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.

Moving Faster

For it was not the leaves who asked faster,
No. They joked with time in little passing,
Did I ask for my life to be taken away?
Should I give myself to time for better life?
Let God decide where my road falls short to fall,
So never find me weeping in a mess to know,
The art is gastric so my stomach shall implode to sink,
The mink I wore is now simple and plain. As am I.
>Now I see my clones walking around, dancing like bots;
Now, they’re the real me. I am a shade of code to compile,
If not my soul, then least my logic shall least decompile,
Nor never have I sung the words divine, in heavens soon
So divine. But I lack the love to hurt me more to live,
For I never sought the one to challenge me lest I the same,
Now give me grief I had no adventure to survive,
If I were dead now, I will be awoken now to danger revive.

Open Air

Her mothers and foremothers for protection sought,
Ere sought,
She is but sought protect and indeed is cared for,
Alas, is cared,
The greatest asset of hers the abject of welfare,
In God’s will-
May shant never her Mary give leave for Virtue,
Alas, my dear,
Alas, my dear I am but bird in cage for strife,
Though I’m faint,
Since I’m hinder took, so give me Reason here,
To breathe hot air,
Perhaps I am but prepared for coals of fire,
Fear practice hire;
For practised air is but freedom’s domain,
Yet is not mine so wane?
Perchance I am but prisoned in virtue divine,
For open air over wine,
Echoes through night are cries I here whisper,
Forsake me now, my fair-
Nay, for open air I need to know how I breathe,
Pity me, and leave;
Now I’ve left, and now I shall never return,
This much I turn,
Rather I be the poorest beggar in freer land,
In land so grand
Becomes the sand I crave that touches the sea,
In whom hence I can never falter to see.

Different Shades of Man – I

Thought he ought be made calculable,
Though more he thought made culpable,
Did bear witness his instincts so cruel in cage,
No less he saw himself his past is writ to page,
For he cannot see past himself the man he ought,
As it was always the animal he better sought,
So leapt from birth with tears of agony and despair,
He could not surmise first his straitjacket to repair;
Donned since birth and so carry to his death,
Not in silk, not in wool; nor blood nor breath,
But it shall be his skin, tis only one to show renew,
And so he makes reason for suffering in shadow’s hue,
To bite the tips of skin from finger and thumb to pass,
If not his art shall then seek needle in skin trespass;
If it is not in ink, then it ought be substance to crave,
So walks in, ready for a mane joked be bought deprave,
Now he’s a new man in black and white: no single lie
For bigger times ahead and then his instincts deny,
So too he comes at large once more he swears divine,
So he makes mask for himself and swears all to wine.

Different Shades of Man – Prologue

Know no more the new thesis,
Indeed this plight I cannot treatise,
The art of magnificence in shadow
So far wretched and glees in meagre throw,
This I cannot spell, nor mine eyes write
Yet despair is come with and laughed right;
The art he dignifies slowly corrupts a soul,
And never, nor never, did he sheath his pole,
Lest he walks and never would laugh again,
So told the various men whose curse is gain.
So surpass God’s alternative, he ought to say,
And dare not the words he bought at bay,
How grateful is the mare the rides too fast,
So sooner he resigns in larks to distant past,
Nor woos his bark the wrinkles sharp too sad,
Nothing; nothing; tis mortal fool to deny so bad,
The nature he was; the past he was, all forgiv’n,
Not whether, so tether his heart to strings given,
To never deny, his life what once it was so grand,
Who could never relish this man he ought to brand.

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