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.

A Forest

The eyes stayed closed as the sounds crawled past. In them were the promises of a time that was once my own. I had them if only for a moment. They were the very things that took me too long to consider. Now hey are no longer the means to make the dream seep from the sheets I stained with your blood. A sacrifice to a manner of flesh and sweat. They held me in the way that scorpions embrace the prey of the sand world. It shifts with the notions of the wind, the carrier of the souls who are yet to be judged. I may have seen you for a moment, weeping silently, but the sound is familiar enough for me to hear it even among the scream of my own mind, the drowning contrition. The way the cackling of days long decayed come back in torrents of embers that cling to my flesh and fill the air with smoking flesh, the sent of sorrow manifested. I would beg for the chance to hold you whilst your skin turned blue, for the winter air was fiery beside the idea of your body. Drown as we may, in our own ideas and the poisons that we cloud our minds with, rage at the capacity to hold fleeting clarity. It is not the place we promised ourselves in the drunken desire that took too strong a charge of our actions.

Cut not the strings I have used to have used to sown my chest closed. The rib cage still missing, and the lungs tend to press the heart agains the walls of my body. So I sit and watch the blood pump through the rotten organ I once call my heart. You named it such in a moment of naivity

Rot

So I heard her, in the gargled expression that comes from a larynx negotiating its relation to the sinuous grasp that once held it in place. Unable to find the melody that fired in what remained of her mind. Hunger raged a midst a murky hollowness where once her name resided. She reaches out to me, whilst approaching with a crippled stride, her body fighting to remain in motion. No more tears fall from her eyes, nor shall her face ever smile back at me. The world hangs in screams and flames behind her. In jerked decay the space between us barreled. Her lips sliding past the steel. Her winter skin forced against mine. She fell into me. It was not long before I surrendered to the sinking wormth, as I too was no longer able to scream.

The Hole

Hey there, what is that hole doing in the middle of the garden. It seems to be getting bigger and bigger. What an amazing event, a strange happening. Just think of all the possibilities. You could make a pool out of it, and then have parties with scantily clad ladies and drinks with umbrella's in them. Wait, maybe you could plant a tree in it, one  that will grow many stories high and provide for you, others and the enforcement. If it strikes water then you can make a well, and enjoy free water.

Wait, what are you doing?
Why are you climbing inside?
You want me to do What!
No I am not going to fill the whole with you inside.

I Was Asked

Ah these bars seem familiar Yet the horizon beyond them feels sickeningly alien. I do know know what I would do in those fields that lie out beyond me. I have all the space my imagination can provide. In them are battle field coloured red with the falling blood. Metal strikes flesh, steel melts against the raging flames that envelop steel leviathans, as they are made to surrender beneath the constant barrage of cannons. Creatures with masks of light with elongated limbs flick blades from their forearms, severing troops from their limbs. Shadowed mercenaries fling themselves between the fray with steel wire and spikes, leading from one victim to another. A sweet metallic taste hangs in the mist. No my friends, I could find no solace in those open field. I would be far to tempted to make of them a stage. But oh what a pantomime I would play upon them.

I would tell the the tails of loss, fire and melting. I would write songs in the screams, that would shiver the flesh till the skin would pull itself free in search of respite. Oh, I Can hear them now as I dream erect and searching myself for a means to exalt the notion. The give of flesh beneath the suggestion of a blade, subtle at first, but at first resistance, fierce and hungry. Tell me, what do the meadows offer me. What wipers of the fleeting butterfly can sooth as the bubbling jugular can. 

There is so much a tool can tell you of your intentions with those you are given the space to explore yourself through. Sunsets my come in passing splendor, slipping through the fingers of time, so subtle that they fade Swift into a gallery of time passing. Sharp steel, hard wood, and a strong arm feeds intent with unorthodox prowess and capacity. What then shall I label as freedom. Even between four walls, my flesh is my own, my mind solace. I have dreams enough to keep me company. We are given one frame, like a warrior, one weapon. Keep it loaded, make it shard, barb it and let it take you past any obstacle that may inflict itself upon you. Then You can be nothing but free.

We own only what we have paid for in blood, sorrow, ours or others. Tell me I can go anywhere, but you put boundaries to keep you people safe. There, out in the world lie many barriers, erected through force of finance. The chance of cost and availability chain those who cling to their ideals. Show them a moment of chaos, let them lick the nature of all that supersedes them, and the loss of rational will drive them insane. Relinquish these petty needs. Submit, and feel those desires crystallize in your  mind until they embrace you like a long lost lover.  Tell me you cannot feel the lifting of fabric and the smell of secrets, disallowed by formality. Give what they may, take what you can. Their are so few allowances. Who are we to die in regret.

I have no wings, so why would I long for the open skies as the swallows and falcons do. They sky is purple with our desire to be more than our bodies allow. yet we look to those beside us and us them to forgive our indiscretions, as though they have not build the very ground upon which they walk, or the roves beneath which they sleep. I only keep enjoy the luxury of inhaling because no one has been able to take that capacity from me. Tell me. Am I not free. Tell Me, are you.

Then Again

Now comes the time for reflection. From the swelling memories crawls the need for redemption, constenting, to the body. It had its place, but cage its open, and broken, by the weight of its sight. So in this remorse comes time to forgive, the sins that have haunted this worn skin.  If every manner can begin, the history its lost within, for solace knows its humble king, be a place to begin.

The nature of the beast is to tell you the truth as it sees, not the way the world really is. We could go believing the words as they, tied it seems, to reason we lost long ago. Free for the quest, reliquish the best of our selves.

Something About Fire

So let the rage continue an unabated. May the heated torrents lick the walls and pain faces with the scorches that held their passing. They have no solemn purpose, but the nature of their ways. For the land behind they is desolate, and the path before them fueled by hunger. Despite the horse cries of the innocent, there is no means for mercy, no capacity to care. there only lies a purpose, and a means. So rage on, and make this world anew.

Feed Me More than Loud Words

Tear the words asunder, till the flecks of blood can be seen on them. The mind that wonders to spaces of the cage of safely and known mantras come to the fall, safe yet again. Do not let the time of your own voice become a sound unlike your own tone. The nature of the manner does not hold true. So the two swallows cry to each other. In them songs of equal value seems to waver in the wind.

And so the hearts bound by silk and razor wire beat towards and against each other, screaming for skin and the knowledge that they have a home. A place to rest their bloody selves. They are two scared to push free and risk tearing their walls open and leaving themselves empty, and hollow.

I wonder. The body is tied to the image, and the idea that we are here. From that we lay down our notions of frailty, and doubt. Hate of the reflection, lost in the tides that beat against the flesh till it becomes raw. So hope lies in giving the mirror to another, alas in that we give value to the words that seep from its keeper. One day the words may become so deep and painful that we take that mirror back, but the words remain, etched in the frame, unable to wipe the meaning from the reflection  And so the history of other ideas become carved on our image. What is left for the the loving keepers but to scream louder, and over ride your own narrative, hoping that their good intent does not scat as deeply as their lover's history.

If I knew I would tell you what hope was before the feet of those with good intention and only slightly speckled hearts, but alas the dessert hold so few an oasis and too many mirages.