Brian Freeman

Bitter apples wish to fall far from the tree which bears odious fruit, because this fruit doesn't want to be bitter.
One apple wants to be as sweet as a Christmas McIntosh baked in the oven at the home of the grand matriarch.

This apple contains the seeds of sacrifice.
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Home is no longer where the heart is.

Home is where the soft-core pain is.
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Sight covets the trust of a heart that's yearning. Faith leads one to desirous paths. Will lures choice with a glare that craves. The night glows through a window in the sky. He stares through the clear glass wrapped in steel, bisected by the metal beams vertical heights, squaring the tall glass like vertiginous lanes. White light beams through a coiling tube underneath the next ring that illumines the tower. The gleams twine from the layering of the tiers. Lust roams through the ploys ruling his thoughts, shading his virtues like the grounds beneath him.

He grins with superiority in his eyes, staring below toward the object of intention; a world of inhibitions that he longs to possess, trading reserve for the infinite that he's conjured. Yet while he summons what is absolute in deceit, venality erupts like nefarious flame. Fire dies in the murk ruling his conscience. Morals freeze in the coldness of the gloom.
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The sky is so blue, painted a hue of ocean or the sea of the Mediterranean. I am on my knees on the grounds at the temple of Athena. Looking to the blue waters above, wishing to dive, but I have fallen instead, for reasons not yet revealed to me, though I do possess my suspicions. I bathed in the gold of sin. A punishment for pleasures received from oratorical creations which shined special like a bronze moon. But knowing me they were painted gold letters dripping from the waters of lust that cleansed me. How I miss the Terrace of Lions and the view of the Aegean while seated in the theatre of Delos! My island is lost to me now, but I have my memories.

I dreamt of Selene last night. She visited me on a chariot of cherubim as they landed on the silver crescent. We discussed how I will be awake in the morning and she will only be a distant memory, but she has been risen closer to me as of late, an acquiescence from the orders of Zeus.
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Why fight the inspiration?

The inclination takes hold!
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I lust for love as I think back to the times when I used to love lust.
I speak of love as if its familiar -
it's foreign like a country not yet ventured to.
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