Volume 1
Death Is A Crystal
In a way, you are caught by a savage light. Dusted and settled into the jaws of the end. Our eyes change color in the wind. Exchanging hands and soiling our heads. Those colors are blue. Marine and rocky brown. The signs on our hands are written out like a dead song. Sprawled out there on the palms. Water trickles through the stones. I turn my hands round and round, til the signs become signals. Til the signs become lines and figures. I spin them and the color shake off from my fingertips. Tapered black wings pass above the water. Far out to sea, gliding in motions. Death trails me like that river. Round and round again.I listen to the shallow waters. That still sea. In the way it was. Death is a crystalliser. Turning in rounds.
Once Becoming
There are strangers breaking in to the new world. New people, which are not new at all. They have the faces of those people before them. The same walk and talk. Same breath. And they are not new, they are images from the forgotten past. We once said history would contend with the strangers breaking in. That the blackened violence would become a door from which we could hide behind. A border we could construct. A safety played out by patterns. But they have arrived once more, to break in the windows and shatter the glasses. To carry out their evil devices and cruel novelties. They are here. And they cotton dreams of those who spun up speeches for the borders and doors hide now. They hide beneath the piles of people abandoned by such good intention.
Hear me now. Hear me when I say to you, this is the axis of being. Of human being. This is the place where all occurs, at once, and once before. We are the creators of this new reality. We looked out to a charcoal sky. An atmosphere consumed by shadow and silence. And fear became us. Fear became an assaulting God slithering through our lung. All in shadow and silence. But hear me now. Listen to the breezes as they sing. Listen to the air as it quietly roars. That serpent cannot slither in the homes of the reverent. Listen. We were once becoming. The pattern is true in sleeping. The pattern is dreaming and weaving. Will you say it, how it is? Will you appear at the door and observe its colors and textures? Will you touch it and smell the umbre?
I hear the song which was sung before. A recursive melody lining my mind. Like running backwards, the world is aflame with a directionless good intent. I touch the door now and I listen, and I hear a small whisper.
Your home is a dream.
Tawny
A crisp autumn morning it is. A morning which caters to an infinite simplicity. And a man sits alone in the hollow of an Oak tree. He listens as the leaves rattle in the wind. Shades of umbre and orange flicker through the air. Passing by. The Oak tree sits in a field a small ways away from the city. People hardly frequent this place and so tranquility has a chance to breathe. The man is craving a piece of wood with a little knife. Wood shavings fall over his hands to his lap and on the browned grass below him. He has a sense of time. He has an awareness of the mood near the field. And he knows when there is a tingle in the air. A little line of hairs picking up on his arms. He knows time.
As he continues to rasp his form of wood, the air turns dull. A turn in the chain of little bird sounds. Small noises rising from the city. Thin hair flicks up from his arms and his eyes pause their movements. The sounds from the city grow louder. Now a distant bell can be heard. And small shouts and ringing screams. The wind sifts through the trees and the field like a wave. A certain stillness overcomes the region. Not a tranquility but a flight. A fear. And listening now he can hear a cadence of steps. A rush pointed his way. Billows of smoke rise from the nearby city. A grey smog overtaking the sky. Rushing comes faster. A stomping crowd quickens over the hills. The wind still blows. Children can be heard now in scattered wails. Everyone is running. The man remains in his hollow, stopped by the noise and the black clouds of smoke. The people of the city rushed over to the fields where the man sat with his knife and wood form. They pushed themselves over the browned grass and through the fields. The women held their children close to their chest. The men pulled their families by the corners of their coats and dresses. The crowd was slightly blackened and dirtied. They coughed and reached out to their chests, struggling to breathe. Looking back at the city the man could see the smoke had grown larger. It had overtaken the city like a god hand. Bells still ringing, he saw more crowds exiting the city. They looked like small blurs of color. Not people. Not women nor children, nor men and elders. They were blurs.
People started to speak. The man could hear people proposing that the fire was made from a bitter and evil man amongst them. Another proposed that this was a sign and that she had foreseen it in a dream. More voices came to speak. And they all told stories that gave new blame. The Oak tree rattled in the backgrounds. The wind still held a silence wishing to be heard. But the voices of people drowned out the morning. Once tawny, now shades of stoney grey. A young man came forward and confessed. His face was awash with consternation. A face drained of color and speckled with sweat. He confessed. And the groups of men and women and children and elders were flush with red. Even the children went silent. All of the noise turned mute. And what would be done with the confessing young man on a crisp autumn morning, this would be determined by the pointers and runners and mothers clutching at their children. It would be done in the darkness. Under the billows of smoke. In the city. This much was understood.
Little Lights
The sun is rising. But the dawn is a winter dawn, and so the clouds restrain the soft light and it appears and disappears. Blue shapes flicker out of the window, it’s like God all over, bafflingly divine. I have been thinking of things. Simple things. The world has reframed itself again. I remember one morning, outside in the cold. We went out to the car early in the morning. We sat inside, and our breath pushed out like smoke. There was tea and warm drinks, and everything felt wholly unreal. Yet those glimpses are the only real thing. Just like this blue light of God.
Winter is that season, for all who notice, which brings in silence. And a wondering about the label of life. To identify something in yourself, to study it like a vessel. To see yourself as other, or ether, or something less real. This is the first step to waking up, and sleeping and dreaming. Maybe even the last step. Then waking becomes sleeping and dreaming becomes waking. Everything you knew before this evolution is nullified and you find yourself waiting in a car in the cold, running your hands over your shoulders as you shiver. Registering all of time in one fractal.
To see yourself as a vein of this life, to understand that a personality is only an offspring of the mystical- that the mystical is the only personality. The only axis and vision. One language, one beauty and one death.
I’ve started a new habit. I’ve started to take myself into my mind. When I hear those things, those things which make me irate or hungry in conversation. When I hear those things, I take myself into my mind. And I sit there, in that silence. Just sleeping. Just waking and dreaming, and all at once I lose feeling of the argument. All becomes lost to a lingering light. I hold it in my head. A sacred vision of time and truth. Water slipping down the windows, cold winds passing through the vents, everything that is real. And I become nothing. And then everything turns to the real again.
The only conclusion is to remove yourself. To walk deeper into the shadow. To feel the whole brightness and white flame of the sun. And that is not death. That is union.
Stranded With Oblation
Human voices are the eve of the garden. Our fingers rough with the white flames procured in the early years. A little tear comes falling down the eyes of the youngest one, and I take my hands up to soothe him. The air around us is desolate, stainless and pure. It feels heavier than it was years before. The weight is trickling down, all over me.The little one cries out and I look further at the end of the road. The heat ripples like a school of fish across the horizon. And I held him beneath the hand of the sun. His heart gave uneven beats. A tight skipping of steps. I put my hands over his head, lifting my fingers up from under his small hairs. Treading past the little rocks, a lizard moves in the dirt. A noise came in and out, only grazing the top of my ears like a still fuzz.
At the end of the road, a golden elk strides slowly towards us. Its shape glossed over by a blur as he stepped forward, overshadowing the sun. I held him closer to my chest, pulling back as it drew closer.
Shimmers drifted down the body of the elk. Nodding slightly before me, the patterns of fur moved slowly in waves. The little one looked up at me. Stunned by hot strings of light he recoiled into my chest. I closed my eyes and listened as that noise slipped over my ears again. I opened my eyes and lifted the boy over the back of the elk. Kneeling there, the beast was silently breathing. Hushed steps, long drawn out pauses. The little one made small whines and moans of protest as he held on to the broad horns.. The sound of the little one became drowned out as I slipped my hand over the elks body.
Walking past me, my hand was held out like the shore waiting for the waves. Looking down to my feet that lizard was slithering beside me, in search of food.
Window Copy
I am living within the sound of a shell. The heart of it breathes with cosmic air, an infinite breath inward from the lungs of the great one. Outside of that shell, sits a window displayed on a soft dun wall. The glass is distorted and images pass through it with small changes to shape and size. I can hear a beating now, a thumping drum pressing out of each of my ears. This is the world of planes and breaks in time, all is halted and waiting for the exhale. I lean in closer to the window pane, small images come into view. Clearly, a plume of smoke rising upwards from a massive wheat field. The cloud forms into the shape of a blooming breath. Rolling vertically into itself, ripples of grey and black smoke take turns in waves. The window cracks, the smoke pressing up against the frame, pressure thumping on the glass. Crickling veins of glass spread through the window pane. The sunlight covered by the dark cloud. That shadow was cast over the room, reaching over me with dark, rolling hands. A trinity of realms revealed itself to me. Alone, eyes wide before the phantom air, the cold slipping beneath my skin. I clasped both hands together in fright, gripping the palms and bone. Splits finally grew to the edges of the glass, the whole room soaked with shadows. Eyes closed, ears pounding. Exhale.
Innervisions
Pure bodies melted safely into concrete floors. There was a warm glow slipping through the slits of our hands, flashes of soft light falling on the bodies. We wondered if there was to come a saviour, if there was to be redemption amongst the silent beauty of twilight. Our breathing felt as one, tied to the dirt and the wind and the trees, and everything around us was strapped into the sacred heart. Noises descended upon our ears, the hollow infinity of the ocean spacing out into the earth. Our forms were still as we silently wished upon a great angel to pick up the rows of lost souls scattered in the woodlands. Still. Waves of wind flush through us. The noises shifted to the thunder of a dozen wings fluttering through the airs.
My heart grew heated, warmer and warmer as the sounds of wings approached us. Whispers of ache turn to whimpers and moans, finally small empty screams of agony and distress.
I feel the presence all around me, a lineage of birds watching us from above, circles and circles of them. Flames burst out from our chests, a mysterious fury cast down upon us. Just as those flames rose from our chests like the sun, the birds flew downwards in an instant, wings held back as they dive. My eyes were open, I watched as the fury of crows spilled over on each and every body. Gnawing and pecking at the flaming hearts of the bodies. Beastly caws stretching out into the air. My heart still burned as I turned over and crawled in the dirt. Held down by an evil gravity, each arm moved in front of the other. Black feathers were spit out from the scene, stains of black and red were everywhere. As I crawled faster, quickening to the woods. The smell of autumn trickled over me, but no relief could be found under the shadows of the birds. My arms wrapped around a cold oak tree. Silence started to creep in, wings flapping upwards back into the air. I turned quietly to look at those burning ghosts. Sprawled out across the dirt, they had all been disfigured from the attack. Hearts still burning, eyes cast upwards to god. Sunlight returned to gently lay on their bodies, the air was still, my breath was caught between the rotten earth. Those spirits lay solitary ghosts to the end.
I, Elegy
In my void, cynicism grew. My eyes were once clear of judgement and blind to complexity, now they have become heavy white stones. They speak before they ponder and lure in images of falsity.
Walking toward the bed the green light flashed over my wrist, sliding across the stone walls, everything was a haze of green. Footsteps rang out in my halls, the great cathedral was a spirit of its own. Looking toward the stained glass I could see figures distorted with color, shapes moving into one. The bed drew me closer, and I walked softly to the edge of it. Layers of linen were draped across it like a ghostly veil. Pure white covers. I pulled on the linens, tugging each end I saw the shape of a face appear. The room felt collapsed in time as small freckles of dust fell like flakes of snow.
I reached out to touch that face and another hand met mine, as I breathed, so did that face buried beneath the linen sheets. Both of our hands went across to pull back the final layers and I could see a mirrored image of my own distorted face.
A scent of sweet decay was coated everywhere. Dark blots of blood on the sheets. Silence grew louder and louder.
The smell overwhelming me. I took my place beside the rotting shadow, lying still as the light passed through us as one. My hands shook as they stretched out and pulled out an eye from the other. Now that shadow of mine lay with my right eye and mine replaced with the left eye of the shadow. The sun was setting and the lights were cast further downward. Small white cells of dust fell atop the two of us. Sleeping beneath a snow of dust. All became one distorted figure of light and shadow.
Faith
The moment I set foot near the idles, the spiral began. My first thought was quaked with sweat and confusion, I hardly took a breath before looking backward to the shining face- blasphemy. I yearned for the words to slip out, for the right phrases to knead themselves together somehow and arrive gracefully at my lap. None of this. None of this.
The face turned back at me, vicious and grinning, the light began to spread out with curved lines, the image appeared to me like some foreign creature- taunting me with mysterious allure. “Lord, I call out to you, hear my whispers amongst the dark shadows”. My heart grew heavy, and where I was once sheltered inside of the womb of the lord, my mind wandered off to thoughts of inevitable death and failure.
The idol stood proud on the altar, a small hiss littered through the atmosphere, like the soft flick of a snake tongue burning in my ears. The spirals set deeper within me, cursing my organs to function in some backwards manner. The air turned to smoke and that smoke became my air. Curses, curses greater than what I could have dreamt. The grounds pushed heat into the soles of my bare feet, everything turning into a feminine curve.
That special tide of evils crept into my lungs and kept itself there. My eyes fell and my body was cast downward to the fiery floors- all hail the new messiah.
Ancient Trees
A haze drops over the valley in the mountains, driving up a long road the weight set over my shoulders. Then, outside of my window, the cold breath of the fog picked up, dark figures slip into formless shapes on the drive upward. The lot was empty upon arrival, all others had left before the cold hand swept over the forest. Eerie silence swept through the roads at the top of the mountain, we were as pioneers in the great and eternal natures.
As we walked, we passed giant trees which appeared to have been ripped out from the ground by the creatures of the dark, somehow the greater fear appeared in the form of the undersides of the trees.
Great cavities were riddled inside of the trees, and I waited there for bright eyes to appear back at me. The red trees silently spoke back to me, calling out to some other soul within me, attempting to draw it out from my body in some rapid metempsychosis. Over my shoulders there were cracks and echoes heard from deep inside the belly of the forest, the leaves shivered and shook with the sudden winds. Those cavities broke into view again, taking shape as one of those dark figures from the road to the mountain. And with intense urgency, my eyes opened as one with the bright eyes in the darkness.
Wider, wider.
Looming On The Horizon
The sun strikes down on the hills. Red lines splinter on to the road, strange whistling noises sifting through my ears. It was like a twinkling memory, a divine fractal of time, where everything paused and danced in slow motion. I could hear the messages coming from the electric towers, showering down on me. The colors stain my mind, as I lay my head down on my pillow now, wandering desert ghosts slip into my head like a dream of melancholy.
Spectacle
The summer lingers now, so deeply in the wind. The characters of the heat take my hand once more, passing back into the restless memory of sweet untethered winds. Things are different now, the growth happens before the words come to collect it, looking back now I can tell the innocence was too pure to contain. My heart expands back and fourth into the bitter desire of returning to the past. Soft shaded eyes look back at me through the thick dusty clouds, and the sun has been sent away into the chamber of our memory.
Devour
The wind blew horribly, slipping through the windows like a slithering knife. Outside the ashy darkness bloomed in the night, sounds of footsteps and thumping horses ride. Beside an empty bed sat a man, holding his knees upwards to his face, tension building in the darkness- sweat sticking to the surface of his chest.
Aching, the friction rose from inside the padding of skin and bone, a hellish rhythm pressing outwards. Beneath the floorboards there were creaks and scattering noises, dozens of small tappings beneath the wood. His breaths grew colder, the shivers picking up, his insides full of a cold, fiery itch.
Now in a paroxysm of hysteric weeping, the man uplifted the floorboards and to his nightmarish amusement, dozens of red eyes lit up in the darkness, the sound of a thousand rats squealing into the dunnish room. The moonlight padded atop the scene, coating the image of terror in soft cotton color. Possessed by a mind forlorn, he reached into the rat pandemonium and pulled one of the nervous creatures by his rubber tail.
Staring at his red eyes as he squirmed in the shadows of the room, the man was taken over by an insatiable hunger. The feast beneath the floorboards and the wind brushing over his damp face, horribly still as the wind blew, the man started to devour.
Compass Mad
Defined. The spectacular blend of irrevocable direction. Our honour was once placed inside of that melody, passing through the crags, finally, slipping off of our tongue like silk water. The faith has become vicious and returned to us as a servant of the shadow.
South, always the compass is pointing towards the silent ends of addiction. My eyes went blind as I walked flowingly through the blinking streets. New images line the screens across each aisle, streaks of lights flashing through layers of cloth.
A new people has formed inside the quiet chamber. Drawn out breaths pass through rugged teeth, driven to the pit of the city center I saw a crowd of people waiting beneath the blue lights, compass mad.
Requiem Daughters
Basking in the woods, an aisle of girls went to lay on the branch and moss. Following the sound of the church bell they sung little songs in a cast off tone, something from a spiritually foreign world.
They sensed the wind pick up through the hedges, rushing through their linen robes and pushing the air across their skin.
The light of the sun shone brightly, purging the detail from the faces of the young women. All of them squinted their eyes in tandem slowly drifting their heads to the east. Their feet felt cold as the water started to rush past their ankles and the sensation activated some kind of feline danger within them. Stretching, reaching and pushing they all shifted forward like mad jaguars ripe with the hysteria of hunger.
The scene was broken from time, a splint of something between future and present. All creatures halted around them as the young women slipped deeper into a spree of pristine madness. Their eyes wide and pierced within the trance. In the silence soft embers of blood started to fall from the tips of their fingers. Time seemed to resume and winds dropped to the soil to settle, all manners resumed.
Basking in the woods, the young aisle of women, empty of any savage memory, fell to their knees.
The white light still splintered on their faces. Their spirit tried by an ancient wind.
Turned Into Shades
Suddenly everything had changed. I felt light, and quiet- more silent than I had ever been before. All of the words had been sucked out from my throat and I felt content with wordlessness. I could sense the glow coming up from the leaves in the forest settle down on my shoulders, absolutely nothing was wrong.
I had merely discovered the beauty and joy of that miraculous flow, not yet jeweled with decadent phrases or expressions, everything was still.
In tandem with time I swayed slightly left ways and right ways, all kinds of subtle movement if only to breath deeper.
Every morning felt somehow grander than the previous, because I had discovered that nothing at all had mattered. If you went full stop silent, if you suddenly removed all expression from your face, it seemed the world had not a care of your cause and the people even more so had discarded any suggestion that they should consider your new choice. In my dream I saw myself touching the rims of glasses, thick brass items piling tables and rows and rows of fresh produce- a gluttonous scene you could only produce in a dream.
Nothing had changed. My unrelenting desire for those shining items, nor the gluttony that seemed to peek at the midnight hour, I had only lost the desire to speak of it.
Volume 2
River
Rushing to the rivers. I wanted to see your face, blanketed by the wind. I wanted to see your silky hands, rushed into the softness of our covers, and I wanted to see us kept together like a pair of swans. Softly sliding across the winter waters.
I wanted in the night to be covered with your sweetness, and calm palette of the air. To hear silence all around me, reach up to touch your ear. When whispers turn to dreams we become those fresh new beings, the ones that circle around the rushes towards the rivers.
Currents and Surfaces
I have yet to explain how it is that the waves move as they do. How they rush to the shore and pull up the foam back into the centers of the sea.
How the blue only deepens until the ocean becomes a boundless being in time. The darkness gives birth to creatures that surround themselves in light.
Their skeletons beaming with silver light in the depths of the sea. I have yet to explain it. The world beneath us hardly reaches into our grasp. Ripples across the sea reflect distorted shapes of the people who pass through them on boats, and swimming through the waters the deep blue courses through our fingers.
Orbital
I could not advise anyone to forget about their past. But it is the consequence of this non-forgetting that leads us into those shadows. Our past life eclipses over the present, and nostalgia colors all new moments in your life.
Running from the shape of your youth, you collapsed into the new stream of adulthood. Your veins were colored with the new shade of progression.
Swindled by the modes of time, our spirit was given to newness.
Life pictured in layers. Straight from a mirror. White shadows on a blue face.
The Swarm
Seagulls, swinging around the skies, swoop up and down, right beneath the clouds. This view, hardly gets tiresome, as I look out to the waters, I am swept with a supreme melancholy that filters through my heart, and touches it with blue. All beauty is eternal. Even the beauty that fades from the flower is in itself eternally beautiful in that obscure and unexplainable way. I hear the swift wind calling me through the curtains, and the birds still flying through the sky are like ghosts of some ethereal essence. Why do those creatures, beautiful as they are, fly in circles as some ritual act? Is this what it means to be free? That if you had the wings to escape this place, you would circle the skies just the same, and find yourself beside the sun and the clouds always, without reason? On days like this, where all colors are faded and misted over, you cannot help but sense the feelings of wonder in the motions of this world. All of the windows are closed in the homes beside mine, and reflected on the glass from which I cannot see within, is the shape of small trees and reeds blown by the wind. Collected inside of my spirit that sweetness sits silently. I follow the tempo of this feeling.
Fresh Blue Air
Open your windows. Open your windows and let yourself feel the freedom of the morning. When the birds chime in, and the sing-song melody weaves into the silence, your world is set at rest. Stretching out my fingers I could feel my dreams come back to me. The memory of them overlayed on the sight of the mountains. My view is reoccuring, and yet the beauty is not temporary.
Each morning I wake, I can feel the great wonder of this world and the forces behind it.
I think back to the roles of the older times in my life, and how they turned me. They turned me back and fourth into the mask.
My life is now simple again, and I can sense the serenity coming from each of the corners of my home. A life, a marriage, a sky, the birds, and the long lasting fresh blue air.
The Tin Aisle
Rows of antique silver lined the shelves, ringing from the edges a little song. We danced lightly on the floors at night, surrounded by those glistening knives, taking them up to the candlelight to shine. Rows of tin and silver plates, no one was welcome to come and observe, simply you and I in the aisle of tin, waiting for the wild current. The wind came flush through the windows, pushing out the drapes that pinned them, and the objects rang out with a hollow sound. The room was a cave of chamber music and the rows of silver lured shadows in. We were lightly coated in the wind song, us and the aisle as one.
Peaks
Peaking through the windows I saw the mountains form into warm mauve mounds, little tips of trees pierce through the blue at the top. Valleys too intertwine and blend to make new roads as cars pass by greeting the people beside them. The signs went flashing, the lights tracking back on another. Green lines stream down the roads and mountains still peak through the cracks. There was a demon riding in the night.
Carpet In Brown
The television speaks with a fuzz and a noise, as the image of black and white shapes run across the screen. In the backgrounds, the sound of planes rush through the window, a low soaring that pierces through the airs. The carpet felt hot and rough to lay upon, a deep oaky brown shade placed across the floor. In the midnight hours, the air fell silent and the carpet, still warm, turned darker as the sun fell down into the mountains. Running my fingers up over the floor I picked up heat in my fingertips. A telephone ringing became muffled by the purity of the moment. I reached out and felt the edge of the screen, and an short shock passed through my fingers. The carpet turns a darker brown. The screen speaks with a deep fuzz. Everything is asleep.
Saint Needles
Heavy gear weighing on the horses back, pulling on he sides of him. Trotting down the hill, the grass turned to a prickle, autumn turning all weeds upward. Roots bled outwards, it spread like muted apple flames. A touch from an angel, hiding in the darkness. We plead for mercy, and fate is unknown.
Muddy Springs
Waiting in the dirt, thick boots were stuck in the center of the ground. The heat picked up around the soles and the inside of the boots smelled of a burning leather. Western engravings were littered around the outside of the boots, the design became murky with the mud sticking to the edges. The engines gather around the patches of mud, laughter pushes out into twilight. Brass lighters flipped out from the work coats lit up in the soft blue light. The decay of a summer night fell over the open badlands.
An American Flow
Purple has always been a color of deep richness, a royal hue that passes back into time. Now the mauve sheets are being laid down, and the people are flying them in the air, shaking the fresh dust out of it. Little windchimes curve through the room, peoples hearts are softened by the the sound. An American flow of life, while the silk is still flowing.
Revealed At Dusk
A muslin bag of limes sits beneath the moonlight. The shine flecks back at us through splintered lines. Waking. Willow trees swaying with the wind, long leafy shapes pushing through an invisible wave. Walking through a blue moon canyon, a soft silver light slips, all beneath the moonlight.
In Rough Suns
Buckled up in the bushes, the sun glares out at me like a fleck of gold dust, winters gaze is fading. The tea spoon shines at the edge and faces slur together as one, wicked grins sticking to the wind. Passing by, the morning paper boys, ready to sling out the damp lines of text on the front yard porch. I started up again, in the early fog of a Monday, there are footsteps approaching from the mist.
To Purge A Clouded Mirror
I'm unsure of the tides that shook me to the present image of now, where I cannot raise my temper in your presence or allow the rage to rile within me. I am unsure of the changing of seasons within my soul but time has set me free of it. Nay, not truth but time truly has set me free of it.
Volume 3
Days Too Dear
When the cold clams up and when the sun shines again, I too will be renewed.
With this new coming of the year, the spring will crack into the leaves and so we will all feel the weight of sunny green days.
Our town will fill once more with the forms of people who hid away from the moon, and winter, will be all but a memory.
I thought I saw the fading shadows of the mountains move with the north winds, passing by me in a whisper.
Those winds will surely die now and breathe into the night elsewhere.
Our dark times flee at the end of cold blue nights.
Evening Bone
In this world, kept inside the threads, I am only a pebble of the past. A memory of what has already occurred. Death, and the wonderful iridescence of present life. Sinking into the slits of palms, an infant sun, a moon of youth.
In this lake of eyes I am, only the shape of another- a being, borrowed in dreams.
Considerations in Quiet
The wind rushed through the branches of snow coated trees today, shaking the layers off little by little. Changing images lapsed through my mind as I walked through the path on my way back home. I think more good thoughts of getting old and withering with the seasons of my life.
Beside Stages
I know the things that come to mind, worries of the future and an itch of freedom I have yet to find. Swinging from the extremities, I had thought before that happiness would find me in a quiet atmosphere.
In a sense, this is true, and yet I feel now more than ever, an isolation of internal spirit, a suppression of something wordless. As if I am swallowed whole, there are these thoughts colliding with me now, prying into my choices. In some spectacular fashion, I think now of the small things I miss, and the sounds I have yet to hear, too much time has passed.
A Winding Boats
The oracle sits in wait, knowing all the threads of my life. A distant laughter twists into the dream spell, she knows of what is kept within me. There are voices all around me, and in my moment of courage I walked towards the widowed oracle. Before this, I had never known a moment of truth, before this I had never seen myself in truth. She tells me of my figure of fear, she whispers to me and that queer language only I can understand. Tears couldn't be formed from the dream world. Upon waking I felt that widow reside within me and cry out and I shrank within the covers of my morning bed. Distant whispers of truth still living in the dream.
Fallen, Rising
The tension builds up with the fractals of an old soul. When a night of this kind occurs, all one can think of is the divine nature of it all: why the lord and lords from before abandoned such primal creatures, and why we were not yet enough to save. There is a divine truth within what all of us say, and the speech sometimes simply does not come out right. The tools of communication now bend to the boundary, and the rules we are guided by, break the crystal exterior of the spirit.
Comfort is what comes to kill. Comfort is what comes to kill all truth and dreams. Once the human race comes to accomplish true comfort, only then can we know what purposelessness feels like. Only then can we become the ghosts of our past.
This has happened in my timeline, and I am aware of how the age creeps in on us, an impending doom setting in as we check the seconds passing by. I remember how the light was vague and warm back then, and how the aura around them pulsed with an ethereal glow. Now the lights are dim and blue and flicker all the time. Now the days start up with an electric screech, one that awakens us from even the most personal of dreams. I wonder what it is to be such a way.
Oh I'm sure more madness will come. I'm sure not too long from now, we will have machines for our thinking, and machines for our dreaming, and we will no longer need such archaic beings as humans. When those days come, the machines will no longer be machines, and humans, no longer human. We will become that hybrid race of emptiness, hiking along the mountains of our precious memories. Fickle, fickle fractals within our old souls.
strides on the spring
Even without pausing you can feel the silence in the winds. There are times when you might say we become half a man, half a person. In those times, that hidden side, bleeds into the world and sways with the wind.
bent towards the hills
In the morning I light a flame that settles deep into the quiet airs. I wish for silence then, and now even more, I wish for stillness. From my place in my home I can see the view of the rounded mountains, colored with the tinge of mossy green. The sky makes a line from the heavens to the floors which deepens the color. Oceanic blue. If it weren't for the cold I could make my way through the pathway beneath the colors and find the silence worth keeping. My eyes shift toward the shimmer of the sky.
Eyeless Dive
Link back to your sorrows, see them through the iron bar shadows, feel them in the night. Your ice slipped down the glass in a center of shame. Faultless rises and the sun comes up with a lisp and a ring, the bells of a haunting morning. Dread back to your sorrows, from the bottom of your little withered cages. A long eyeless dive, five mornings before the ringing sheets of ice.
Black Rip
Satellite dreams, figure through the night and slip into the ballroom. Characters break from their roles, old men shine in their robes and bend far back. Their spines sprinkle into ashes. We are a people of divinity and a people of lies. We march onward to the conquest of the silent manifest. Stuck to the pillars, walking in the wrong lane.
The Sound Of A Wave
Bombs float beneath the water, black patterns ripple beneath the foam. People stand by the shore, watching as the water rushes into them like a blue surge. The haze covers the horizon, coating the sun in white. It felt holy as they reached out to touch it. A deep emerald skin threaded with scales writhed in the tide. They felt it, the eyes of the reaper, shifting lightly- blinded by the sun. In the quiet whisper of time, the crowd washed away with the bombs, slipping into the deep black waters. Water rushes, into the sound of a wave.