killing the times

We walked through the pine forest, young, forever living in the memory I still hold on to, looking for places to kiss our dreams, in enchantment with magical truths hidden in the veils of consciousness. A creek, barely running at all, from that hot summer, ran next to me, trees, arms in love, swinging branches, faces, talking forms of lunatic youth. Now the tendency to live in this scene, holds on to my vision center, where my third eye marvels at the creation of imaginary lusts, never seen, but felt, and closing the door to put all that nonsense to shame. This may sound a little discouraging to the twenty somethings, but it gets worse, much worse, physically, but the authority to now comment or even muse on mortality is justified with experience, and ages of beauty in their eyes, having lived like a rock star, an academic, a square, a student, a salesman, a teacher, and seen all turn to dust again, as it always does, but legacy is in the words saved for prosperity. And I have the tendency to drift alone inside the taste of sweet marriage with the evergreen forest, just behind my house, a hill, more of a mountain, with her double, transparent figure, in my outward design to grab this thing again, and move it through the canvass of my choice in illusion, for under the umbrella of any omnipotent being, the deception of choice is apparently too obvious to see.
There was a third figure among us that day, for some time, passing through us, lighting up the bedrooms, where we would leave all to shame, as the practicing crafts remains upon the wall, hanging upon a coat rack, aged man, paltry thing. Turbulent gyres of visions of the world and spirit, in between the lines of the sponge, soaking up moisture of the past, to wring out on the mirrored reflections of the prismatic self, always hidden in mystery of what you are to this world of emerald tapestries, perforated with light from the August skies, the most troubling time for all miracles to ponder existence every now and again. I wake up to the grand illusion, and paint my mind according to prescience to follow these old dreams to wherever they go. This could be anything you want to believe, but lucid clarity may not be hiding any truths. Hold the ears of martyrs, thorns and talking about the shadows seen at night, this becomes a sweet pulsar jangling in guitars, to the way back home to some Irish meadow, spread out to the sea.