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.

Sins of my flesh

Beyond the flesh of my flesh, to the souls that reside in my heart, I ask your forgiveness. I know that my actions have harmed those that have strayed upon my path. Know that was never my intention. It pains me to know that my presence has caused you ill. Alas i know know mans by which i can gain absolution for these sins. They haunt me like specter's, discoloring every shade.

Prostate I lie before them, in the hope that I will be forgiven. I never meant you any harm. I am certain that does little to quell the storms that rage within you. What else can I offer you, i do not have that many pounds of flesh to offer. Though I will not call my life a disgrace, now matter how much I may feel it, for it would discredit those that gave so much for me to be here. Know that I plead for atonement

I Am So Sorry

I am sorry. For what I am not too sure. Perhaps, for it all.

I have kept a log of my sins, and hung them form the barbs that tickle the veins of my heart, keeping it from beating to hard or too fast. Keep me alive, that will be good enough for the moment. Let the hills roll past the horizon, as the colours change from green to yellow, until they are met by the cold purples of the darkening skies. With only my eyes to fill them with meaning, the freedom sits in my throat. Unable to swallow, it is better to leave it on the the road, amidst my mucus and bile, for soon glass, metal and blood will litter the intersections.
I could tell you the stories that whimper from the stones, muffled by peeling paint. But that would reacquire a caring demurer and I am pretending to be another player, hoping that this one will stick around long enough to keep my own nature from poisoning those dreams that have managed to survive this far.This face does not have as many scars. It belies the cringes that have etched their marks on its predecessors.  On it new errors can seem pure and intertwined with then need to learn. Alas these are not new marks. Aside from replacing the face, the cost of restructuring the core may be more than the mannequin can bare.
So pray for the child that sits besides the leg of a dream, looking up with all the hope that only ignorance can induce. He has long since lost that hope, his eyes have become murky with the truth of his own nature. The past has scraped away any effigy of purity his soul may have clung to. The suffering his inability induced has tainted the mornings that begged to be embraced. The tears, the pain, the regret, caused by his own hand. The child wanted nothing of the sort. Though the man realizes that his visage now mimics the nightmare that his desires despises, hence the face itself. No metal, nor colour will conceal its decay. Soon the stench will spread and no sweet smile will be able to conceal it. 

Look Around, but not too long

Christ. I know, relax and breath in. The spinning will stop. But the road calls out in languish, and the fear holler back. They want me to stay, then like me here, the voices whimper then shout. You are comfortable, you are home, everything shall be alright, the chorus continues. Though I wonder. Like an shade I float among the scenery, effecting the interplay of light and dark, but despite the obvious effect I have on the landscape, I am not of it. Were i too root myself not, so early, it would not be a discovery, or a journey, but a flow to a new familiar, a slide to a smaller port. New things soon become old. For all the allure of a simple life of aesthetic indulgence, it is not my time. The horizon calls, and I shall answer.