Phal'omey

He, Lium, Infidel. It teased him to speechlessness, for the tongue is truly mightier; and he was a pacifist in rational interactions. Ataraxis illuded him but was alluded to through increasingly sparse flashes of wind like moments that could not be caught, nor held, and were gone. Past and passed over, before he could feel them, take note of, notice of them. The battle for his soul was arduous like a firefighter para-dropping into the thick of things. Arborous. He was, inside him, a kiln. Shattering dreams, making things hard; sometimes beautifully. Pumping blood that was truly red when full of je ne sais qua and then blue again once exhausted. His inherited lion-heart inherently moved him. Proudly. Driven, tidal, lunar. Interchangeably guided by and set adrift by things beyond his senses. As if tugged at. He could feel it sometimes. When frightened. Or enlightened. Bright, brilliant, boastfully so. Yet his lacking in wisdom found him the reaper of sows. Fool-ish. Forgotten wrongs left unrighted one could suppose. Divine justice, karma, one or all of those. The past is alive and i'mortal. Constant. In repose. Its in motion, an ocean, it ebbs and it flows.  Ripples and butterfly effects coincide and intersect, illuminating poetic justice which takes concentrated effort to neglect. 2222 vision caught in 4D retro-spectacles. Fee. Fi. Faux is fashionable. Far from conformist, his laugh lasting past blasting through gravity. Not once to look back did he. What would he see? Hypocrisy. And the perils of being. God in threes. Thinking so much. Differently. Rather rascally rose he, literally, and metaphorically to the occasion. Timely solitude bred him needed introspection. The cure of his ails, his serum, confection. He floated Pftfall-esque to Mars and then back. The curious conject coyly, they coin conflicting conjectures. Jesters. Infect-ers. Producing poison to infect herds of heards. To hear their own voices give they themselves lectures. In truth they are twisters. Weapons their best words. Construedlers conscrewing. Cons. Screwing. Cons. Crude. Enemies molding the mass attitudes. He escaped them. Broke free, no longer their slave. To maintain their illusion they must make him behave. He has been circling some time now in an infamous infinity, a symbolic orbit. Each day lives in infamy. Metamorphasisic. Some say there will come a day when he shall shed the cocoon. Now to them is not too soon. For long enough to have misses, fits resembling longing. Seen scenes of exclusively sunny sides of the world contrasted by that ever dark side of the moon. Observers have taken notice, desiring to know this, to be audience to his witness. Started asking, raising questions. Discussion groups, detective and objective. Eagerly awaiting are these. Each passing day as if it were the night of and they require the results of an election. Wanting the word of a man who sought and found a thought taught extinct. This thing called solace. They ask themselves impatiently, “why does not he just call on us?” They thinking up reasons to distress and distrust. Despising controversy, the scandal outweighing the perks of isolation, perhaps thought he, after careful calculative consideration, it is time I be coming back, from this extended vacation. Lium A. Loneman began to plan. A man is social naturally. Amongst others he has to be, at the same time a self-teacher. A creature, who once glimpsing a potential resolves forever then that he's destined to reach her. He was eager to share, to give away his wealth, he himself. Not to store up were his energies. Of his qualities being afraid was not one of he's. Opportunities un-seized? Elderlies tell of these regrettably. With people of good will on Earth, who needs to shut the cellar door? Peace to them, forever more.