The Metaphysical Theater with Shaky Shaft Thrown Hard
Away fairest creatures we desire increase, Anchor FM metaphysical poetry theater in motion now through sound Podcast.
That thereby beauty's rose might never die, blooming I touch the wings of butterflies, they do not loose flight. Nor is my flight lost. Now I watch and do not touch, for this world does not need me.
But as the riper should by time decease, my life giving turns away from this world as it dies, I shall live forever with Christ. The riper reincarnated to again become a thief dreadfully not by necessity.
His tender heir might bear his memory: but eternal life needs no children, there are no children in heaven. There are none but me alone.
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, I see within myself, you there dying along with that world that no longer gets the benefit of my attention. Die in your sin and be saved by default then.
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, and not be again blasphemous or perverse as all these dead creatures on the mud crust are always practicing in earnest.
Making a famine where abundance lies, you are rejected of Christ and your death is celebrated. Your panic is not metanoia. You do not know what should be done. You are lost.
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Die in your sin, it is a mercy unto you. Then saved by that death you have earned as your payment.
Thou art now the world's fresh ornament. Johntvrz.com only wisdom can use the right knowledge at right time. And what wisdom have you? None, its all my own.
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content a coward to shine. 8no I bloom but you cannot follow. Racists can be any skin color and usually are.
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Niggarding then said by Shakespear long before you twisted crime into justice, and you do not understand the meaning of words. Long before you destroyed earth you sought some position over your fellows and this is why you are dead. Replace then light with your cowards darkness, your light buried you doe in your sin a mercy to you.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee Male young lover If I profane with my unworthiest hand that hand would r miJudi estore the world and again man would fashion hell in heaven.
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: travesty you claim some achievement. Silence the flapping lips of educated simpletons in bla mck robes, all mind power in imitation. They then a Mote not envied but pitted for their own stark ignorance covered by insecurities called academia, Science, compromise and common sense all mediocrity and dead to me.
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand the exhalation destroys your world in one breath, in one wink you are saved or tormented eternal.
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
Young girl lover of my pulsing shaft of textual erection, penetrating your sheer stupidity into your tender heart that stupidity could not harden.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, too much, too much not cutting of the offending palm and digits.
Which mannerly devotion shows in this; you are too far from truth, I do not know you.
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, they are close and not in some sure misperception of distance sensation. Traveling across the valley of the shadow of a fantasy the eternal play.
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
Young male lover, suicidal and rash.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
Young girl I love
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
Young boy she loved when alive, now dead.
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; and clasp themselves while horrors pass or take me.
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. You never knew faith but your mistaken view of it.
Impetuous girl lover
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
Brash young man she loves
The
