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Arches NP Last Light 015b | by JamesWatkins
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Arches NP Last Light 015b

mountains (James watkins) not hdr

 

Mountains grand and gazing-

pillars standing tall-

piercing passioned histories-

hidden in their walls.

 

Delving downward distances-

caverns large and small-

mutant molten metal streams-

fused before the fall.

 

Decant demon-ed destinies-

cooling chasmed halls-

dinosaurs and diamond doors

in massive mirrored malls.

 

Heaving, heavy voices-

in paradiasian sprall-

firey fumes of purity-

creation's curtain call.

 

Subatomic saturation,

soiled, synthetic signs.

Righteous restoration

of prehistoric crimes.

 

Tumultuous-

tempestuous-

waning, wasted pearl-

forethought, full and fragile-

foundation of the world.

 

Hidden in the language

of nature's cresting yore-

cracked beneath

the stress and strain-

crumbling at the core.

 

Tiny tidbits torn and tumbling-

wiggling in the storm-

recipes and remedies-

chemically reborn.

 

Thickened soups and swirling haze-

brooding-steaming-scorn-

clashing reams of violent schemes-

valleys ripped and torn.

 

Balance within balances,

scrambled eggs at last-

gushing geysered marbled mud

borne before the blast.

 

Consciences of scientists,

syncopated scuds-

bothered by the missing mass-

baffled by the blood.

 

Leaping lemon lizards-

the barn is nearly full-

the hay is neatly in a stack-

this baby's come full term!

 

Common commonalities,

full circle's come at last.

See the story in the hills-

yield before your past.

 

Something's broken,

something's missing,

something's come and gone-

something's at the doorway-

someone's on the phone.

 

Someone's at the table-

someone's on the floor-

someone's grass

is full of gas-

classical-and more!

 

Rhyming with the timing,

balancing the board-

signals of a sequenced strike,

calm before the storm.

 

Mysteries are meaningful,

when looking at the past.

The scene is somewhat circular,

when stage is come to last.

 

Weakened, muzzled monkeys,

dance before your lord.

The gift of grace is growing cold

squirming on the sword.

 

Commentaried cavemen,

come into the fold.

Your ears can hear-

your eyes can see-

so come in from the cold.

 

And listen with some latitude-

to knowledge held in store.

Fashioned in the faceless stone

of ancient ocean floor.

 

Squeezed in myriad molecule,

the battle rages on-

raving reverence in reverse,

it's relevence reformed.

 

And bow before the evidence-

the courtroom is restored.

Through judgment passed,

the script is cast,

in elementary score.

 

Rain fire, you veined volcanos-

your statement's on the floor-

and advertize what you surmise-

from secret silent store.

 

You've waltzed in dazzeled wonderment-

and touched your maker's hand.

In timeless thought-

before the fault-

and listened to the plan.

 

To bring all things to unity-

from eons vile and vast-

to bless-ed end

the future bends,

with glory

unsurpassed.

 

James watkins may 2005

      

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Taken on December 2, 2007