Feathered Moon

The edges of the photograph held a shimmer of melancholy and a distrust of the eyes which gazed upon it. We fled into the streets, in the back of the truck we all sat there, rolling down the long road. There was hardly a wind, silence overtook us. The giver of life, the moon, sat there in the sky like a muse, beaming down at us. The eyes of the people lit up with that silver tint, masked smiles and a flowing temperance. Looking out to the sky, the upper world turned darker as we drove, from brighter blue to navy, and the stars started up with their whiteness. The edges of the photo tinted with a shimmer of the moon, rolling up through the streets.

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, still looking deep into the eyes of the noise, 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 texture I could pick up the heat, a distant ringing telephone became muffled by the sanctity of the moment. Reaching out to the television I felt the edge of the screen, with a tingle a white sensation struck me- an electric shock passing through my fingertips. The carpet a darker brown, the air a quieter sound. The screen speaks with a fuzz. Now asleep.

The Halls

The halls had a shine, they had a glow of ivory and whiteness to them, and the people all came to the great cathedral to hear the angelic voices of the court. It was autumn, and the cold was beneath the surface of the faded auburn leaves, the people could sense the silences coming around the corners-creeping up the hillsides. The chambers made an echo, and a reverb was shot out into the ears of the commoners, we listened to the darling voices sing their holy songs. In the whiteness of the hall our shadows turned cold, beige silhouettes lined up like ghosts. Ivory, the scent of the fresh wind, and the sacred voices of the evening.

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, mountains still peak through the cracks. Demons riding in the nights.

The Road

Palms full. Ashes pierced the skin and the dreams of september tilted into the red glaze of summertime. Mysteries of familial bonds. Flowing in the winds, the drapes went swimming through the air, spots of bleach shined through the texture. On the road, visions of home relapse in the present moment. Mute shade of plum and raisin covered on the dining table, palms full of it.

Outward

I've not yet understood the world through a truthful lens. The color fades to a pigment much akin to the aura I keep, and the memories fill over the present as if engraved with the frequency of my spirit. Once extracted from a songbird, soft humming noise lulled into the palms that held it. In death that song turned wintered and light, falling softly on our ears. Not yet seeing the world through a truthful lens, that bird held darkness in her eye. Fading to the outerworld, bound to a dream.

Grace To Ends

All exterior embellishments were passed up for the fine gentleness of naturalism. Our fate hidden behind the soft shape of a face with no disguise. Only then can you see what is left, nothing truly pronounced, grace fading from the edges of the photographs. A thousand thin dogs sit and pant, the spring building into a heat. Evils perish long before you greet the valley, peaces all given to those who agree. Into the dreams of reaching leaves, spotted fur and the sound of chalky footsteps.

Minor Zinc

The world of softly used things, fills up with the piles of what once was held in seniors hands. Blues in the backgrounds shift up in the atmosphere, off notes and the hills turn deep green. Subtle things, the mist and the wind pushes on you, and the turn of the music gently fills you with a kindle of softness. The couple sat at the table by the window and they had both ordered what to be expected, a piping hot coffee and a small sweet thing, they looked up at the blues player and the whole world became little. Only the people who sat in this place could feel the energy bloom into view, leaks of brassy gold light reflected on the glasses. The time bending into a memory.

Gown

Awake. A warm candle sits and melts away in the corner. My little writing table looks warm now, coated in its light. There is a little cold wind sweeping through the doorway, I kept the door open just a slight, merely to see the light of the moon as I wrote. The lights curled up against one another, golden warmth and silver whiteness. Deep colors fill the air and the world is quiet at midnight. Strained by the turn of the pen, my wrist ached a little and the flame that lit the candle turned low. The aroma of my room whisked with silence, purity in the sheets. Awake.

White Mother

I woke up this morning, and from my dreams I fell right back into the center of my bed, cotton layers of safety and warmth. I couldn't tell you how much ambition repels happiness, or how much the aspiration to be great kills the idea of being good. The rich quantity of care you have left becomes washed away by time, and you remember the feelings of carelessness, remember them. I woke up this morning in the middle of freedom, for there were no goals nor aspirations outside of peace and simplicity. Those who have felt the circles of struggle overlap with their lives, understand that peace is not non-doing. Peace is actively renewing itself, a new spirit of faith and quiet in each second to pass. Everything is wonderful in this way. Elders passing me by speak of the weather and the flowers to grow. Safety in the slither of silences and everything is wonderful.

Lilac

There is a world of beauty and kindness, and silence waiting beyond the brown curtains. Into the sun, we felt the heat prickle into our skin, and burn little red dots on the surface. The moments became cosmic, pulling out from mortality and blending back into the eternal. Iridescent shells and globes of air went flying upwards to the blue skies, shouts of laughter and surprise. The sun was white, but gentle and its arms pushed out through the clouds like rivers of pure white gold. White sheets pinned onto the lines waved back and forth through the air, lightly tugged by the winds, and dozens of eyes looked out to see the bubbles shimmer with the shells. A line of color, evening and the image of perfection reflected from the heavens.

Into The Hedges

Red foxes lay in the center of the lush spring greenery, their faces pale with the look of another world. Maidens come to greet them, caressing the creatures in their sheepish and delightful ways. White textures blend into this soft morning, feathery lace and weighted velvet dragging across the grass.Pushed out into the air were little threads of laughter and sounds of softened joy. The world turned to a cotton padding, like a dull and mute isle of simplicity and non-thinking. Maidens continued to spin and lightly dance around the little red foxes, nodding into their movements. A moment of grace fell slowly upon that quiet place, the wind slipping through the vines. The wide black eyes of the maidens, the white fabrics, and a deepening spring dream.

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 tin objects rang out with a hollow sound. The room was a cave of chamber music and the rows of silver lured our shadows in. We were lightly coated in the wind song, us and the aisle as one.

The Myth of Laous

The sand of time sweeps through the shore, hides shells and life beneath them, and we thread our fingers through it. It was autumn when he arrived, and in his anger he spoke harshly of the wind and the seas, and all living things, out of spite he shook his face back and forth. He sought out the fabric of evil in our world, and the more he searched the more he found, always creeping around the corners he could see the fate of humanity, and it purged all happiness from his mornings. He indulged in all bitter things, the weather was never quite right, the people were always too falsely sweet and everything had a tinge of darkness in it. When the world progresses, we all look back to the hour glass, and we wonder if it's at all possible to return to the older times. Where people knew the names of their neighbors, and villages were small and local. Laous felt abstracted, siphoned into the modern world, all of his eternal characteristics blended into the melted image of the advanced man. The advanced man who slowly regresses in his turmoil, a hatred toward his generational identity, and the burning image of his people. Looking at a photograph of his mother, Laous sipped on his bitter tea, the world dimmed to a grey and then the clouds slipped out into the mountains. Spite, hatred and solitude reflected through the windows.

filter

The shells blend into the swirl of life, and iridescence lines the exterior, collisions of purples and whites. The light hitting the edge glares up, shining through the hazy mist. Putting it up to my ears, the sound of the sea laced through me, a concave echo of creatures and deep dark waters.
Suspended in that moment, the sounds of the shore coalesce with the textures of the shell. Purity in all of the creations of the world. Pillars of beauty.

black elm

Strike through the dreams, strike through them with the golden arrows kept in your womb, and feel them deeply, and set them out into the depravity of the world.

Into the zone, all of the creatures of god weave through the trees and lakes, grazing over the mossy green pelts and flying into the openings of the large oaks.
In the dark, we both conjoined, together into a union only expressed in pure shadowy silence.
The reeds scattered across the creeks, bleeding the colors of a woody wheat into the lines of nature. The body of the swan silently glides against the soft current, cold water beneath it, cracks of ice filling up in the corners of the lakes. Shot right through the center of her, those golden arrows ripped into the white feathery wings and the bird cried out. The hunter waiting in the darkness, could only marvel in the beauty of the shining gold emitting from the side of her, coated with guilt and shame, his head hung low and his eyes shifted into the distance. The regressive nature of man, and his secret attacks on the natural world.

fresh blue

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.

I played well the roles that were given, a simple woman of my age, walking amongst the others, and slipping into that identity. Yet there was always beauty hiding in the most obscure of places. Beauty I could recognize as a small girl, beauty that faded from my view in the corruption of adulthood and age.

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 long path

A path opened up in the center of the hills, and we walked through it with grace and silence. We looked to each other and saw the joy and resolve, our quiet tranquility unwavering. Looking downwards, I had a feeling that this memory would follow me into even death, and I would see the shape of this path and your face in the last moments of mortality. The grass hills were mounds of balance, on either side of us they stood, perfectly cleansed and covered in the spring birthing of new life. Further into the path we could see the lagoon waiting at the end of it, figures in the distance stood looking outward into the waters, covered in the heat. I looked once more back to your face, and lightly smiled. Death was a certainty, and this feeling would keep my heart ready and able. Steady hands reaching out into these numinous moments. I am prepared.

days in lot

Thinking back to my dream, I was sent away from this place. I was sent away, and the new air of the free world could be felt. I could sense it, the tranquility of new rule, a danger cycling through the atmosphere. The sky was colored a deep red, faded from the shape of the clouds passing by. We could still breathe the air, which we were all silently grateful for. We searched through this new world, to find the boundaries and the darker places. Our eyes were cast to the sky, and the formidable cause of finding a life of our own was shaded as a mystical wave. We were to be in this place for no longer than a months time, and that thought of staying was more frightening than I'd thought it would be. All alone in this new world, unsure of the corners, unaware of the secrets. The shade of the sky persisted through the afternoon, as if the ashy red could not expel itself from the skies. I then understood that days too were different in this place. Black birds akin to the crow on earth flew through the sky, casting a light shadow on the planets surface. We called this place 'Lot', as the shades of this world were prescient with chaos and refuge. I woke from my dream back into the grasp of the mundane world, my throat stinging from sickness. The memory of that terrible loneliness clouding the morning, like little lost eyes from a past world.

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, the sweetness of the evening sits silently. I follow the tempo of this feeling.

pools of grief/in the old house

Loosely falling from the tree, little plums run down into the pool. Noone had used it since the last summer, and so the colors had faded a bit. Leaves and small fruits lay atop the surface of the water in the pool, a kind of secret beauty in the negligence.

The autumn comes and goes, but it is the most beautiful season of them all. Her beauty lies in the whispers and the umber darkness, the lack of explanation she gives as she arrives. A melancholy comes across all people in the season of fall, as if we are aware of the winter that soon comes, and yet so enraptured with the beauty of that sweet reddish-orange.

Cars pass by along the roads, and people walk through the streets with their small children, the swing and buzzing noise of the afternoon coats everyone around the neighborhood. Silence in the days before the cold.

white shadow, blue face

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, kissing your preciously aged hands. Our veins were colored with the new shade of progressions.
Swindled by the master of time, our spirit was given to the new ones.

A life pictured in layers. Straight from the mirror, white shadows, blue face.

forgotten on the palm

Given to me, the flowers on that sacred tree. They fell down with the wind in some soft swirling motion, and landed in the center of my palm.
I sat there and brought it up to my senses, inhaling the aroma. It was pink around the edges, and deep in the circle it had turned to a murky purple shade.

I looked around for anyone who might catch this moment with me, but the whole world was silent, and the people moving away from me looked like ghosts. Ghosts fading from the corners of the streets, the tree silently moving behind them.

whispering to their bones

In this world, where all the hidden things are kept inside the wings of doves and ravens, we too hide beneath the covers. I felt empty without it, the secret knowing that I kept all to myself. I felt empty inside the shell of the world, but I continued to hum along to the songs of the shadows. I felt myself change.

From the edges, we could all see them distort and bend. Like grain and noise the softness of the world opened up and spread itself outwards.
As if each piece was hard to find, the softness seemed to spread itself far too thin.

Then the eyes of people could not find it, and we were lost to the madness of war and famine. We turned our shoulders to each other, and we pondered on violence for escape. We considered humans as beasts, and put our faith in the hands of kings. The kings sent us out into the fields and they shaped our brains with great force.
We were starved within our societies, and all around we could see humans turn their gaze harshly at each other.

Walking forwards into the fields, we saw piles and piles of bodies laying flat along the grassland. Their eyes lost to their souls, their hearts hardly beating. The collective spirit was rejected from the world, and all of them sang a secret song of deep longing.

Longing for the simplicity of the past. The people did not recognize their faces. The people did not understand their reflections. Whispering in their withered hands, the people spent their nights looking towards the moon.

A people lost to the age of war and lies.

the surface of current

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 oceanic blue courses through our fingers.

The immortality of her beauty coated with the threat of danger, and the melodic noise of her waves crashing onto herself. This is a world I have yet to explain. This is a world I have no words to speak of. A beauty we do not have the intelligence to describe.

rushes to the rivers

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.

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 moss and sage 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. Small flames in the morning, bending toward the shimmer of the sky.

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.

elemental

There is nothing to be said of the sky that I haven't said, and yet I feel, every morning, that the sky must receive a praise of language. There is a classic heart within me as well, an old spirit of someone who once roamed the earth, and knows all of its secrets. That soul, which I cannot credit as mine entirely, is the spirit of a soft wooly darkness, the taste of slumber after a long and silent day- this is the spirit of the greater one. I have never known the truth, not from what men have told me. Mankind has told so many tales of lords and higher beings, I was whisked away into fantasy many times, but then, deep inside of me I always feel the rumble of discomfort.

As if there has always been a truth hiding in the heart of a mountain, far from the reach of my people. I cannot understand truly why we have yet to contain this truth, as all other things humans seek after, we quickly capture and hold it-tame it. But this truth is not to be tamed, nor summoned, it comes and goes as it wills, as if the very essence of it is tied to the winds. This greater being, is not entirely mine, I have seen it before, in the soft glow of the golden sun, in the far away noises of human songs, and all around me in the peaceful noon of fall time. That greater being, cannot be captured with the calloused hands of my kind.

I wake up into the morning, aware fully, that this life and the systems around it, have all collapsed into the vision of the human fantasy. This is not how the greater one would have us live, tied to machines as a slave to train them, and awaken by the screeches of the morning alert- no, this was never so. The shadows dance among the silver moon and float in and out of the trees, from behind me I could feel eyes watching from inside the deepened valley, eyes from the other world. This is the spirit that I spoke of before, this is the soul of the world that we cannot contain.

There are small rituals in our world which honor the true nature of our kind; a small dream, a warm cup of tea- enjoyed amongst the ones who understand, and the event of epiphany in which you could translate these tones into language. I once more speak of the sky, overcast with that foggy grey, leaking into that even softer blue. The texture of it feels sacred somehow, as the small birds silently glide over the hills.

sunday slumbers

The soft plum shade of the sun blankets the morning like an icy chill, and all of the lower thoughts are shed from my mind- I simply feel free here. When the world is asleep and the glow creeps up from the line of the horizon, I can't seem to find those old worries. Climbing down from the heights of the heavens, all of the cotton clouds shield the air.

where nothing is harmed

I know now that we cannot be rid of evil in its entirety. I know now that it is within our veins, sewn into those structures of redness that we feel a pulse of goodness, pulling us toward it. And even stronger, a lust for the darkness calls. A desire to submit to comfort and luxury, a million souls given to the spirit of the black night. My lord, give me strength to oppose such an obsidian midnight, give me the eyes to forsee the ends of my words, give us angels once more, sleeping beside us with open eyes and ravens all around them to guard your once chosen children.
What then we considered a foolish myth, is now ever-present in all lives, the darkness of mirrors and blue lights, and the pearlescent innocence crushed deep beneath the layers of concrete. A humanity that whispers to be saved, both goodness and evil might take us into them. Time, you ever-impersonal bystander, you may be the only candle that lights these years. Sweetness we were once promised, lies quiet on the shores.

the eyes of the foul

The eyes of the foul winter follow the world.The glowing moon has fallen, so has our innocence into those fated depths. We so wished we could stop the sun alongside time, and bask in its naivety- relish, in all of its timelessness. Now the ice lays thick on the surface, slides down from the branches of our collective tree like silk upon costly glasses. Now that ice of hardened age lays thick on our skins, locks our growth into the cold. The eyes of foul winters follow us in our world. Foul surfaces of time.

mellow rises

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..

The vapour of dreams

A feather opens up in the darkness, ash and grain falling over the crown of my eye, and so dreams do come. Swinging in the rubble of the witching hour is that pure liquid feeling, that pure feeling that pours into the twilight.
Dreams have been few as of late, dreams always flee from the noise of the buzzing cords and the electric hum of the screens. We close the collective eye to that blinding light, grain falling over crowns of our eyes.

A cold frosted edge

This morning I awoke beside that long vertical window, and out from it all around was a blanket of white cotton snow. Still holding onto the tops of hedges and the edge of the balcony, the snow was hardly mute now. Now the snow was caving in on itself, sheltering a thin ice beneath the sugary surface. Today is Tuesday. Tuesdays roll in as a soft welcome, a refuge from the harsh start up Mondays. A pure tranquil rush guides me through my train of thought these last weeks. A new image of the future shuffles in my head, now I think to the next years, as age catches on to my skin, I start to understand what it means to grow deep into the roots of sagacity.

needle in the hay

Things were simpler when I was confused about everything. When I ghosted through the days, fading into the streams of the past. Well now there are winds that cut through my ears, and I darken at the sound of the rain.

Figures of melancholy shift into shapes I once knew, people I've spoken to before, and all the words shy out like a whisper.

All control slips away from me, concentrates itself in a golden stone, a stone of a somber age. The memories turn themselves up on the shelf again like little wire smiles.
Heavy eyes hit the side of the car window, looking out to the endless roads, nothing there today, nothing there tomorrow.

I'd capture the iridescence of that one good year and pour it into my glass, only to stare at what beautiful tranquility once looked like.

green dreams that shudder

I love to write about dreams. They're the purest form of thought, the purest form of beauty. Old pianos lined up in the used shop, people all brushing by. It's like those old times, before I knew people were people, before being immersed into the choirs. How is it that dreams are frosted with the mist of old memories? How do the people passing by feel so thinly real, like an unreachable haven humming the melody of summer. Colorful houses surrounded the shop, empty houses covered in color.
I sat there, lazily looking at the scene, the moisture in the air stuck to my skin. The sky was like cotton all around. This is what it felt to own the world, once before I knew it was infinite. Long time since the stars have been mine, long time since.

twisted roads

Another dream, suffocating into the deep ashy wool-swallowed by the warmth, sitting alongside the whistling trees. Winter is the season of longing, and all illusions of immortality and youth are destroyed in the wake of the cold winds. Cold brittle winds. after the promises of gems within us, and glimmers of gold not yet discovered, the days continue through the eyes of the normal and uninspiring. I saw the cars pass through the mountains on small roads and fade into the silhouettes of houses, mist overtaking their engines and muting the noise. Sharp blue winters come rattling beneath the foot of the earth with emotions not yet named.

this once in murky grey

The deep smells of nostalgia pour over me like a fountain of my old youth. A child is a child, unaware and live with life, and then in their deepening years, they learn of shame and cowardess and all gruesome troubles that seek out the living. A sadness locks within the special hours, days where the earth felt ripe and green, and no one could come and open your eyes from the dream. Corrupting the soul, time did come, cold withered hands tainting the spring of our life. Look back now into the garden once yours, look back into the garden. If you'd known then of change, you'd sit along the winter, never looking into future days.

a winding boat

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 I understand, it is my fear of dreams becoming big, big enough to take away. The oracle sits as she is, wise and knowing. 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, living in the dream.

rubbing up against the spirit

Dreams are the strange weaving things that speak to our spirit in a forbidden language. As if to mock and tease, we wake into the world with a soft confusion, we beg once more to be gifted with the eyes to see what we have seen, or the words to speak out what we have heard. The soul sleeps within the walls of the maze, hidden from sight like shadows running into the warm light. The images seen in our sleep are washed by our calloused hands, gritted down into tiny shells of sand, and we, left there in awe- become knights of a lost war. Once more awake to our psychic covering of the soul and all of its secrets.

in the bend of breeze

The sin crawls onto me like a soft fatty winter, the rubber film sticks on my once innocence. Now I sleep awake, nights I dream and doubt awake. Jitters in the spring encase the collection of trees, fresh green winds. No days softer than this, not before the cold rush.

thistles.

In the morning I woke, from the leakage of a bad dream. I shifted down the hallway and into the bathroom, a shadow washing over my mirror. The ache in my stomach had come back as if punished by the lack of choice, searching within me for the mercy and falling back into slumber just for a moment. The possibilities lie within endless plains, somewhere within them is the voice of the lord, saying to me something of a silent code. Prayers reach hardly above ground, and I believe it’s all due to the efforts I lack.

When becoming a girl of my age, when becoming a young lady, I thought to myself I must do many things at once, and surely they'll all fall into their right seasons. But I am here now, with the candid thinkings of failure, I am not that girl. Failure is not an option and rather, not a choice. Failure is a temporary product, the product of something that can be repaired. In the morning I woke, thinking of my figure in the mirror, failures of being.

pains of growing large

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 supression 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.

my spherical stairway

The latest of my dreams have shown me an open and endless staircase, from which I have climbed further and further to find no end in sight. The sun seemed to set behind my endless path and burned above the sea, striking the sky with fumes of red.

There is a wonder in drifting into dreams, as I have spoken of before, but this particular topic does not escape me easily, I find myself returning to the writing of dreams often.

My dreams have seemed to sync with the changes of the season, as the sun did burn deep into the evening, casting a shadow over my dreams just the same.

feathers flew onto the wet window

In my quiet time, I sat and pondered the value of things and what changes have come from modern indifferences. The cost of pleasures only multiplies as the era moves onward, while the sacred things that we held dear, a letter or other, is worthless in the age of technical communication.

I wonder about the secret potential we must have hidden within us if we did not flee to the streets of cities and drink from the cup that kills us. I think more and more of the changes we have gone under, and the gods we have purged for the sake of vices large and small.

Those rituals once done in secret are now naked in the season of illness. Moments race by us now, and chiming into the collective record, are strange hums and whispers that pull on the hands of human impulse.

one small torment

The mind is a magical thing. You can create a cycle of scenarios that fix you into a person who made different choices, a person who has the skill to fix others. Revisiting upon the threshold of old memory, I find all sort of confusions, faces that shape into each other and moments that last an eternity of hours. Is it that I cannot bare to release those memories into the past, or is it that those memories cannot release themselves from within me? I nod my head now at the mutual understanding I have for it, the majestic string of mystery that ties together time spent in agony, time spent in bliss.

a considerable amount of 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.

sharks in shallow waters

In another odd occurance of my dreams, I felt alone in empty waters. Looking into them I could see a triad of sharks facing upwards to the sun, sleeping as humans do, eyes shut and resting. I stood there in the water, afraid to wake them, afraid of the aroma of my fear, but I simply stayed there, staring at sharks sleep.

Indoor pools feel like small oceans and if you have got the imagination for it, you can close your eyes and imagine being swallowed whole by some sea predator. Sometimes I think of things like that while I'm cleaning, and I start to get that nervous feeling, as if some invisible force is snapping at me. I swing back and forth from fear to amusement at the absurtity of such scenarios.

In other events I have felt some levels of melancholy and nostalgia overtake me, it could be that I am not used to prolonged winter and the snow is breaking me in, coloring me blue.

she who holds the horn

There are dreams that feel as if reality has spilled into them and there are realities that feel, as if they have lived as a dream.

I have had a series of dreams, dreams of running and transporting, dreams of moving and seeing. Those dreams are sacred like any other, but different in their taste. 

It feels like an unpersisting heaven, a world of wonder to spin in your sleep, to move through a house that is not your own. In the most recent of my dreams, I am led into a pathway, walking into a valley of color and life. 

The people around me, all behind me, forget that I am there, and though I turn and face them and speak, they all hear my words as silence, and see my face as a whisper. I drift deeper into the pathway, spinning alongside the figures of people unknown, living as a secret in my dreams.

evening bone

º 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, and in the lines of the soul, a moon of youth.

I think about shadows then, and wonder if those too are shared fragments of seasons not mine, pieces of people that I cannot hold. In this lake of eyes I am, only the shape of another- a being, borrowed in dreams.

The curve of warm coffee

I think, the only redeemable thing to come of human society as it is now, is the subtle taste of tea, the steaming black coffee that sits along invisible dust on cafe tables. Those are the parts of humanity I am thankful for, the rewards of hidden efforts that I'm happy to receive.

There are others, maybe better than that, like that of used paper, spilled stains covered along the lines so as to turn the fabric of it all into a crinkled senior of its earlier self.

I like things like that, things that appear to reject their true form, in trade for another, more defining trait. Small things like that are just like the crook of a human nose, something that most would do away with if they could, but in the right eyes, those mysterious details jab into the meaning, skew it into something that cannot be replaced.

There are fragments of the non-machine in those bits of us, something that would not be produced by the bots of man. There, in those fantastic and strange choices of creation, we find a comfort in error.

The curve reminded us of the black crows bend, the crinkled paper rang a bell of fallen oak in autumn, and all things found in flaw drew back to some anomalous pattern we saw in our dreams, the ghost of a charming defect.

to open, an illness.

Quicker than those white dreams, came all before them,
Nightmares and such, little tales of falling failures.
One bright green day, where secrets lay sacred, i fell between the cracks of openness.

To tell a friend of a hidden truth is that of unlacing, unopening and unbecoming. For this long, I could not tell the difference between a truth and a fiction, words said for survival sake or whispers held behind that mask. Worries stack up into a great pile, a massive extinction of character and blameless confusion, Worries just like they were years ago, only ridden, with the bitter taste of morning.

I sunk down back into my seat again, moving deeper into the non world, away from the burdens of the cold clearness of human vision. Trapped there inside the yarn ball, trapped there in a sequence of fantasy events, I became an angel, unraveling at the darkness, swimming in the chalky water of death.

A complete loss of consciousness, a fate of opening, a fate of telling.
The curse of suggestion and revelation.

white lake

If there may be pity amongst the angels for us, we would be called shameful beauties, pitiful children- tainted in a darker shade.

Is there a weight at all to a name given to yourself? Isn't it the law of this shallow earth that a title be accepted as an offering from outside eyes?
Nothing could be more understood than when the full massive eye in midnight was named the moon. Our words create the construct of warmth around the truth, shelter for our lies.


Upon finding the sounds slurred together that echo out an image into our soul, we keep them with us, and I wonder what could be more honest. It seems, even a thief holds truth in his name. In some time, we will pass on, creatures of failure and innocence, holding names not truly ours- only ever seen in the eyes of angels.

I sit late at night and ponder on these things, what the value of words may be, what human shade colors them now, and when we said goodbye to our precious ones, calling it a sacrifice made it that much more beautiful.

The last days we hold 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, in the end of our cold blue nights.

I hold a light, still in comfort

I start to think at times, when the light is low and the candle is dying, that I may be the only one who understands that shade of inner skin. Night blooms deep into darkness and I arrive again at the idea that soft winds may also feel that hungry insatiable desire to float, to fly.
If a great big pit grew within that center of wishing, i'd speak silently into it, the intimate song of murky longing.

Now the candle is dim and sleeping and silently nodding along to my inner whispers. At times they dreamt of floating too.

wonders in blue

I'll start this entry with my dream,as usual. There I was stuck in my old desert home, only smaller and made entirely out of wood. I started to think that there are some things only remembered in dreams. I had forgotten all about this old home buried in that ocean of memory.

Suddenly in my sleep I remembered, golden frames and glass tables, a small white kitchen that felt open and lonely. I found myself running everywhere in this dream, through my old life and into the new one.That is the magic of dreams, somehow everything comes swinging in all at once in some fantastical non-reality.

I have always thought, if I could live inside the womb of dreams eternally, I would. In the arms of that place, you forget about the complex bonds, the fear in your skin, and all the little things that keep a cold sweat running- all your faults and fears. Within that strange world, we're threaded into the blue soil of half life.

sun in december windows

These days I am feeling affection from the trees and the life at home, the warm december embrace and mundane daily rituals.Sometimes the old versions of yourself ring into your ears as a bell of shame and you, in your cowardice, hang your head and erase the image of that past.

I know there is nothing wrong with change. Those worries wash away when weekend comes, when I am buried beneath the covers and swirly lines of steam rise from my teacup. All I can think of then is the cobblestone alleys in the big town and how held I felt by the winter lights.

I had forgotten/boy in the bear suit

honest dreams have swum, deep into the murky blues last night,
snapping jaws and shining shark teeth, rubbing into the pearly human vein.
In winter, I miss those ripples of white, dancing on the pool floor, patterns of a chalk white sun-
swimming with me

circling around the queen

cowering inside the covers of shame,
queens become crystals of the dark colony
threaded between webbed fingers
our tips touch the cloth in the melancholy game
O glistening hum I followed you fourth
into the corners of the rotting door

white wonders in the church

have the years of shushing silence taught us
divine holiness can relinquish our sins hiding beneath the wing?
if only we could be heard from our lowest caves,
seen at the time of our darkest dances
if i be your servant and my voice doesnt sleep- will those sneaking doubts crawl away from me
and pull me upwards into you?

🝏 sheer illness 🝏

A cunning coldness cures the evil, clears the dark away.

like a night full of bright and innocent dreams, we were washed away into a mood of child like purity-

purity only felt in the silence of our moonlit midnight. reflections in the square glass show a shadow beneath her eyes, as if she hadn’t experienced the release of sleep once in her life. she drifted as a ghost, walking through the night into the day.

she knew, there was within her, the kindest and purest form of a dual soul. the skin of evil, lying delicately amongst the feathers of the only angel in the aether. oh angelic beast, what truth lie behind your cold, empty eyes, what hide there amongst the illusions

🝤 woven, weaving

Soft and small I awoke, like the remnants of a wave in the deepest times of midnight.
peering out of my window, homes like mine, all lined up in the simple rural manner of a neighborhood where nothing more interesting than yesterday can happen. Summer came again, knocking at the door with nothing in its hands but warmth and silence.

❈ anchors in the reeds

in the misty vein of the forest lie the candle of serenity. a fleshy breath soon comes from the slow, solitary steps of the path. the quietness within the earth bleeds into the quickening hour, our angels be beside us. my kind and cold evening, lace yourself on the surface of my shallow eye, an eternity of these hazy dreams

‡ sequence of flowing

In our bordered hearts, a breaking pattern in an age of decay,
for the shell of our secrets hide behind the silent spirit of spring