So Be This

Let it not be said that the moment of the voice is lost. The words that find their space in the cataclysms of this unfortunate space we call real lack the need to be here. We throw our limbs to the calling of the wind and hope they find a place amongst its mannerisms. In the transient freedom they find I can only grovel. May they echo off the walls, and find the voice that screams in harmony with it. There is countless beauty in its triumphs and suffering. it is born from the unequal knowing of taking breath and forcing it from your body If only for a moment things can sound sweet. Let that not dissolve admits the bitterness of being alive. I have no great wisdom to lay before you. I know no great truth  I only hope you understand that the great moments of sadness can only be understood in relation to the horrific pains we are forced to endure by waking into this un-dream like world. It is bound by history and the guilt and regret that accompany the capacity to remember. There is no tabula rasa that will allow you a new life. New places may provide respite from the external, but your life live within you. No action can be retaken, no past unwritten. What we have done will stain the unfortunate flesh, that we can do nothing to change. At least we have that, the failing and its lessons. So I ask you, as my fellow sufferers, scream with the brilliance that only you voice can concoct, and tell the world that what you are cannot be silenced. Maybe then, if only for a moment, you can be free.

I Wonder

Where is the challenge in your laugh. the simple hand turns the phrase to your liking. The smile and the praise come without effort. I would have craved this so long ago. but now I wonder, in a sick and perverse logic that serves only to destroy me, what value does that have. Why must all good things be presented at the end of a razor sharp sword. With my fist clenched  beating the table, my body rocks in wonder, how could I have jaded myself to any joy that may come my way. Like some strange story told to me by a dieing relative, I believe that I must suffer greatly for a moment of joy. Besides, if I am not dying, why would any one see me. My value lies in my capacity to be a victim t the unfortunate ill of existence. if the world breaks me enough, perhaps some one will rise from the smoke and save me from the horrors of my own reflection.

Sadly, that cannot be I am this bag of blood and flesh. This is who I am. I will be seen as many a wonderful, strange and horrific things along the way. What else can I be but the person I have come to know myself to be.

To the Lost and Beloved

I am going to kill it. The moment that lies in the movement of our body, the sound of your voice that echoes in my memory. I will leave its corpse in the gutting, not out of spite but out of desperation. There were words that tied to themselves to meaning, now falls flat. I would hold them high as herald of truth and beauty in the secret moments of my honest self, but those have all been lost. You were the place that safety felt real. That cannot exist anymore. Now cold and naked I must wonder the tundras of my own mind. there the beast of history come to the field snarling, rage hanging in steaming exhalations. It may have been valid, it may have been how I really am, but you took that with you. You cannot come, bring all the good love gifts its endurer and expect them to last in your passing. I suppose that is the risk you take when entering the life of another. You become the sunshine, and bring upon the sunset. What days come there after. Though when it does, that day has passed, an any light you could have been passes. there have been few times in my life when I have looked at my records and wondered if the day had never ended, if perhaps I could have painted a landscape, crafted a world that may have held the suns interest for just a moment longer, before I fell from its grace, and it died among the demons of the underworld, only to be reborn. I have gotten more accustomed to the darkness than i have the light. At least in the cold solitude I now what little worth I may have. I do  not need the lies light to desuade  me from the horrific nature of my reflection. I shall not tell time by the passing fancies of light. My skin will cancerous in the attempt to please its glaring. I have only so much surface to sacrifice.

So tell me, those that have not seen the light that pores from your essence, what will you do when some one sees it radiance. Do you know the landscape you wish to illuminate have you become comfortable with the shadows you will force upon the face of those who grace you shining. or will you burn, blind to the world it molds by simply being. Will you forget the power that holds, or will you claim it and only rise for the right sunrise, or rise many times. No beholder can expect a single display of brilliance  I only hope that you find the one great moment, one great landscape, that would destroy you to see cast into the realm of darkness.  

Do You Remember

Cut and tear at what I have left behind. the bread crumbs to the mine field  I left them hoping you would fin me, hold me. Alas you when looking for a child and found only a part of its past. Among the scattered limbs you may be able to rebuild a likeness of me. Alas that person has long since lost his place in this world. Now the ghosts of failure and regrets haunt the flesh, seeking their solace and piece of mind.

The cackle of the crowd remind me of the world that seems so wonderful, so far from my grasp. This is the story my mind has been crafted to tell. Thisis the face i see in he mirror. this is who I am to myself. If i could prove myself wrong I would. Alas I lack the evidence to see anything more than the waist that clogs the drains.

I do not ask so pity, or proof of my worth. that would be a futile exercise. I am only this, and nothing more.

Know Your Skin

It is your prison. It will hold all that is you too the world, and hide you from it. It is your embrace. rejoice in the futility of leaving. The sins of your heart will stain it until the image of it tells the story of your sorrow, loos, love, joy and deep contrition. It will move you to aid, to hurt, to cry out for the pain it has cursed upon you. It will tear, and it will hurt. It will burn, and it will hurt. It will be pleased, and that will hurt most of all. It will long for bodies, and reject affection. It will heal, scar, and refuse to forget, as much as it will be unable to remember.

The most frightening thing is that we chose to remain in it, hoping that the net day will feel better than the next. Remember, we chose. Our skin promises us nothing. We can not know for certain what will pass over it, or go into it. We cannot predict how long we will have it. But having it, in this moment, is a choice. If you forget that then you waist it.

Fallen

Bones now lie bleached on the sand,
reaching up to the sky with all the appearance of longing.
They once held so much in their grasp.
The blood that pulsed passed them,
the flesh and hide that clad them, now lost to the rot.
They have been marked by the beaks and claws,
by the teeth and talons of the hungry
There was a life to this frame
Now not even the memory remains.
 

Were I A Tail

What if I was a story. My life and the action that color them told through the ideas of an observer, researcher or dreamer. No more would I be the person that inhabits this flesh, but an idea creator, a character constructed to be shared. My actions dictated by a purpose, within a narrative. With every turn of the page I would live for those few moment, in the words that form I the minds of the reader. I would go through the changes that are part of a fiction. First the idea of the dreamer, then the momentary reality of the reader. The same words, many different me's. Carved out in phrases.

What would my story be. What would be my reason d'etre. What tragedy would I face in order to grow. What elements of me would e used to relate to and what to alienate. Shall I be the protagonist or the antagonist. Will my ending induce happiness, or be cemented in tears. Is my story to be one of love and joy, or a tragedy.

I will tell you once the tale has been fully told.