A nasty thought interrupts my well-being !

A nasty thought interrupts my well-being a truly nasty thought that's not a thought of mine or yours,

An ugly thought, which some hurtful person determined to write down, a thought of their's,

A thought I wish I had not heard, a thought I wish I had not read.

A thought they wrote down many miles away,

A thought they penned down, many years before today. A thought of one I had never met. A thought that disturbs my peace and my peace of mind.

A thought of a stranger, an experience they determined to share. A thought I was unprepared for.

Trauma is something that can have a lasting effect upon those the one in the traumatic event has never even met.

What you put in your mind lingers in there: be careful what you eat with your eyes. Your stomach may become ill.

Black magic lingers on, the magic of the evil thought, the magic of the negative word, the sorcery of a bad event does stain upon one's happiness.

A horrid thought to have written: a hurtful thing to have done.

I surround myself with happy tunes of a different life than that which that person chose write down.
I seek out your voice it is soothing to me. I seek comfort in your sound. A nasty thought that has nothing to do with me: has me seeking you comfort. A nasty thought a nasty thought a nasty thought it pushes through me.

The trauma of a nasty thought circles my soul like entropy.
And so I seek you out, the purity of your voice as dreams did sound.

 And your noise is like white noise. I know it can block the other noises from any distance.

And I hear your voice it circles my soul.

My words are barely audible.
Barely comprehensible, I speak. I hear your voice and gives me peace
I hear your voice I hear your voice I hear your voice you give me peace…

Here lies the beautiful lie...

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Ice snail-slides about my skin, it grows-and-amalgamates.
Cold spreads like icy saline across my veins. A dormant hibernation sets in within-my-mind.

For years I am to sleep, conscious not,
For decades I might lie there,
Dreaming beautiful dreams.

I lay there as the icy-weather-of-the-moment spreads across my unfighting cells.
My heart slows down, it ceases to keep pounding-effortfully.

I fall into an unknowing-coma, and there are beautiful-dreams.
Magic overcomes the icy-cold-world, I am caught in happy-serendipity.
Ageless I sleep my life past twelves. And ones and twos and threes.

The light is brighter, the colours more vivid.
Ageless I sleep, a million years in a moment.
My mind clasps unto the beauty of the-one-within-the-dream.
Ideal, perfect, I clutch onto her, and I do not desire to wake.

Elle est mon monde. J'aime la femme. Je suis heureux. Je suis content. "Merci Beaucoup" je dit.

And she touches my face with an icey touch, and warmth spreads away from her deadly unwarm.

My lie, my delusion I seem content to live. "Merci Beaucoup" je dit.
And I playfully play with her, La femme. "Merci Beaucoup" je dit.
As the cold spreads unto my lungs and they do not pulse, and the musical symphony of my brain,
Does no longer commence.

But yet while I have miles to go before I sleep, as the foreign poet once said,
But yet as I feel the cold become inset flow upon my unset fate.

And I must choose between content and life's contents.

Ice snail-slides about my skin, it grows-and-amalgamates.

All those dreaded hopeful expected things...

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Thunderous applause, doth break upon the nighttime skies.
Broken, the rags of time and space release a stench of knowing decay,
One cannot glean from another's mind even a slight stench of their reeking thoughts within a life of time.

I hear I keep you back from your dreams, I stand upon them, a distant memory.
I hear I hold the hand of time, and disrupt your midnight peace of not mine,
I listen to the shaking nighttime breeze, as it whirs around my windows and downs the innocent birds,

They tweet indignation and ignorance prior their swift swift swift unbegotten fall,
They ask the wind why it seeks to leave.

The wind replies their wings push it down. It does not desire to keep in their feathers the breath of life.

I stare now into the dark sunlight. The darkness covers the sun,
And I remember years ago the comfort your presence brought,
And the excitement of your fickle life breath.

You say I hold you back. Or perhaps you wish I would jealously react.
Maybe you seek my disapproval or a reaction of some kind, for you strain against time's distant reign.

You say I hold you back, with my dripping distant once memories,
Yet all that remains is a shadow of a ghostly apparition.
I search but find only hints of your foot-and-finger-prints.
They only show up within my mind. All other evidence is with you, once almost dear.

They say I hold you back a bit, perhaps you wish it were not so.
They say I whisper in your mind, in dreams you have long forgotten to ask yourself to renounce.

And when I ignore you, they say you call out, and demand I not forget what once was a dream of fallen life.

The birds fall perilously toward the ground.
They beg the wind not to take their lives. The wind upon which they once did soar higher than the heaven's heights.
If you desire freedom, I do not hold you back. My memories though they fade, are but that.
The long forgotten almost hope I once found comfort in with you.

Ahead of me is life, and I doubt I see your shadow within my path.

All these dreadful hopeful expected things; All these fading memories;
Ahead I walk into the sun, and the falling birds do find their wings, as a second later the deadly wind does die, and another wind does lift their wings, birds are creatures of aspirating hope.