Lost in translation.

Heard although mentally turned wordless
grown disdained, hating the internal purge wish
grass stained for translation reads losht, lost with a lisp
scenery that should offer bliss, is covered with coded scripts
a matrix in a disordered list, a ill-designed imitational trick
of what is, so easily missed.

Sleeping beauty.

Closed off, sight so casually subverted
to a world through imagination, though convincingly converted
blessing a proper beguiling vision so benevolent in its insertion
gaining the urgency to submerge within, before its realistically reverted
a subconscious cause of a temporal diversion
awakes a curse to be praised with the glimpse, of such a heavenly conversion.

A reglazed gaze.

Window glaze within the painful frame
of a perception that's widely disdained
though through an eyesore the eye can soar to a hope re-famed
a livingly picturesque blessing, sorrowfully ordained.

So look out towards the rain
for it revitalises, freshly baptises, a well trod terrain.

Here he be.

A cleansing fire immortally admired
Devil spawn through the ashes was sired.

Set a blaze to ripple a heat wave
for his inferno is to be ember paved.

Smoke a crown for the new reign amidst eternal flames
to reveal a different face of fame, to place the mortally intolerable pain.

11.

Parallel lines laid temporarily, numerically entwined

eleven elevated to a candle lit shrine

when two declined, sociologically refined

with hearts beating to a rhythm benign

for eleven is just two, momentarily redefined

but will forever be, two plus nine.

Nowhere left to go.

A sickened affliction
freedom pestering
a hollow well for a wish to fester in
only company's a corpse of a helpful pastor
a still muse towards greener pastures
a distraction from the bloody disaster
of a fallen peaceful fractured master
to invoke the rapture of satanic laughter
at the mortal absence in the hereafter.

In some she acts. (Insomniacs.)

Accept an invitation to my haunted home
where the dust rests wearily upon walled stone
and timed presences are free to roam
to offer a consistently interrupted creaking groan
in which to sleepily follow to a half faded smiling crone
ironically in living room sat reading a grim mourned heavy tome
black leather bound with electrical wisps, to adorn a crackling crown
fingers of bone find the words to underline for her to silently mime
instruct light whispered blindness to disparage the senses from her mortally endangered advances
force a fall prone to rest beneath her clawing possessive tearing tones
recited on an echoing repeat, an incomprehensible hypnosis encouraging sleep
to awake in my home all but alone and thank the angelic night hooded crone
for piecing together the rest that lied asunder.
For knowing even insomniacs need their slumber.