The sound of a bird flutters, ahhh.
Maybe someday I would tell you it's not there....
Maybe I wish I knew the never - the forever - all coming together like a crystalline kaleidoscope.
Maybe I don't know - maybe I do - I can't tell.
And if you asked me, maybe I would scream. Maybe I would laugh.
Maybe I would fall into something I would never understand.
Oh but a haze.....
A fog, a blow
Oh but a weariness.......
Oh but a fallacy. A curse.
Unless embraced, unless held with care.
The haze can confuse,
The haze, is hanging angel, a shining curse.
If torment will come -- you can allow it to.
If the haze is taken slowly, it can caress you.
There is nothing but freedom and madness.
There is nothing but darkness and pure light.
At the harbor, the docks shake and anchor.
But out at sea there is nothing to guide you.....
And the haze can be the meaning you put.
The winds will blow the direction you gear.
And the haze can be nothing but a story you tell it.
The moving of feet
Shaking, bustling, the chaos of the clunking calamity that passes through
And I feel my senses, the airs, the ground, the peace, the joy, in my senses.
And the tip of my toes, the top of my head - that is all I am,
I am only now, I am only this, I am only one.
But once, I realized what I looked at changed with a different pair of eyes - I felt like, I was all that is
And will ever be.
As I sit by the window, a blistering wind bellows
Howling at me, howling for a reason - I question.
The statue angels in the rose garden below listen in.
I close the creaking window. I shut my book on the rose colored cushion.
My reflection leaves me, alone......
The wind blows - and the window blows, open, I did not touch - anything.
Again, I close the window, the hollowing blows the trees down, but my period on sentences for myself make me shout inside me.
The written notes with scattered arrows, the massive circle in the center with a question mark - all scattered on the cushion. And as the trees shake and children scream below me, the question marks grow bolder.
I hear a sharp shout calling my name, which does not have handed flowers in its tone. I wake down stairs. And as I close the door the paper I drew on falls to the floor,
Where dust resides
Can it be held?
The moment. The determination. The moment above you, turned to dust.
The determination like arrows thrown your forehead....
How long does it last?
The fires turns to embers so quickly
The flame is blown - out.
A swirling, beating intensity like tribal drums
Will it be switched?
Can it last....
Can it sit...
for Eternity so you do not have to grasp for evaporating dust
To become something more, I tell you less
And as you grow into someone more, less you know
And so I write, to make sense, but my writings writher with time.....
Each slash on paper, do not complete me.
Each tense does not fufill me, but these writings stand with time.
I write - now- less you feel you know - but my writings will be a piece that.... will sit quietly forever.
Has the wind knocked my feet down...
Scuffed at the ends - worn out - beaten old shoes, the soles can no longer sustain.
And the sun beats on my cheek, the climb, infested with gravel - smothered in dirt
A shout from above says looking down is only your perspective, a fools trick to our mind.
A shout in exclamation marks.
Running away from the echo of the past.
Sweat dripping, in splatters like drops - each drop a thought
Floating in space and time - your frustration wound up in a second.
Where does it drop?
A climb, claw - tear..... running into the mountain.
To fight against the battle
That stays quietly, patiently above you.