CHIMES AND VIBRATIONS[[[[[]]]]]]
came from strange places...
IM EITHER BLIND OR SIMPLY CANNOT SEE BECAUSE OF THE ABSENCE OF LIGHT.. I CANNOT MOVE
voices and echoes)))))))))))))))))))))))))
SPEAK TO EACHOTHER IN STRANGE FRIGHTENING TONES..
my ears search for a solace of something familiar...
AND THEN I HEARD THE SCREAMING CRY OF ANOTHER PERSON..
he yelled "please stop!!!!!" and begged for his life..
THE NIGHTMARE REALLY STARTS FOR ME WHEN HE STOPS SCREAMING..
my heart raced and i could hear its familiar beat..
THE VOICES WERE RIGHT OVER ME NOW..
i tried not to breathe or make a sound..
BUT THE MORE I TRIED THE LOUDER THE VOICES WERE..
and then the silence came...
I HEARD STRANGE FOOTSTEPS WALK AWAY..
and then a door of light appeared as three figures walked on out..
Feeling isolated, had to check my pride.
So I walk on thin ice. I run on adrenaline.
I can be nice. I can be a gentleman.
I'm prone to sin: since the beginning.
Snooze you lose- so I'm always winning.
Insomnia- my head is always spinning.
Like a bottle: faster than a shuttle.
Try to shut-all the demons out
but it's creeping in- so I'm filled doubt.
Now where do I go?
Things are moving slow- scattered- like a dry scalp with dandruff snow.
It'sNow or never: or so I keep saying- intending to leave the past: but I keep staying. I keep straying- from the truth.
So my life's a spoof.
back and forth between reality and a lie- such a hefty plight.
Plane and simple: the flight of this pain has got me feeling jet-lagged- lagging in the spot-light:Pimple.
I see the indent in my cheeky confidence: dimple.
The devil wants to dim all hope of light in my life,
but it shines bright, my egos bruised, but humility runs
I guess I gotta take responsibility.
I fell off- now I'm back on my bike, but I gotta break the cycle,
I plan to make history: Michael.
Jackson- if you think this is escapism: I'll be back son,
to break everybody free: Quindon tarver.
My appetite for life is limitless, so I gobble it up: no starving,
but don't you say another 4 months
and then you'll have the harvest
The weighted press of measured steps on stair
accompanied by an echoed call to the familiar.
The first syllable of her name severed midway,
yet it tolled long after the utterance rang out.
The comfort of routine;
tethers of association
snapped under the strain of realisation.
A mocking gift from forgetfulness...
...she left him..
Mechanical body shifts
fighting urges to hesitate and listen to her vanished sleeping breath.
Vacant the cold bedroom,
the chamber harbouring her scent on fabrics, pillow and scantly furnished dresser top.
Each sniff raw as salt on opened wounds.
and left him
only remorseful residues
from the harvest
of three years and five months.
I come floating to you Mother, dead on the river, body bullet ridden: this is how God reaps His harvest of faith.
See, those columns that support the sky now, carried once the roof of our temple. The fire burning the pyres now carried oblations to our ideals; But we face a jealous God consuming in wrath.
Here I come, un-wreathed, unsung, wet in the tears of the skies, skin carrying scars of resistance, eyes open to the tyranny of faith.
Clutch my hands, let me feel the love that birthed me, one last time before my Spirit moves onward and beyond to the worlds of light.
Harvest was but days ascending upon thoughts,
It wasn't long till all were called forth, each of age
Helped out. Birth age was a right in this time.
We counted on the calendar as each night fell a
Dawn drew ever closer near. it beckoned those, most
Excepted sombre times, tears did gracefully fall.
Accountable to the masses as times before, has this
Been set in lore, in legend of the before, not breathed.
But ages grow fearful of the approaching present.
It hung low as if bleeding upon the landscape, It
beckoned the time of offering of moments when
Each pride was offering a cull of silent young.
They took the offering as every time, we wept
Anguished tears, but all was falsehood of past
Blood moon thanking's we weren't taken ourselves.
Three thousand and sixty five moments will the night
Grace the sky. And many blood moons shall call not
Taking mine, till that moment we will temp our time.
When I write here of desire
This specific wanting; the how of now,
I am not talking about the tightrope walk of lust,
That pleasant lower belly pull;
A trembling, tugging need.
My wanting right now is for the soft warm crush
Of your hand in mine as we stroll through autumn halls
Bedecked with fallen leaves, the shedding trees
An audience to the resplendence of our love
Which deepens into the season of sleep
With the same inevitability and beauty
As the crispness of the morning
And the birds that heed the calling
Of promised warmth, in another land,
Another space and time.