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Subtle winds flow, threading through his extended hands.
It’s almost as if there is a ghost of silk, being pulled in and around each finger.
Strands of hair tussle, tangling each lock down to the root, like the long tendrils of grass that dance and sway down in the valley below.
Life in entirety moves to the smooth rhythm of the winds.

Sloping from a plane, the hill crawls upwards.
Going up their is mostly small red rock, getting bulky and stopping at a vertical cliff.
It looks as if it were shot in explosion of rock and jagged edges.
There is a trail leading around the back to get to the top.
He meanders up, indulging in his surroundings.
He reaches the top.
The boy stands aloof upon the cliff edge.  
A bare Black Oak tree set beside him.
Creaking, groaning, and singing along with the hymns of the earth’s wind around.

Pebbles bounce and clack at each movement.
Even a twitch from the youth sends tiny boulders tumbling down, causing others to fall with it.
Facing the north, he looks up.
Stars splatter the sky like drips of paint.
Illuminating drops sent out in no particular direction or pattern.
He makes out constellations he was taught by his father.
Eager to create configurations of his own from imagination.
Looking around he finds the moon, moments away from being engulfed by mauve clouds.
A silhouette captured by the moonlight.  
The boy looks down and sits at the edge of the canyon cliff.
He dangles his feet over the ridge, kicking them back and forth.
Hitting one heel on the back of the rock wall and kicking the other out.
Suddenly he stops.
His eyes close.
He takes a deep inhale.
He sets his hands down at his sides, one hand gripping the sand and the other a small patch of grass.
Then gently, he loosens his grip, leaving his self to be carried by the embrace of the breeze.

The air pulsates.
Drafts pushing the boy hard with its invisible hands.
The child putting complete trust on the earth he sat above.
One gust pushes him forward.
Another carrying him back.
Other winds a variation of each direction.
Now balancing on the weight of a fractured ridge and a rooted tree, he exhales.
Gently leaning forward to look down at the rock descend below.
He looks up, sets his hands back to his hips, and the crest gives way.
Bringing the boy along...

The wind was still heavy.
The gravel was still loose.
And the tree still stood.
The cliff will continue to be a silhouetted in the backdrop of the moon.
Only now, it is his breath that is being exhaled upon the earth’s soils.
He will coordinate with the fields of bronze grass, and the trees will sing to the tunes of his melodies.
...of a pen one letter falls.

The blank cotton white paper a canvas in it self.

It's waiting for an artist to grace its presence.

Starting with one letter and sometimes followed by another.

Then connecting fragments of lines and scratches.

Creating what our culture describe as words.

Words that conduct emotion, Which in response leads to separation; gaps and spaces.

Continuing the sentence with set ideas of left overs from the past.  

Some hold no worth, and others hold all truth.

Depending on your preference they will inspire or conduct.

The simplicity of a word can get as complex as a sentence.

No matter what the message it carries.

The beauty is in its essence.
"So have you forgotten?"...

Those words you muttered so softly from those blushed lips.

"I have yet to lose grasp of the severity those words held"

Making the connection from the depths of your vocal box, to the cusp of your tongue, and out your lips.

Traveling through the atmosphere, into waves, down the tubes of my ear and rattling the drums within.  

What we once shared is now aged by the times.

Times we've spent silently mesmerized by the deep darkness of our pupils.

Ignoring the fate of our actions and its outcome.

Silently giggling, we explored the delicacy of the human body... and of the mind.

The world aged as we sat timeless, centered on my sheet-less bed.

As if we were curious children who have yet to be exposed to the harshness of the exploited world.

We have explored the realms of living nature and continuing the adventure.

We must continue onto different realms of perception and thought, in which we can't question the kinship of

our spirits.

My words do no more but go to waste as they fall on blind eyes, which are recited by mute mouths,

and are silenced by deaf ears.

But those words we spoke, silently into each others ears, later encrusting in our minds.

Those words... They will resonate.
Standing with her head low and shoulders slouched,

centered in open field of dying foliage, she stood alone in the pouring rain.

She held a bright yellow flower that nestled so gently in between her slender fingers.

Overcast skies, fill the atmosphere with grey and white towering columns of fluffy moisture.

Blue skies peek at out as the clouds mutate and morph moving along with the winds taking on new forms at every breeze.

Sun rays shoot through the an opening where the clouds part, beaming down below to the golden fields of hill, grass,

and the occasional tree; giving life supporting energy for only a few seconds until it quickly

gets covered by the onslaught of clouds. Shinning on her pale fleshfor that second

she felt the life providing sun permeate on her cold wet skin with warmth.

Rain still trickling down upon her face and flower close to decay,

the light reluctantly giving her the energy to lift her head with prowess.

She fixates her eyes deep out into the hilltops and the skies above,

where the light shed through; steadily recuperating from her desolate outlook before.

Noticing wonders and the rare beauty of her location, that she had given no mind to before.

Managing to reveal a smile she once held behind the clouds, forgetting completely that she was ever alone to begin.
Oh this youth,

standing in crowds in replica to their own.

Only perceiving the pursue of whats new and whats next.

Its a hunger for relevancy,

a persona.

Those in angst, in stride of going against.

Those in discard, choosing to ignore.

Those in bliss, falling into ignorance.

All unwittingly failing to look in the mirror to gander

at their true **** reflection. . . . . .

Yet they move as one amoebic parasite, reproducing at every

pleasure their senses receive.

But the perfumes and scents still fillthe condensed air.

Disguising the real wrank fumes of our the product we consume.

Soon, like every phase in history, these

images will be lost along with the ones who chase it.

But the moments before they're gone,

they will realize that none of the objects they have

obtained, were ever relevant.

Only holding back the true **** beauty

of the human kind, its experiences, and the wonder of the reality we actually live.

Don't follow the minds from the past.

These ideas will again be cycled.

It is our choice to evolve from our gluttonous behaviors and let our mother regain what it has lost.

What we know will be taken by time.
Again life cycles to a clutter, ideas thought through

don't anymore seem as though,

even when expressed aloud and not within.

Maybe they're right,

my ignorance is only withholding wonders

I struggle to actually see.  

Hypocritically, I find importance in self enrichment

and observing from afar.

and yet even from a distance you feel so close.

Is this an evolution or is it just another mutation.

Obscure out of any cultural norm, I resonate

impairing those who hear my words.

This constant metamorphosis has left me staring in the mirror for

hours, searching for the presence of my subjected  form.


while I peer into the interworkings of my reflection

to observe what I actually see...

With all truth, it holds a boy,

an awkwardly timid boy.

Insecurely gazing back into the pupils

of his reality.

He's bellowing inside his

submerged mind.

Subconsciously Blurting:

"Do not turn back,  

their are cyclones that await.

And all that is required

to overcome this task

is to go forth without

pondering times long gone...

So here I am, engaulphed

in tidal winds.

I must break loose;

grow, starting from

Graphite embossments littered the page.

Each groove and curve leaving imprinted scars for

the eye to wonder but is limited to the imagination.

Back and forth, inwards and out, and up and around; but in

essence leading you to where the eye first left off.

The rays of day breaking light coming from the window

besides her has left shadows against her face and neck to disperse perfectly along

through the spine and around the rib cage. Continuing on to the

inward gentle slopes of her lower back as well as her ample arching hips down to

the definition of her legs while descending to the petiteness of her toes.  

Compositions flood my thoughts, transpiring one to stain the mind.

Her pastel smooth skin creating curved tones, while her figure gently leads me

around each indention that follow her distinguished yet unremarkable features.

Featureless of defects and abundant in beauty

her form keeping me attentive of the lines I begin to choose and commit.

With one curved stroke, the line implies her seductive form, then another, and another

suggesting the composition as a whole.  

Beginning from my sight reverted to my mind down onto the textured paper below;

capturing the pigments so remarkably sharp.

I round brighter tones highlighted by darkened grays to extenuate  

the contrasts of the room in relation to the delicacy her physique.

The charcoal and graphite I precisely placed on the picture

plane has my finger tips caressing and imitating the curvatures of her body.    

The tones and shapes caught by the eye travel from her onto the crisp white blankets

entrapping her on the firm white bed she lay on. The brightened tones of the window enhance the distinctions between light and dark and heightens the intensity of my interest to

make this compositions one of my best.
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