Spring
time of life
growth

Death
from out
Life

Life
from out
Death

My mind is empty. I struggle eternally with myself,
to find the words to write, to find some meaning in
this life. I scream soundlessly and beat against the door
that holds everything, so close and yet forever far. I try
to speak with wisdom and with certitude, to gently show
those erring the way, back into the sunlight, back, away from
the shadows, away from the death that comes to the living,
waiting, weighing, cold and heavy within your breast, a silent
stone of poison lead, content to wait, to drag, to drown, to pull
them down to final death, an empty pit in which no pain resides,
and to which no pain can be brought. It is left at the door, forgotten
and discarded, left to join the vast wastes of hate and anger, joy and
sorrow, love and melancholy, the trappings of life. I plead and hope
that someone, somewhere heeds my words, and I hope that they do
not read on and come to the bitter times when darkness covered me,
and I wrote of darkness, and sorrow, pain and melancholy.
I am so tired.

The wind. Ever blowing, unchanging, and yet change
is its nature. Soothing and driving, gentle and furious.
I have written of this before. The wind. I have spoken
of the slow wearing of erosion, down upon the stones,
I have written of the rain it drives to freezing frenzy,
of its gentle breezes, of its gales, of its storms. And I have
felt the wind. I have heard it howl through the trees like an
avenging spirit, I have seen it tear the leaves from the swaying limbs
and raise them high to heaven, and hurl them down to
Earth again, terrible in its fury. I have felt it, when I stood
beside the lake, in the first beginnings of the new Spring, how
it blew softly through my hair, gentle as a mothers hand. I saw
as it stirred the waters of the lake, and set them to lapping gently
at the shore, and at the pillars of the dock, there beside me. And I
remember thinking in that moment, that life was good, and I remember
that I was happy. I have written of the wind. I have seen it, I have felt it,
I have heard it, whispering through the leaves, and knocking the bare limbs
softly together, in that time of winter. I have known the wind. And yet I wonder,
whether something such as this, may ever be truly known, the sighing breeze,
the howling gale. Perhaps.

I am young. My mind some say, is old,
and I feel the need to stop the striving,
the searching, the trying to sculpt and
craft words into something high and
wonderful. Simple, I think, is best, now,
when all my pride has been laid low, and my
Soul has been touched by the simple words of
Love and Life, spoken and written, words to
touch the heart.

I look back, see, and regret.
so much of darkness, so much of
bitterness, of despair, of death, of the
chill of being forgotten for ever and ever
and ever..... I look back and wish. Wish upon
the fading star, the falling moon, the setting sun,
wish that I had not taken so of the darker pleasures,
had not indulged this passion for words of pain,
had not opened the door for gentle melancholy.
Wistfully do I weep, for the grief around the corner,
and for the quiet breath of silent death, as he steals
away the precious life, an old man dying, taken at last,
leaves as nothing, leaving nothing, taking naught save
sad regret, leaving naught save life gone wasted.
Bitterly do I weep, deep in the silent tomb of
myself, and wish that I had taken a little of the light
before it was too late, leaving naught but sad regret,
and bottles at the door.

I am dreaming, I know.
Land unknown spread out
before me, air charged, expectant
of the coming storm,
cool wind sighing past, and setting
the leaves all to rustling. Sunset, glorious
in days dying.
I am dreaming, I know.

Wandering.
Night fills the sky,
path lit by burning lamps,
few and far between.

Stumbling.
Jasmine in the air,
silence fled, returns in
abscence, of my footsteps,
upon the hard and cobbled
way.

Tears.
wind stirs the leaves,
And sighs a song of
soft farewell, flowing
through the grasp of folly,
fingers stretched to empty air,
And the shining stars above.

Gone.
Stars fade and pass away,
the moon falls in knowledge,
of the coming of the day.
Cool darkness fades.
And I left with nothing,
bitter memory, and the tattered
shreds of dream.