One day, in my travels, I found a monument to the forgotten.
I found footprints there, and though they fit my feet, I had no memory of being there before.
One side of the monument was blank, full of words that could not be read.
One side was burnt, and ashes twisted in the mourning breeze.
One side was covered with a sheet.
One side towered high, yet was gone before I fully looked away.
And all around, footprints.
All of them mine.
The grotesquery of humanity is not seen in the mundanity of its many perversions, but in that we who have been set just below the gods stoop so low in our search for the satisfaction of heavenly desires.
My soul has been silent these many days, and every one has shriveled it further. I have neither looked within, nor without. With eyelids closed, I have walked from pain and joy alike into the gray and ceaseless thrumming of a body moving through the necessary functions of life.
I, too, am expected to topple the Dark Lord.
The heart and soul of my faith
is the making possible of a way to do so -
the impossible rendered possible
by the sacred influence
of an impossible sacrifice of the divine.
Yes; I, too, am expected to topple
the dark lord.
How has it been so long, and I did not
The impetus of fantasy is to action -
the Ordinary obtaining and
achieving the patently Impossible through
faith, activity, and whole-hearted devotion.
Do you believe that fantasy is worthwhile?
Then you believe that you can change
Her face surprises me,
half the time.
The surprise is what it does to me
in just a casual encounter -
all outside of my control,
and all inside that deepest
part of me.
It's like a breath of fresh air, or a
splash of cold water on the face,
first thing in the
A bracing dose of reality that
leaves me gasping like a fish
out of water.
They say she's supposed to take your breath
I didn't know it was literal,
Take care that life does not pass you by
in the busy moments of our finity.
Time cannot be regained when
once it has flown. No hope is
there for the moments spent in anger,
silence unlovely, and the heady
disunion of words spoken in haste.
Let every movement be made as if through
a fast-moving river, and you walk
against the current,
in danger every moment of
being swept away.
by the busy road,
growing on the spew of industry
are more beautiful to me
the wild, road-edge flowers
have no reason but themselves,
a purely unprepared oblation
welling up in beauty
at the whispered voice of God
but those other blooms - those hot-house beauties
are simply what they are
supposed to be.
Perfect in scent, in shape, in size -
everything just so, and just so much
I sometimes want to say it isn't beauty
but every flower has a name,
so who am I to say
that some are better
than the others?