Louis Borgo Poems

'I need it cold' (how cold) , so cold that i can't feel my neck caps! ! ! ,
I need it so cold i forget this touch of a feeling.
Like the tracks of a huskie sparkling of crystal, clear so clear of a mountain i need it cold! ! ! ,
Like hand of a shuttle, settle free, empty barrels, like the softest place on earth.... of dropp of rain on the back of the porch....
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The forest that sign wood sign of death
Would you like to hear more
Rig among a tree
Laugh among a breeze take it to colder
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a song of purification rip her lips,
like thunder on a mountain,
that whisper oh listen...
thoughts of passion,
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If the twelve of night was a castle of light's,
this be the latern,
to bless tommorow's light,
Sight be the reason why you sparke this night. (till dust till dawn)
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Moon said to the Sun,
Have you ever heard of a rising of a; Son.
Rising; like no other dynasty a sure sight to watch.
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So as Rumor has it there are this special breed of children called Indigo Children supposal there suppose To take us in the next phrase of human evaluation-

Rumor has it there was suppose none born before 1990
Rumor also has it that this kids are genius in Arithmetic and Written
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Dear Luv,
I write to stop this pedals of tears,
Far from falling over,
Never the less this,
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I do not wish to become bibilical but this text require careful wording, what is a true friend with a kindom of wolfs and over sheperd by demons, wait is this ficition, eyes that hold shelter to black skull to a new up rising, birds that hymn that heal with whistles of love of crimes, that is all on film or maybe we all are guest, looking for gravity.

Everyman is made different so a silly superstition would say but what would true making of a man, take pain and the up most rooting of lost land, mimic it as quick sand, we start to man and fan to tans and this here eyes are a shame to cry because who is left here to a dress man but a man.
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The right; tear of a mountain tear,
A portrait of a landscape years of tactile up rise,
Seeing is, believing an alpinist had ties to tithes of a higher life.
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As the wind blows the sun is surely to come,
and sweep you off you re feet,

Passive as the night to carry us to our sweet,
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