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.

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.

War and Honour

Honour that he lost shall thus be gained,
Ere halt his steed shall rise again,
Whispers of hallowed name are spelt,
Swords now drawn thy foes now dealt,
More null than keep in heaven’s weep,
Ere much he says in less words to keep,
Yearlings too mute to speak word for fear
Our survivor in the yolk must stand so near.
Hours now the breaths you long to take,
Still keep in meagre sight lest art so fake
Shall time thy heart for actions all too well,
Lest thine heart in action is wrought to swell,
Move the moon from noon ere moon is boon,
Motion for new ways can never be so soon,
Onward now for honour’s pass in bitter waste,
Never return unless war has been your taste.

Passage from China

Nor did Zhanji knew from reading here,
At least in mountains thrown as clear
Come forth the wind to keep him still,
The glistening water ne brought ill,
How now his favoured eunuchs declare,
Far now are but miles left to dare,
These simple words they spoke so hollow,
Can only lead to death if not so sorrow,
Then turned to counsel these men he call,
‘Las that had no means to man recall,
For since young had from honour taken, Read More

*

For I spent the first half my life in thought,
Ere I spend the second my life to live,
The actions I should have done twice in lieu,
Gave new reprise ere for twice more anew,
And had I not tread the path my God sent,
Nor am I here to tell your son this day,
Then I shall be shamed by Fate to doom hence,
Though no doom comes at here my bitter ways,
High grown but lowly worn this armour weighed
Nor my name in verdigris cast fire ways,
Here, and so hear thy known name called to task,
Becomes thy name to spell in utter task.

Erstwhile Orgasm

Beneath the ethereal sky her eyes met,
Under cluster of stars her so eyes wet,
From when times of old should never bear,
But held him high from ground with hands so bare;
For his legs would fall under bitter crease,
His arms so stretched to ground with length increase,
So that the Earth shall root her feet in touch,
So that the water shall ripple for such
A beauty no jaw could never deceive,
Nor his head held high as much to perceive,
His nipples shall be one with bosom known,
The wind shall part the Earth in better throne,
Or ere in the midst of thought both ne clothed,
Nor water trickling down all parts be loathed, Read More