Circus Maximus And The Hilarity Of Contempt Poem by Riano Harp

Beliefs, -
I loosen my self from the high throne of visions,
Never to believe -a pronoun of belief- that it's much easier to be like that. There's a problem, all thoughts lead (the title is the estroise I will look at)to the sustenance of belief and mastery. Trust has layers, the transaction waits to be poached.
The words are belief and I have been deceived by the limits of faith, the path is constant - meditation is the microscope to infinity, I am in an infantile stage - lost in faith, I must trust what I don't understand and wash its vibrations. I can only tell my mother I love her as love is the resonance of all things, I am discovering the reason and truth behind these new urges of conventions that resist silk attires and search for watery alternatives, drenched in my miscommunication of nature for the future is apparent within itself-, it is the foundations for why I react - the strands of inspiration and expectancy, a fault is construded and love is the familiarity. The love used to track sunsets is the fault of my step — I will inspect the microscope for a disease in constancy.
Meditating upon an Aster,
- She has been too crude upon the toes of my naivety and definitions — she doesn't see the multitudes - and so falls into the belief on which she entrusts and proves in truth. Lives are defined by demonstrates of belief and I let out my protest - hesitations, huffs- I have been trained into the training of the lost and is the last deceit is a constant state of spectating pleasures. The disease has spread too far, ink leaks stars onto the page.
Annoyance,
Everything is a revelation, It's an annoyance.
It is in itself my reason for pain and the hatred of dusk.
It is the encompassing of every thought that binds my hesitation and leads me to conceit, crude relations, forgetfullness, crowd relations and convulations.
External is the internal unkowingness of the oneness of man.
I walk down the chalk stroked steps of ancient Rome, Circus Maximus.
I seek the fascination of history.
Inspiration resides in the result of manifested cause.
She respects intelligince, she giggles at the War of Urbino and the Swiss Guard's defence.
She believes she hates herself.
We reside on light because it's our power.
I mumble in coils, it's an annoyance.
I trust the constances: I have lost belief.
You have to renew yourself, and realise there is no weight in revelation.
The future is dawnting because it is full of respect.