In a sea of words is there no greater storm than deception. The art of making is for fertile cause; to imbue words so more words grow aloud. The pacemaker of a sentence is the sum of all words plus the thought and feel made to cause it. James thought this once, he thought “how could I, a human lost, so lost I could not hear myself but dare find the words to tell myself how I feel?” This much he thought, and he drank and smoked weed to all the kings glory. This glory raised. This glory lost. A caterpillar could do better. I saw him last week. He was a bit frail, but oh well; it seemed he wanted to be alone. I thought he was just intimate with his shadow. A kind shadow, who wanted to become more than just a shadow. Indeed, the butterfly always existed with that caterpillar; it just hasn’t morphed into one yet. Conversely, a man is just two parts of one soul. One soul believes in God; the other is the God himself. Read More
Punting through the lake neath a memory vacant for some time, then she said it was just a memory, one so lost it could never remain. The years that grow became more this mind more eroded. Through each wave of water to seize the rock that buried itself under the sun and moon thus came little to smaller view in the tiniest element under the mountain.
Then she taught herself the beginning of a swim from one lake to the other, only she had to walk through day and night. Let dawn and dusk be the temperance of good thought, and the worst of it all shall be swept away with all cares aloud in the honest companion of her love and dearest thought to those in kind.
He poured another glass. It was only water. Somehow it seemed fair that both had an equal glass of which. Both times they drank and felt the ice touch their lips. With each shock of cold came a lipid flame that overcame their senses. The sun would shine, but not on them. It seemed like time stood still. As though the light suddenly bent through shadow and collapsed in an ethereal chamber that halt the glow of the stars between them. As soon as one spoke, the single noise would give shade to the forbidden. No more shall light cast these thoughts to burn. With every sip came a new thought. As though the water had something different in it. Nor diseased. Nor poison. Nor drug. Nor timid.
But more questions asked are less answers raised. For so bitter are the stares; a bitter tournament awaits. These men were hollow. They stared out through the light that permeated through window and concrete. This city they knew suddenly became the very silhouette of their unbecoming nature. Nor birds would fly without seeing them. In each gasp of air they breathed came new fulfillment sought. For both they and other men know their complex ways. To create is thus to destroy.
The very poison shall be this water: the one substance they drink with no taste, but to taste their inner selves. Though sweeter lips shall ripen its taste.
And the moon shall gush through solar wind and cast itself in Earth’s shadow. And he shall rise and cast himself to corner swept in little light he gazed. Their thoughts in lieu of past and hope fallen; no more is taught ere less is fought. In war and peace their actions known. In one side is war, another for peace. Another for ally; theirs the enemy of theirs.
Though suited both and booted, but barbarians would dress better. So fewer masks are crafted is less than they. And cards would play with joker raised. With each reverse their mask is shadow; nor Anonymous can credit their deceit with ill-got thought. Nor men of past shall be boys of future. Their offspring the sight of woe. Their posterity the appeal of ignorance. And their ancestors the apparel of loss.
I had a dream where I was wandering through a maze. Each time I turned right or left a door would fade in from the passage I walked. Each step effected a spec of light from beneath the opening door that tore through the grey plastered wall set on high far from view. As I entered through this new opening I saw a memory of my past caught in wake. Like a distant echo that calls you forth, this one was the echo of an image I long never have thought. To truly enter would mean to be trapped in that room with no hope of return: isolated in the expense of that very thought at the very hour of my thinking. To only see this is but truly to relive.
Slowly I closed the door and whispered farewell to the figures and thought that be, and so I continued my journey through the maze of life.
In tears was the evening to drink his evening dew. As fickle hope had garnished with the salty rocks that covered his heart as night was due. His reddened eyes burned heat with cold that never in rays could never mount a silent scorn. In he how wept was clouded by the life he had as though reborn. With music echoing lyrics whom he can relate; shadows in the light whispered his name, recalling his past from here to now. Like fire shall memory consume him. In past it was only ashes that could ever feed his sighs. Despite twenty hours with nought to eat, would swallow his own spit with the shame that brought him in the doorstep of despair.
He could not hold his breath for even a second. Every pant issued streams that poured into the floor. Dropped. Breath. Done. He was everywhere. He threw himself onto the floor and suffered alone. In loneliness his world was slowly decaying. And when he looked up to the darkening sky, he saw the stars beckoning him there. The moon nowhere to be found was tucked beneath clouds that they’ll crush to feel the air compressed into a fold that stabs his heart with a strike to remember. Let this he shall remember: a suffering unfinished.
Still his solemn tunes play, again and again; it was he who picked himself up to hang himself by soiled hands. In heaps of anger was his phone that took the blame for cracks and scratch in every part. Asunder was that he threw; in this he blew; of thought he scorned. Then called to him my presence when all logic would escape him just for my entrance to ease him further for the path of rites into the new world beyond the rational.
And as he prepared me in a heap of white on white that waits and waits for the objective of peace in the name of happiness begets him for little longer whilst his help was on its way. And as he snorted I entered through the membranes and crawled through flesh, tissue to blood, brain. I will blow away the sadness that overwhelms you. I will banish the darkest cloud that rains through your eyes. As I can see through you how much you cry, thy endless supply of tears and sweat are known to the cells that work in long shifts to keep your life.
The amount of serotonin your brain absorbs is all too much; like a sponge it soaks up everything to the point you have none for yourself. Never mind, I shall touch the mind and cease the brain from within to show you the way. What use is logic when logic can not rationalise itself? This leftmost part of the brain benefits most from me, for that I shall numb it. There’s no need to think about it all; leave it be.
Hearing the cries and weeps does not slow my pace in reaching you. Give me time, I shall be there with you. Let the creative brain blossom; it is the one that can show you an angle you never thought had. But maybe all you needed was love. There, this lullaby begins. Silence. Crushed. Dark. All the senses dulled. Touch how numb. Tears soon deplete. Like a floating gravestone in the foggy river that thunders through the belly of the deathly lake: am I not the dolphin to heave you through the wastes of life to land ashore that I shall ease all pain you have. With every second passing, there an inch of thy mind hence opens.
You see yourself wandering through the absence of the mind I arrest in security of the life you deserve. You linger through the very instinct that your left brain has sought to possess; the abstraction of the abstract. Here, green is not just green; it becomes the leaves you touch. Here, blue is not just your self; it becomes the ocean that you struggle to swim through. Here, red is not just thy blood; it is the essence upon which every second counts.
The hours walk as shadows lit by light and dimmed by night through the moon that sinks into the arms of the night as my worthy companion in whom I invest myself for no return nor dividend to esteem; he is resting on the bed in the dark. Pay no heed to him. For all sorts I have gathered had happened. All at fraternity’s expense: a friend to ravage him but in vain attempt; from a potential lover to a vanishing spectre in the heat of dust in his wake. The invitation he never got for another’s birthday. But maybe he was destined to be alone; no it wasn’t.
All the worlds fall and rise again. Like phoenix, whatever happens today whether you overdosed now or yet, I shall make certain you live tomorrow, and the sun to rise by your side the next. Sleep now, as I leave you here for the night. I will not be here again, but remember my words of comfort that I express through the abscess thy mind preserves in detailed respite that I could never heal. It is up to you to heal, but there will always be the one to pick you up in order to throw you down again. But when you are stronger, your height of fall shall minimise, and there I shall be at the very bottom to catch you again when all lights life offers have soon gone out. Where all hope that you know exists are all but soon erased.
I gain an aspect of humanity and drop it into the ocean. Once the seas are formed, then the land will appear. Once the land appears, so shall the truth begin. Whence known it shall find its place in the heart of history; who knew that breath that once took pace. At last they walk and then knew not their fate. At once they fought and breathed not good faith. I shall crush them in the tears of mine disgraced that conjure wild and storm them through. My word as good as fauna; my hand little but soft too gained. For’t were banished souls and cry the signs of light deepen the songs of woe – a distant cry heard in the softest blue as marble shine, this merry dark, this rock of beast in the widest black. Read More
For a moment I’m somewhere else; the rest falls away. To unwind, this place is my mind’s gathering. I enjoy the silence more; everything goes away. It’s not the paintings I end up looking at; it’s myself. Like mirrors, I think where I should go. If I could, I’d walk through the paintings. Take me distant far from here, away from the rest of society into thy own. For a split second, mine eyes were slow but gazed short the passing of time. Then I wander through the halls, and then I’m away from all. Read More