Flickers of a gentle spark
Draws closer to a fertile
Seed applying pressure.
Initial senses drop
While my glowing candle
Shimmers with a quake,
A gentle gust,
A sinking tear.
The wax can scorch
A floral island,
Unless it blows
Towards the ocean.

Calm blue ocean
Absorbs the gust.
The continual blow
Inspires a tear
Engulfing an island,
Quenching the scorch.
The embers quake
As sunbeams spark,
Igniting candles.
Wicks so fertile.
Inhibitions drop
In synchronicity with barometric pressure.

The hands of nature apply pressure.
Embraces end my quake.
Flashes of color drop
Fire in each gleaming spark.
My ribs are now fertile
With columns of candles.
My spirit extends its scorch
Like sand near the ocean.
Within the shores of the island,
Booted feet ground me through the gust.
Consciousness tears
From the vessel as she blows.

Sight from the third eye blows
Through the atmosphere, scorching.
Braches collect heavenly tears.
Twigs wave like oceans
In November gusts
Encapsulating the island.
Geese soar like glowing candles
Succumbing to torrential pressure.
The earth is fertile
While the squirrels scamper and quake.
Lightning bugs provide natural spark
While the fish descend in aquatic backdrops.

The moon drops,
Glowing behind clouds like a candle
At first spark.
Polychromatic pressure
Looms through the sky and quakes
Until prismatic and fertile.
Nights alone on Staten Island
Shield me from the blow
Of apathetic disgust.
My heart scorches
With blood flowing like the ocean
Ridden with tears.

Love for nature brings a beautiful tear
Streaming down the lonely island
Into society’s ocean.
These hurricanes of emotion blow,
Fanning the disciples of the scorch.
Never wasteful is the gust.
Forever fertile
Are the drops
Of passion after the earthquakes
Bring forth rumbling beneath a candle,
Buckling under the pressure
As it struggles to keep its spark.

The gust
Of a zephyr emanates from a multi-tiered
Eruption out of which a scorching
Array of intergalactic islands
Are drawn together by central blows
Above the ocean.
The celestial sparks
Of God’s vision produce fertile
Beams of light without the pressure
Of ultraviolet drops
Of liquid streaming down a candle
Descending without a quiver and a quake.

Vibrating, rumbling, quaking.
This is the trio of verbs defining the spark
Of the eternal flame of the candle.
It is rich and fertile.
The heat will never drop.
Nor will the pressure
Of the crashing of the ocean
To the rocks with eroded gusts
And ferocious blows
Between sedimentary tears
On igneous islands
Ripened by a solar scorch.

So powerful is the scorch.
It burns atop the ocean
And is quenched by the islands.
The breezy gust
Dries the tears
From my face, wiped clean with one gentle blow.
I now feel the pressure
Of the quake
Of my sixth sense as the temperature takes a drop,
As the spark
Loses fertility.
But still remains the candle.

Fire represents life, while mortality is the candle.
Eventually, we lose to the pressure
Of the quality of fertility.
The idea makes us shiver and quake,
Never knowing when it shall spark
The notion of a drop
Of life blowing
Into fruition, the scorch
Brought forth by the tear
Swimming in an ocean
Of your personal disgust,
Your own prison on a deserted island.

They say no man is an island,
But many a day, only I hear hymns blow
Through forests dancing to this rhythmic gust.
Sometimes, I can only feel the feral scorch
Or the tempo of a bestial ocean
Or the wailing distortion of a solitary tear.
The beat suddenly drops
To its eternal rest like its friend, the candle.
Neither one can resurrect the initial spark.
Too much water pressure,
Very little quake,
Unexplored levels of fertility.

My mind still remains fertile
Upon departure from the terrain’s drop
Caused by the quake.
Inspiration ignites my candle
Providing enough pressure
To rekindle the spark.
It is my tears
That have brought nurture to my island
Surrounded by my private ocean.
My muses blow
Through pursed lips, the scorch
Of a militant musical gust.

So long as life is fertile, The glow remains from the candle.
The direction of the tear determines the way the words blow.
As fears drop, so does self-inflicted pressure.
On this paper island, you can feel your enemies scorch.
As the pen quakes, the images are sparked.
Love thy ocean, and thy kite shall float with the gust.

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