Sunny

For deleted people.

( By: Deleteory `imageino).

I am the invisible made manifest and remain unseen,
I am your time clock a' ticking, tocking and of your invention, the time in your eye.
I am the Meadow mist in the new morning fields and in your mind
I am all the tears you'll never weep and all the laughter you'll never reap.
I am the soul’s repentant or nay
I am the slip slip slippery that slithers through rhymes
I am all those unseen crimes and acts of great philanthropy
And yet, I am less than the vale that guards a brides beauty
I am as innocent as a picked flower in a infant child's hand
I am a rain which never fell, yet a hope laid down in print and upon your kitchen table
Myself without you and with you invisible
The last tea leaf
The head which is held to an arm in thought
The prayer, yet sung!
The dregs on the very top of an others pile.
The cat mew through a closed window, waiting, ever waiting
Being only were illusions are real and mystic muddle fuddle and cuddle, dangling like the drip of treacle from the honey pot.
A sunken ship whose crew is ashore
A drifting barge with no (preralerific) wench forlorn
A Line’s memorial with bronze entablatures blank, unwrit.
A cooked, boiled, birds egg.
I am promise's released, the deeds undoing, the task completed.
The unknown zest to a lemon and the quietness of all fruit's.
I am the dancing (hooven) feet of god's not seen, i am the memories remembering,
of that I am 'sure!'
I am the vic-versa in faith or hope, in sickness and in health, in richer or poorer.
I am forever, death, do you part?

For I am life and love combine in one, am you and you I.

I am the invisible made manifest and remain unseen,
your time clock a' ticking, tocking and of your invention, the time in your eye,
The Meadow new morning mist in the fields and in your mind, all the tears you'll never weep and all the laughter you'll never reap, souls repentant or nay the slip slip slippery that slithers through rhymes those unseen crimes and acts of great philanthropy .
And yet less than the vale that guards a brides beauty as innocent as a picked flower in a infant child's hand, a rain which never fell, yet a hope laid down in print and upon your kitchen table without you and with you invisible.
The last tea leaf .
The head which is held to an arm in thought.
The prayer yet sung.
The dregs on the very top of an others pile.
The cat mew through a closed window, waiting, ever waiting.
Being only were illusions are real and mystic muddle fuddle and cuddle, dangling like the drip of treacle from the honey pot.
A sunken ship whose crew is a shore.
A drifting barge with no (preralerific) wench forlorn.
A Lines memorial with bronze entablatures blank, unwrit.
A cooked, boiled, birds egg.
Promise's released, the deeds undoing, the task completed.
The unknown zest to a lemon and the quietness of all fruit's.
Dancing (hooven) feet of god's not seen, i am the memories remembering,
of that I am 'sure!'
Vic-versa in faith or hope, in sickness and in health, in richer or poorer.
Forever, death, do you part?

We are life, and love combine, in one, am now you, and in you we are now one.

2007.
Just notes to myself.
Gilding Gingerbread.
Words and observations.
Jottings.