Don’t

Don’t undermine the thoughtful
Don’t dissipate their souls
Don’t further ruination
Tight noosed upon the boughs

Don’t push them towards and ending
Don’t let beginnings stutter
Don’t Worry them with wisdoms
Tight noosed in breezes flutter

Don’t toss them to the fires
Don’t hail them with cheers
Don’t turn an eye in blinding
Tight noosed, full swinging fears

Don’t let them have a moment
Don’t have them save the world
Don’t fill their minds with dreams
Tight noosed they’re fast unfurled

Don’t stop them now from speaking
Don’t fasten tight hard chains
Don’t falter them in missions
Tight noosed, our voices lamed

Endless Resistance

floating moments of unseen clarity
in which my mind falls shallow
deems unworthy the thoughts I’ve lived for
embracing rather those for which I died

Negative Space

In negative spaces the truest form of existence lies.
All things that are
eventually are not.
All things that begin
inevitably must end.
In this, leaving only absence and emptiness
on a universal scale.
This vastness however lonely,
from a particularly human experience
is in and of itself
both horrifying
and awe inspiring
in the same moment
realizing that one is nothing
From nothing
but holds within that nothingness potential
it’s potential that those negative spaces contain
and a blaring flash of existance occurs from that.
All the stars and worlds and dimensions
that are or ever will be
are blasted into an unyielding form
that holds strong upon each fleeting second
with talons sharp at first
but dulling
slowly dulling
to the withered, weakened claws
grasping for its place in time
the cycle repeats
existence                     non-existence
existence                     non-existence
existence                     non-existence
but the constant is the lack
and the potential
that which all humankind and its works fall under
we are from nothing
yet within us
everything is possible

Lost am I

Thanks to Culture Push for the photograph.

lost I am in vast pools of emerald steel
that glistens, blisters with petals of intensity
blazing through the night skies essence
at me

lost I am within the comprehending darkness
of centers center
where all is found and all forgiven
where salty oceans ebb and flow in short years
and beam in long

lost am I

lost am I

Debilitation

Thanks to Niki Feijen for the photograph.

I have a hearth of frozen memories
imprints of my imperfect world
unmoving shadows impersonating me
in my collection lies all my experience
beside it
all that was not
in this old age many nights sit I by the flame-less cavern
in solitude
comparing the two in skewed calculations
seeing my life in a world under muddy waters
surrounded by islands of if
I dare not light the fires to warm me
for the fear of drowning in my past

Reflections

Thanks to Wikimedia for the photograph.

In silence I breathe deep epochs of time
drenched in an untainted ill-fit world
slipping from my brow as a young child in their fathers boot
dirty romps ‘neath stars
with stars bright in my eyes as I stagger
back searching,
failing to find words that do justice to the depth
each twinkling a wink from a mistress
a come now from the siren
succubi tempting the gods who created them to their well warranted deaths
leaving behind footprints
from which rain fills lakes and oceans
for the skies to view itself as Narcissus would

Tubs

long hair spread wide
as though falling in slow spaces
small waves crash repeatedly on my mind
warmth envelopes cold
as eyes glistening stare at a white sky
drowning in soft memories

Directionless

Thanks to Rory Running for the photograph.

directionless in motion
I wander on perpetually
freeing thoughts transient
moving aimlessly tangled
to an idea of emotion

Adulthood

Thanks to John42n8 for the photograph.

I saw before me a field spread wide. Winds pushing gently through the grains, moving them suddenly from stillness. Each day I wandered the land, exploring every slope and hill. Finding every crevice. Each evening I would return to the highest peak and look upon the paths made by my wandering. Each path; I dreamed, led to a different life with different tales told. And through those dreams I felt alive, no longer trapped within this paltry field of never changing grains and sky.

One night as images danced across the skies of clearest stars, I told the heavens my silent stories. Those stories I like to believe were told and retold across the stars themselves. Behind my eyes though, looming clouds of black hail rolled in. My paths, beautiful and innocent were battered and beaten. Pummeled into a listless submission. When the storm had cleared I stepped into my once grand dreamworld.

Where once my childhood lay only a dense fog remained. All the trails I’d grown to love had gone. As I stood in my ashen state among the quickly decaying possibilities my only thought was the paths. Not where the paths led me but the feel of the lush grasses and the soft touch of the grains as my hands passed over. Each path a new path of chance. Of choice. I grasped in my small hands the sharded fields, trying to put the pieces together. I look out only to see the storm rolling into the distance towards anothers field. I pity the soul for their dreams are soon to end.

If sunshine could grant wishes and breezes bring rains. Both would I need to be whole again.

Knock Reality, Knock

Thanks to Delectable Collectables for the photograph.

-a knock at the door-

Sunlight streamed into the mahogany gilded den. A heavy weighted pewter chess set near a bookshelf sat catty corner to an over-sized black armchair.  Bold silver buttons embedded in the soft leather created sinking caverns of comfort. In it sat a tall man with shallow crows feet, black eyes and lone silver hairs falling to the front lines. His wisdom’s place was clear.

-a knock at the door-

He slightly lowered the newspaper filled with threats of impending war and called to his wife “Clara, you gonna get that?”
Silence permeated the space, broken only by the methodical tick tock ticking grandfather clock on the far wall. In his pause for an answer his ebony eyes followed the clocks large pendulum. “Seconds are worthless.” Each motion of the metallic reflection shines a moving light on the opposite wall. A quiet mumble “Quarter to noon, I wonder who’s here at this time.”

-a knock at the door-

“Clara, what ARE you doing?” He stood from his seat, folding his paper and setting it on a side table near his chair. “A mans reading interrupted.” He had been told that he harbored a disposition towards abulia and had since been adamant on its dismissal in his actions. Stretching his arms he again glanced at the clock and noticed the face that had moments ago a radiant shine was now tarnished and dulled.

-a knock at the door-

His curiosity peaked. “Clara” softly spoken and stepping towards the clock; “someones at the door.” Watching the tarnished pendulum swing rhythmically. Opening the case, his fingers lightly skimmed the once shiny surface to find rough touch and red bruises imprinted on his fingertips. “Odd.” Looking at his hands he stepped slightly back bumping into his side table. His hand quickly shot out to steady the table only  to find dust and rot. His eyes widened as the table corner crumbled leaving a compost of late autumn raining slowly down onto the area rug. The chess set was broken; scattered across the floor as though the war they fought found no victor. His focus shifted to all points of the room. Panic began to grip him. “Clara! Clara! Where are you!” Stepping towards the den door a sense of recollection flooded over him alongside the fear. As though a fog which had filled the den were blown to the side by a breeze building upon itself. As he touched the handle the door melted into dust – the handle rusted and dirty in his had fell with a soft thud on the leaf covered floor.

-a knock at the door-

A hard wind; cold yet heated at the same time pushed through the collapsed roof. A long dead tree leaned over blackened across the room. A small support beam still had strength to prevent the fall. A scream escaped his lips as he began to run. “Clara! Clara! Say something!” Running to the living room he stopped only to see the command decay had upon his home. “Our home…this is where we had our first Christmas, this is where we came on our wedding night, this is …” Quickly his voice rasped bungled memories and long passed moments. A lopsided couch thick with lichen across its top sat in front of the door as a barricade. Turning about the room the yellowed striped wallpaper peeled back revealing termites feasts. Sun shifting shadows moved. “Clara!” Stumbling over a dilapidated inn table and bracing himself against the wall he peered into the kitchen.

-a knock at the door-

A sole cabinet remained up as evidenced by wooden shards scattered on the broken tiles. A refrigerator tipped over showed food long since black and dry. “Clara” the wind blew strong against the house, pushing hot ash through broken windows and cracks as fine dust through a sieve. Memories unclouded. A flash, a thunderclap, then fire.

-a knock at the door-

“Flash, thunderclap, fire” his eyes closed then opened as though he were trying to unsee. “Flash, thunderclap, fire.” Mumbling faster repeatedly he sat down shoving his hands into his eyes to stop the sights as screams erupted from his chest. He hoped the screams would tear him in two.

-a knock at the door-

Snapping to reality he saw a darkened rotting home before him. His hands now clear are cracked, bloodied, and covered with sores. Just noticing the pain of his movements doubles his body over in wrought.

-a knock at the door-

“Clara! Its you! I’m coming Clara I’m coming!” Struggling to move he realized his leg is shattered and poorly splinted. Ignoring the suffering his body endures he summed his strength to rip the couch piece by piece from the door. Tossing splinters and chunks of rotted wood to the side. His hand reached for the familiar knob.

-a knock at the door-

Before him stood nothing. He looked from his front door to a valley  on the far edge of a crater. Homes non-existent in the center, burned farther out, and flattened for miles in front of him. “Flash, thunderclap, fire. There was no knock.” Limping slowly through his broken home. “Flash, thunderclap, fire”he moved past his shattered kitchen, over the pieces of a broken couch. Returning to the den he looked up at the tree hanging low over his chair. Seeing his chair he slowly turned and sat in it, remembering the plush canyons of comfort as his eyes slowly closed. Remembering those bold silver buttons pushed deep in soft leather. His hand reached out and picked up the paper that spoke of nothing but impending doom and he glanced at the clock. “Quarter to noon. I still have time.”

-a knock at the door-