent dream and time where waking with honesty instead of corporate means, but must incorporate these ideals before the dragons sail into the stream, one must gather these ideals and lay them back as they were before the minds gather and form into trees, so again the world starts hovering over these sainted theories wishing only to find beneath the Abramaic alters something that will turn a harlot into a queen.