Leaving The Dream

Now walking into the wild, the dark back alley of uncertainty comes into view, the path is ending and certainty begins as the cold pain of growth lies in wait. The dark of his past is passenger in longer, shackled by the authority of the present and hauled off to a cell on a block of memory, caged by the bars of progress for protected visitation in accordance with the terms of confrontation's gavel crashing down and pronouncing anguish's life sentence. Decadently dressed, Night adorns her pearl orb, dawning her black her black robes to celebrate as her soft light glows in its fullest, somber no more - but elegant in her pride as the moon waves change and the tides of solitude swell high and low as the current of question ebbs at his reason, though only doubt could erode the banks of his consciousness. And standing in the painted depths at the foot of a dream, a thousand words drift about the bay in a school of thought, near the billboard's facade of a lighthouse, presumptuously lighting the waters much to the moon's chagrin, though tonight her crescent smiles on him as he wades through [all] the shallows, and away from the rabbit's hole where reality sleeps without its soul cleansed, seeing there, dreams in technicolor through a tunnel like lens, the clouded visions of grandeur kept hidden in a closet along with the date on [unwrapped] packaging from the manufacturer. And so [at his party] the waltz on, occasionally glancing sidelong at the woman across the space of his room, appreciating the expense of her star studded dress, in their own craft trying to reach her with wings never given, though the birds don't understand why man strives to touch the sky with an outstretched hand, not feeling the solid earth 'neath his feet, treading carefully over time on the eggshells of someone else's nest where [yellow] yolks hide behind the whites of pretty eyes, mesmerizing and tempting, though veiled by vanity's affair with a scupltor's poor interpretation of a face set in weeping stone, desperately attempting a portrayal of happiness, though betrayed existence aches lying written in the concrete they step on. Now looking over the bow of a small boat, he pauses for a moment and notes a rock etched with writing floating nearby, but knowing only doubt can erode the banks of his consciousness, he gently pulls the long of the anchor in his heart and sets sail into the dark of the unknown, not to sleep - but to leave the dream of someone else's consciousness.

[In] The Nature of Anger

Her tear streaked face was reminiscent of the calm eye that had been weeping from behind the veil of dark clouds come to settle over the small town; the winds were dying down, [though] ice cold nonetheless, ripping and cutting through clothing and flesh, until even bone had felt the cold bite; aching now for the raging fires in her soul, that emanate from the stone hearth encasing her heart, while the artist conspires with anguish's mason to fresco the walls that she's built. She's cold and alone, staring down at the tattoo that lays motionless on the arm of a thrown clutching a town populated with potential, [their voice] silenced by the crack of the whip in her mouth, as she dictates a letter to Death. But there's no response, he'd glanced down at his watch to see the time wasn't right and so he turned a deaf ear to [her] cries of fearing Life. The clouds darkened and drew closer, weeping as she did - the rain dripping down the only windows of the fortress; as the winds picked up again, screaming as she did, wailing at the gloom of the day [and howling on through the night]; and the artist rejoiced at the deluge of tears, a grin beginning to play at the corners of his lips, smiling at the strength of the mason's foundation anchored to the hearth. She couldn't feel her heart beating, throbbing behind the stone, and the flames had long gone in the cold of the storm - she couldn't even feel her heat, and so herself had become numb, feeling nothing but hatred. And with the strength of the weak her lifeless fingers picked up a shivering pen and wrote a love note to suicide, courting him with struggles depicting her macabre dance with Life, begging for his company because her pain is too much in a world without light. When the rain had let up, and her note was received, she sat cornered on the floor of the cold room waiting for a knock on the door, though she knew she had no reservation with death, [Now] measuring her last breaths, blowing smoke rings that came to linger where a halo should have been, had she seen the shine was shining just on the outskirts.

Being Conscoius, Of Thought

From a park bench in the middle of a field, his eyes close and he disappears from view, appreciative of his perch at the edge of the calm waters of reflection, comfortable to be in the space of his thoughts where his consciousness dwells - free to roam the spectrum of creativity, and clad in a chameleon's dark cloak he walks among them disguised as him, his self hidden somewhere beneath the folds, where his emotions dangle from the chains of invulnerability around a shackled heart, beating the metered doses of life, fed through the tube of an IV filled with light being refueled by his thoughts and understanding of the self as an infinite experience in a finite world, as he's wishing they stop taking their pills, prescribed thought chased with a glass full of emptiness, satisfied for the moment by the sensation of themselves; because contemplative reflection is too large a concept to ponder, that the ocean they swim in is simply the shallows of a pond in the span of existence, not understanding that time has no eyes, yet still they glance at a wrist not seeing the helping hands point in every direction, figuring possibility is something to watch, so they scramble for front seats as they desperately look for a sign, though creation is the gift they look in the mouth, but they never look inside [themselves], too busied with lives full of splendor, and so the neatly wrapped box is carelessly stamped - return to sender. And humorously they continue mailing unaddressed letters to the sky, wondering why they are present, when they're concerned with the future; searching for answers without questions, [and] never questioning themselves, instead looking for those wearing chameleon cloaks, intent on sharing their light - when all they ever had to do was throw away their pill bottles, and think.

[Preparation To Fall From The Ledge] On The Edge Of Something Great

Standing there at the foot of the cliffs, atop a mountain he hasn't climbed, but rather has found that at this is point in time is where the comfortable ground of knowing comes to an end, a place where words can have wings yet only actions fly; as the young man risks a fall, knowing that what's known has come to past, that life is grown only in the empty space of the unknown, and one can feel alone in the crowded audience of blank faces attending the amphitheater of prescription where description is based on the words of another. Yet, good company is found lone, here at the edge where only the birds can see the heights of his plans to soar to the bottom, to start in the depths of hell, where off in the background paradise is on fire - told in symbol that passion is not desire, because here only the cold uneven ground awaits the kiss of a mud-stained face streaked by tears of [growing] accomplishment. And he knows well of his impending descent - yearning for it, longing to be crawling on all four, helpless and enslaved to no one but himself, to his body at that - aching with the sweet pain of effort and sore with pride, shaking under limbs that dare not collapse - physical strength is but a freckle on the brawny arm of the mind that governs it. he can see himself laying there on the floor, hurting for more, bent bruised and broken - yet so much more whole than the poor and shamed soul who answers nature's call with a flush, accepting the cards just because they were dealt; and from behind a desk he's on the phone trying to help his family escape, to vacate and pause their lies, only to record more through an inanimate lens that can't see these moments are destined to be shelved memories when they return [ to their lives]. But He is not concerned with film as there's no lens there to record him sprawled under a tree, save the ones in his eyes that gaze up at the skies, watching his words float and flutter with the birds that watch overhead , as his actions prepare him for flight. And though he stands before the fence of the entrance to a flight of stairs that descend, he can see wings pinned to his chest, able only to ascend from the cliff he looks out from, ready.

Of Angels and Demons, and Realizing Trees

As the windows close and the curtains are drawn, he finds himself, yet again standing before the wrought iron gates of his thoughts. And as [the] darkness falls, whilst the dawn rises, the guards are at ease - for they know him well. The sentries pull their spears from a cross, as the archers relax their grips, loosening the strings and untraining their bows, returning arrows to quivers; and the ranks of the forces return swords to sheaths. The locks are undone and the gates swung open to reveal a narrow path, wide enough for two and traveled by one. once across the threshold, the walls melt away as the defense rests, breathing is rhythmic and tense is irrelevance. And at the moonlit docks of imagination, the sun peeks its head from the fold of the horizon as he embarks the lone ship, anchored to the sky, raising the black and white sails to cross the universe of grey, he sets sail, far away from the euphemisms of society, where they appreciate either one or the other, taking the extremes, when all that ever mattered is life, what's in between - where exists color; but even as they sleep they're dreaming the end of a rainbow hold a pot of green, or gold - as they euphemize the epitome of life, setting goals by the outcome of strife; for if at one pole is poor then the other is rich and thus besets the itch to succeed, scratched by the taloned tips of greed - scratching and clawing those that surround; but not out here on the ocean of thought. There's no sound and no wake as the bow cuts the water streaking through the waves of a spectrum free of the taint painted by others; And now he throws the anchor to the sky, docking at the banksof true space where the vaults are kept, bereft of meaningless of tellers remiss of the gift of speech, they talk in numbers and he thinks in words with a paintbrush and ink. But here is too far for their pidgeons to reach, unable to breach the iron gates of his thoughts where the guards and the archers stand ready. So he looks up barefoot, from the white sand of the beach, comforted by the birds that swim overhead where the flock can't fly, for these are his thoughts that soar above the peaks of mountains on the island of self. He proceeds through the fields, where the river creativity flows, nourishing the flourishing meadows of imagination, the planted and deeply rooted trees of realization carefully shading fledgling experience, though begging for more. And just across, the garden of beauty grows, scaped by the warmth of a smile - He walks the meandering path untilit greets the foot of the moutain standing tall, watching it all, protecting the grand vaults that lie beneath. And hidden 'neath a curtain of snapdragons, the entrance to the caves he's come to see. One hand carries a lighted torch and the other the key, and for a moment he halts, preparring to walk down the corridors of memory, past the rows ofsealed doors lining the walkway he treads, headed to the halls of the vaults, [Now] deep within his head. And, standing before the steel door thrice his size he turns the key twice, proceeding inside. Slowly he approaches the small box on the floor, spotlit in a dark room large enough to be another one's mind. As unsteady hands reach for the clasp, he pauses, finding himself in the grasp of his keepers. And though his eyes are still closed, his mind'seye clearly sees the forces that hold him to his left and his right. On the side of his strong arm, the gentle grip of an angle, as the weak one is firmly held by the hooded demon. And calmly looking up, he sees both hold a smile, though one eminates kindness and the other wreaks guile. And with his hands spread wide in gesture of question, there knelt before them, they speak in one voice of the box on the floor, containing the gift of the two orbs given; equally blessed and cursed by the power of creation and the ease of destruction. Rhythmic breathing slows as the ocean exhales, and a thought is carried on the breeze, ruffling the leaves of the trees as it makes its way down the corridors of memories, rushing into the vaults; and for a moment he halts, pausing to let it soak in, preparring to rise and shake hands with the demon. Smiling, he stands, strong arm locked with the demon's, as his weak side accepts a small seed from the angel. And, without a glance back at the small box on the floor, he turns on his heel, as the steel door locks, running up the corridors and out into the meadows, finding himself sitting at the river's edge under a tree, digging a small hole eagerly. For, there in the vault he'd seen his soul grow, understanding that the ease of destruction is simply letting go, to leave that orb be, though he longed to smash it. And when he awoke he found himself staring at the small sprout of a tree, the fledgling experience from a seed of realization.

[But If Not For Air] In The Eyes of A Woman

Written in the eyes of a woman, 'neath a curtain of beauty, the thousands of lines woven to the threads of a tapestry depicting the bard and his muse busy at the press, printing the thousands of texts to be written of the snapshot of paradise in the gift of the creation of women. Standing on the shore of powdered white sand at the beach of her majesty, looking out at the vast beauty of the azure water, where Father sky and Mother earth often meet, out there on the horizon. And as some play in the shallows or run on the sand, there's a man standing, the cool water ebbing gently at his feet, swimming elsewhere - in a tide pool of thought, wondering of the depths - of creatures yet unseen, plants yet unknown, of thoughts yet unspoken, drifting and dwelling just below the surface, the gems of a coal mine, perhaps a diamond in the rough. The sinewy arms of the waves rise and fall to the beat of the drums tuned to the psalm that Mother Nature hums for those bereft of imagination - the keepers of time who glance at a wrist hoping to watch time perform, though he doesn't know that his role is finite in an infinite show; living life on stage, amongst characters of varying age, proposing to the banks and endowing their trust, for not but a cent of sense; using their five senses to hear, touch, taste, smell, and see but a girl for five minutes in time, knowing not of her blessing greater than the scriptures themselves, holy is the gift to bear life. And the strife of mankind has been, the obsession and fascination with the color green - as the thought passes and a tide pool dries, he looks to the sky to find a garden through the looking glass of the soul. True beauty is only seen through the mind's eye; looking around at the luscious green of the trees, the vibrant reds and purples, preparing a palette to paint a memory on the canvas in his head. And as the wind blows over the curled locks of the ocean's hair, the gentle breeze carries the notion that if not for air, we couldn't breathe - and hold not our breath even for one second to descend to the depths of the seas. For, even at a moments glance, a thousand lines are written in the eyes of a woman.

Pondering Pond Water

Their lips did not care of the fly in the wine; pretending it wasn't there convinced them enough to shut off their minds and open their mouths, wide enough just for a sip from a cup full of the tainted drink, to busy [their] tongues too taken with slander, while the others had gullets never wet by the grapes of wrath; now looking on at the path paved by the rest, led by a leader in every one's head, though appointed by no one. And on the screen they saw a man in a skiff, a weighted line gently ran under his finger and over the bow, into the stagnant water of a man made pond, pondering as they did, why the school of fish in the shallows below, had to move and swim together, when all that awaits them is the fisherman's net and gasping in unison. And as they struggle for breath he shares an intimate kiss with death, as the smoke billows out of his mouth, in long tendrils of fingers shaking the hooded man's hand and forming a cloud that longs to rain; though the tears had already been cried, and he ponders yet still, how these fish could swim in the pond that they'd made, drinking in the fermented wine of droplets fell from the sills of windows of souls who longed to speak, yet chose to keep quiet, deciding the glass was too thick. From the bottom of the murky pond they could only look up to see the bottom of a skiff - much like staring at the back of the head, trying to see what's inside, they didn't see him strike the glass with a hammer, shattering the glass and wetting the people watching the screen, now pondering why... A fly had fallen into his glass of wine.