He

In the midst of chaos, he found his purpose; in the midst of woe, he found himself. In the midst of defeat, he found his vict’ry; in the midst of death, he found his life.
In the midst of thought, he found his reason; in the midst of fight, he found his right;
In the midst of knowing, he found his base; in the midst of God, he found his faith,
In the mist of loss, it was he who became lost; in the midst of now, it was he whom he shall know,
In the midst of past, it was he who became now; in the midst of song, he knew he was not alone.

My dearest, of all sights. Now comes a time when a man’s life suddenly ends, and then is never returned. But his ego will always return. It lives in the mantelpiece of that brain and casts aside all reason and thought; everything becomes in peril. Imagine being took by an unknown force and in order to live you ought your life to give. It was simple. It was the ego he had to give. The art he gave became the chance he diced. In muse besought, he wanted to be something better. For all men desire to be someone better, but none dare walk the steps that lead him to danger peril. But when he does, so shall he in desire fraught, so that any who knew him shall remember him for any he gave.

But I mention no further the calm, and the serene, and the moon that is but akin to star shine bright across the Earth. It is he who walks the day. His peace is the war of others. Your words ill-thought are but comedy to a man’s venture. And it comes to this when she becomes the man and you become the lady to sing in vital prose to understand the way of knowing and the ink that throws the fray.

No tattoos nor metal can break a man, nor make a man, nor fake a man, nor forsake a man, nor partake a man in restful hope of who he is and what he ought to be.
No meagre lie can make truth a man, nor loss whether in court or foe make better the art he ought to give.
Nor insults nor compliments can move a man without a value in the meaning he ought possess.
Nor fright and fear that his life be gambled and ought be shambled in the essence he once ought to live.
Nor exist in the lurks of others as demons true; he himself becomes the demon.

So cast aside all the worlds he himself sought, and so last in the now that all moulds himself he brought;
Nor kite the lingering feel, the emblem wheel, the chasing eel, the darting meal, the exiled zeal;
The harp is broken. The lark is dead. The art is led. Homer is said. A soma is fed.

His is the sum of all he knows; he is the product of all he endures; he is the difference between himself and foe;
He is the life he never had; he is the reality that brought him dread; he is the shout that calls him forth;
He is the new that brought him old; he is the love that brought him cold; he is the dove that brought him sold.

Meaning

In pursuing a career he wanted to be that whom inspired him, she wrote. “So he decided to be, and then thus he became.” But in the words of his father, of late has taken illness, he could not understand why his own kind would not be that of his own kindred blood which by forsaken creed had suddenly consumed him. This sickly blood, she added, suddenly became an illness; the fatigue was too great. All was lost.

There he walked, in a mountain fought, and slowly climbed. Then he shrugged. Then he sobbed. It all seemed too much, all at once. He is no mountaineer, but he simply wants to climb a mountain. He was no man, but he hopes one day to become a man. This much, his mother wrote to her sister, who since recently was under a great melancholy for ill choices she made that could never be reversed. “Oh! I am sorry for all I’ve done! The men, the wine, and all the tricks I’ve endured. It was not to be.” Though, her brother might add that he would not want to be deserted by a woman just like his sister; but perhaps to be imbued with new wisdom as to how to live with one.

Near the mountain peek, gossip for months soon called at bay. For months, our dear fellow climbed a metre closer to the tip; as much as each day his mind felled closer to the dip. It was like he wanted to break himself so that each piece can be collected overtime then brought together with each piece part of a new image that formed the basis of his own. Though the pieces have not changed, though the image has changed, the very essence upon which these images carry is now part of something greater. That greater essence became his meaning. It became his life. In essence, his life is the sum of why. Life no longer ceased meaning; it augmented the story.

His mother closes the letter with a solemn wish that once her son reaches the tip of a mountain he may at least come down and never return to the tip. “For what it is the base without its peaking stone?” He would ask. So casually it was, but she could not even answer, for she has never travelled the heights he would. Sooner or later, he would know the answer and once he does, he would have part of the meaning he needed to live.

Stones through the Light

Walk away and never turn back the notes when I say their ink are but colours of unseen before mine eyes can eat the words with tearing face. Imagine his kneeling before the drum of the sun beating then all come mute when no sound can utter the ache that trembles. He had to become evil. He had to leave everyone. He suddenly never appeared to himself so good as to God forsake. He read a letter from himself when he slowly transformed into the darkness and wanton sought his id to bigger fright in meagre sounds he makes: weeping. It’s just that he can’t weep; he used up all his tears. Read More

Burn a Petal

Don’t let it get to you, dear;
It is but only fear;
Let the past swim by you fair
These memories gone to taste,
Soon shall fade into the dark. Read More

Brother Mandrake

As still as light he slept so sound, within his skin lay creases rough. His hair finely cropped soon shoot leaves forth. His demon was human. His beginning was nigh. In a cage he slept, in noiseless feud in utter silence kept, may never once again breathe his last; it was never begun as all his dreams turn to ash. Whilst I walked through room and room, in mazes gone and darkness brought, mine eyes beheld my brother in utter sleep diminishing from what I once knew into a figure within the cage wherein he slept. So soon I recall he began to shrink and with time erased so soon, so fervent can last his eyes to never open again lest cries adorn shall forsake our dearest mandrake beheld. Read More

Watching the Lambs

A cool summer’s eve drew sun in evening glory. At a distant fold knew better light where breeze and sound combined would mute the nature between them. Within that nature, with sounds of walking footsteps through trail of wood and mud, there was I and a friend going through it all. Recounting the steps to this unknown part I could not call home nor haven. It was but a guest in nature’s woods. Watching through the glistening water from premature rain to cover the leaves with tears that drooping their eaves cast light into our eyes. These shady leaves in number grew had only our shadow they knew; more they found our steps to folly they surround us. Where one of us would attempt a log to pass through, another would walk around. I was the former. Read More

Finding Myself again

At some point I decided to enter a spherical room covered in a single mirror. At the epicentre of the sphere at the bottom was a single light in circular shape. It illumined through a translucent glass which neither blinded nor shaped the way I feel at the very sight of my own reflection. I was imprisoned here. It was now my home. So it was, and so my ugly face was to blame; for my soul was trapped inside this feeble figure which I call a body which served no purpose whatsoever. Nor could I wed. Nor could I love. Nor could I hate. Nor could I live. I wanted to die. I wanted to suddenly disappear. An hour would pass and I almost forgot how I entered this room or why I entered it in the first place. It was almost like an escape pod onboard a ship, in a distant star system; in this space, in this hour, half my life was kept, half my life shall rise again – so rise above the stars. The more I distance myself away from society, the more human I am; the more time I spend in the stars, the more I see myself for what I truly am. Read More