would this art ask for faith

there is no honesty to this art and no truth told [old hearts yield selfish desires] this fire reeks cold like snow and like snow falls this beauty goes only down and underfoot is trodden into the earth never birthed or realized for what it wants to give for it gives only of its self like the old irish man told

>this art speaks no deeper truth than that which
is revealed upon first
inspection<

[redirection]

is an appeal to the self for your health this will never end for your wealth this will never bend

youthful thoughts twisted in your mind find only those echoes from a thousand decades once

loved once cherished now loved now cherished no needle punctures deep enough to find fresh

follies huddled together neath ancient earth for these are your questions answered posed only

for gain refrain from probing deep within stolen thought for this art asks only for your attention

not redemption and no exceptions train sane vanity in locked chests grasp open sores and ask

these if there lies within ‘the faith’

>I wished on the desolate shore praying up and down moon and sand send gifts from the ocean upon the drift I will render unto you my all for merely a whisper of honesty torn from choirs of salient truth and wait wait wait an eternity I will wait<

and yet again like he once penned [provided it is not too long] for patience falls short of desire this longing is built on ash and sinks until the spires loom meager in the drenched sands and waves wash over and hope denied turns to wasted lies these revealed now as absolute truth because absolute is nought but a dream so it seems broken

and oaken coffins once filled with>>>

::death reveal dust in the due coarse of time
let not this love linger let not this hope grow::

for it wraps tightly around the supple neck and binds and lacerates the divine skin thin or translucent once white pale fresh now red purple flesh and spills forth

real flute sound plentiful still one note at a time trickles fine lines down curved neck over untouched breasts and unadulterated hearts beneath this line crimson and sweet meets maker escapes the source bids fond adieus and moves rapidly down

over unscarred skin towards ill abused navel and down and down and drowns sadly in the place that will never receive

pain neither in nor out that wrenches life from scarred tools grinding hard against one another in mysterious love or anger or misunderstood obligations and this negation of life is death as it ought always have been and now know fully that this into which you have placed all of your hopes and reams of wasted prayers brought sterility to those once most virulent of…

on the veil

::this image is for sale::

It’s the one from your dream last night youll find it difficult to recognize because it kept changing but it’s the one the same as her as him as it as they it’s the face that meats the face theres no grace mighty enough to reveal its identity for it is identity pure and true and few [or many] encounter and all will still agree
that
this face they knew
that this face they loved
that this face they hated
vindicated berated kissed
kissed
kissed

until it faded and lay there something beneath this face was no face but illusion

(confusion unintentional)

this face is the face that sees itself and says

goodmorning and goodnight I miss you I love you I know you I knew you I am me and see never never see beneath it looks face to its own face and this face is surface and beneath is surface that begins a journey into the heart of something sincere

but
what fear lies within this veneer should the veil prove yet to be nothing if nothing is concealed beneath then there will be no surprises it suffices to say that the surface is all there ever was and crack that shiney glass there beneath is vast empty dark so fine so fine nothing gained nothing lost repair the crack continue without remorse regret without fail this veil was all there ever was it is what you knew and it is what you will continue to know the hope though

the hope

is that beneath is something true through the looking glass you find you and knew all along that this was the faith

behind your honesty that your face was not a disguise but a beacon leading passers by into and out of your whole

hole/soul and yet again what horror remains when the surface is as nothing that what lies beneath a vast

atmosphere of nothing was everything that veil that hides the self is nothing and yet

that self

remains

concealed