Sep 14
At times, you choke on your breath as you fall. Then, the lids of your eyes shoot open. A sneak preview of a nightmare. You were asleep all along.
Life is but a dream.
Sunset-amber flames curled from the cedar kindling of the great divine,
and lo, from an imperceptible dimension he crouches down to a wick,
you,
us,
them,
me,
on a wax of chance,
on dirt not far from the sun,
we hiss into being and flicker in the cold wind of uncertainty.
From this, a hard-earned lesson; a lifetime is spent reeling love into our arms until time pries them open and make off without yielding to consequence, save for us who are foolish enough to believe we can outlast it.
Who lived to ever tell?
Fracticous hours know not the pain of wasting away as it saunters by, leaving wilted hope frozen beneath its shadow.
Storm clouds in the horizon charged with crackling blue bolts that split trees in the open.
Grief flashes through our eyes like headlights bracing themselves against the graying sky metastasizing into darkness.
Moon-white hair, dyed by the endlessness of crossroads leading to nowhere, is sheared short, and shorter still until they fall limp on the scalp that cradled them.
One can only hope that their roots reach deep down into throbbing wisdom which a weary body has amassed over tumbles and falls.
We know not.
Some nostrils come powdered if only for a moment feel alive until it wears off.
Some hang on cliff of smokes sailing through the air if only for a moment artificially induce emotions other than loneliness.
Some wicks come bent, breaking dirt, submissive, submerged in salt water or oil for a chance to burn another way.
Still, there are those whose heels are filed by dust and sand, smoothening them perhaps, but praying they could be planted and hold flame elsewhere.
But there are wicks that are born with eyes weighed down by the ego and sights nailed to their chin and nose s anchored to the clouds.
Some wicks are coated tips, but in truth are fuses to fireworks that light up the skies. Often loud, leaving s stamp on time.
Some hide, losing themselves, they do.
Heinous crime against the essence of being.
Hiding behind an image that does not exist.
Hiding behind expectations.
Hiding behind a false construct and letting the play of light warm up and comfort misled believers.
Some pile up blocks of wood, glass, steel, silicon, and plastic, hoping to burn brighter but in the end just burn out like the rest.
Perhaps as wicks, we can light those who cannot for themselves, for those who are obscured by shadows, for those who are dampened by the downpour.
Perhaps the world wouldn’t be as dark. Even when the sun is going about her day.
We’ve been falling all eternity.
Life is but a dream.
Life is but a dream.
Sunset-amber flames curled from the cedar kindling of the great divine,
and lo, from an imperceptible dimension he crouches down to a wick,
you,
us,
them,
me,
on a wax of chance,
on dirt not far from the sun,
we hiss into being and flicker in the cold wind of uncertainty.
From this, a hard-earned lesson; a lifetime is spent reeling love into our arms until time pries them open and make off without yielding to consequence, save for us who are foolish enough to believe we can outlast it.
Who lived to ever tell?
Fracticous hours know not the pain of wasting away as it saunters by, leaving wilted hope frozen beneath its shadow.
Storm clouds in the horizon charged with crackling blue bolts that split trees in the open.
Grief flashes through our eyes like headlights bracing themselves against the graying sky metastasizing into darkness.
Moon-white hair, dyed by the endlessness of crossroads leading to nowhere, is sheared short, and shorter still until they fall limp on the scalp that cradled them.
One can only hope that their roots reach deep down into throbbing wisdom which a weary body has amassed over tumbles and falls.
We know not.
Some nostrils come powdered if only for a moment feel alive until it wears off.
Some hang on cliff of smokes sailing through the air if only for a moment artificially induce emotions other than loneliness.
Some wicks come bent, breaking dirt, submissive, submerged in salt water or oil for a chance to burn another way.
Still, there are those whose heels are filed by dust and sand, smoothening them perhaps, but praying they could be planted and hold flame elsewhere.
But there are wicks that are born with eyes weighed down by the ego and sights nailed to their chin and nose s anchored to the clouds.
Some wicks are coated tips, but in truth are fuses to fireworks that light up the skies. Often loud, leaving s stamp on time.
Some hide, losing themselves, they do.
Heinous crime against the essence of being.
Hiding behind an image that does not exist.
Hiding behind expectations.
Hiding behind a false construct and letting the play of light warm up and comfort misled believers.
Some pile up blocks of wood, glass, steel, silicon, and plastic, hoping to burn brighter but in the end just burn out like the rest.
Perhaps as wicks, we can light those who cannot for themselves, for those who are obscured by shadows, for those who are dampened by the downpour.
Perhaps the world wouldn’t be as dark. Even when the sun is going about her day.
We’ve been falling all eternity.
Life is but a dream.
