Cupid’s Folly


The mindless thought apparatus-

The endless yearning. Of the man. That answers the calling.

Like the wilderness, he is in the concrete jungle: ensnared by himself.

She is the echo that is faint against.

The Fromnowhere voice of doubt that angst, and angst.

The endless vision, that is no vision.

The answer to the body’s call.

The island in the middle, and the lost passenger.

The voyager be all the desires of man, and the dying eyes, mind, and hands–

the king without queen, is the gamble of creed;

her eyes: all greed. She is the visionless decree.

She is the knives in the hopes, and the waking life.

She is the art of war, and fickle with every ounce of might.

And so it would seem, that Captain Ahab chased himself through the waves.

Chasing his own eyes with a spear, until insane…

For she is but the mistress. The sea, and the entire waves.

The storm. The clouds. the hurricane in all the rains-

Copyrightcopyright July 9, 2018


Jungle Walkers


The ensnaring human nature–

that shakes the shoulders of us all;

into one another; ourselves, we with inspiration we draw.

The same artwork of mankind, that is reflected by mankind.

The arms short-tempered. The strokes angry. The vision hazy.

The heart beats for other hearts. And the body for the body.

The mind for other minds, and the lusts for lusts.

For the artwork of humans in wake; in nature.

The canvas is covered with our blood work. The finished piece is but ourselves.

Like ursa major: a scatter of our wants and needs.

we turn the spindle, and web roses from out of weeds.

Copyrightcopyright July 8, 2018

When its calm inside, a storm rages the surface…



The storm outside. Its scary isn’t it?

Almost like fate. Sometimes fate can be a scary maiden.

Sometimes the only thing a child needs to be fearless, is destiny’s hand.

But destiny is formless, until seen. And sometimes we don’t see it, until we see it in another’s eyes.

The dying faint glow of logic, starts with the logic of understanding.

Sometimes not understanding, however, helps the drifter understand

even greater.


-Gregory Thomas

The Frolicking Words of Destiny


Walking the intense path, knees lift up into the skies;

the knee-caps of might hit knees; the shatter the skies, the great divide-

and arms swing the moon to crumble like gravel turned into stars;

him, her, they!

Enter the fray. They, him, who?

with waves used as glue-

the uplift of heads to gaze the playful orange skies-

the people fly. Like rockets into your eyes.

You, seeing the jester. Laughs up into carrying winds.

It so begins. The rockets of bliss-

the sunlight, a kiss-

see how war is used for art? See how a simple thought, can be used to add music to the dark?

Awaits the sound, is it a melody? Is it the children’s singing?

Is it the eyelashes of her, the fluttering witness?

Is she the apple of Eve?

Is she a dream?

Is she real, world peace? Or misery?

She is the babe, that uses the waltz, to entice freedom reign-

she is the bullseye, cupid target practices,

of lassoes used in vain…

Copyrightcopyright June 25, 2018

Her in Endless Hearts


The intense eyes of fate, within the insanely lit glow of

eyes witnessed-

the wide howitzers that spread the area,

function as we do;

Looking far and wide, at the dystopias that self-abide.

The dying eye. The fading eye. The nursing eye.

Wanes from. Disappears from. Nurtures from.

In the midst of what mankind has become-

The heart is heartless against the hands of her, seeing her grace-

a means to an end-

the mother of a feminine heart, and diminishing again-

she is the fading memory of peace, the bed is but the spikes-

she is the art of war painted green as the maiden-

blinded by endless gun-lights-

the flashing of the beams-

the dashed dreams-

the mistress, the princess. The wailing banshee…

Copyrightcopyright June 25, 2018

Hello on War and Poetry


Hello. Gregory Thomas here, friends.

Is not the art of war, just Ballads for humans?

Was not the sound of listening alone the very concept of The Cold Wars?

Was not antebellum’s existence started on behalf of our mind and eyes?

Does not all of mankind wait on mankind?

Does it really suprise you that your eyes see what is around them?

Your mind is the most personal think you can have, and only your mind knows what your mind is thinking.

Your soul is caged by your own ribcage. Your blood is just drool, used for your body’s elixar.

Your eyelashes are just thorns, your chin is your body’s mountains.

But I ramble. What matters is that you hear the music through my words.

The words are the music, the mind is the canvas, your eyes are the window, and your voice can shatter all three of these things.


-From your friend, Gregory Thomas.

The Deepstress


ScreenShot1058The deep of the sea, devours the feeble minds.

The seaweed become arms, the madness like water, drenching your ideas.

You free fall around yourself, until you find-

You are nowhere above or below, in the limbo watery valley of roads,

You sink to the bottom like the death of a stone!


then she appears.ScreenShot1067

She, with the body of a woman, but a shadowy fin elongated.

She in form, a fish? A Shark?

A devourer of the dark?

Her arms reach for you, and you reach for her, and she shrieks away!

Her madness like a crossbow as your embrace she enslaves…!ScreenShot1062

Then comes back she does, indeed! She and her fishy frame!


She smells like roses, feels like marshmallows, and tastes like the salt that preserves your source.

Her of course!

She and her peaceful face smiling in your wake, she skips through the sea, hand-in-hand with your lifespan again.

And through cool waters, you withstand the waves of the unknown together!

Using her grace as your shelter