I know she is not real,
Yet,I write for her;
She is a figment of my imagination,
One of my creation; And
Somewhere,Deep inside my mind,
Lies a canvas filled with her art;  ​
A art,yet to be complete,
Where My words work like colors,
My pen acts as a brush;And
With each word I add;
She becomes real,
more and more real; And
When I will see her in real,
I will devote all this to her;
For she was the one who,
Inspired me in the first place...

©desireddreamer

Exists a place inside you and the name of it is Home
And every time you walk away you'll always feel alone
It takes a single step in vain to crucify the Truth
But all the same to stand beside the Hope it has for you
So drink The Tree of Knowledge and reflect on what it's done
Then bury all the poison it injects in everyone
Deliver cups of water from the roots it once ordained
And for the sake of saving cling to every single day
The sun continues rising and the moon remains in tact
As stars proclaim the victories in every second passed
While Death has spread a fever 'cross the bones of man in flesh
Eternal Life has poured itself on souls of man instead

The roaring sound of applause is becoming too boisterous to bear.

A flock of cameras and video recorders begin to huddle at the corners of the platform set behind the curtains of the stage. Actors, dancers, stage crew, and all of those who smiled, slowly line up for the grand finale.

But not this girl.

This girl sits on top of the railing of the things that hold up the set. Waiting, seeking, and wistfully watching. An actress, without a doubt. One of the best, they say. Although this girl had no plans to take that step and accept gravity as her master and plummet to her death, she won’t deny that she hasn’t thought of that before. This time, she had other things on her mind. Something radical? Well, maybe. Spontaneous? She was too lazy to move. Dark and twisted? Not in that sense. Nonetheless, she was thinking of something with importance.

For instance, she was thinking about the homemade cookies her mother used to give her, if she behaved perfectly, quiet, and still. Since she loved the feeling of success and food in her stomach, she fought back the longing of playing games and having fun.“Too perfect a child”* some might say, but that never got into her. All she wanted was the sky, moon, stars, and nothing all at once.  

Years go by, mistakes are done, and nothing is made whole again. The girl is woven in a snare of lies and is drowning in a bathtub full of the blood of swine. She swims and floats and tries to escape the demons that haunt her very soul. Breathe in, breathe out. She continues to sit perfectly, quietly and still. Never talking, only listening, to the sounds of rules and rules and rules and rules and rules and rules that mess up her insides.

The girl performs an act that no one has ever seen. Taunting and terrifying, but beautiful and graceful all together.  The mask shows her perfection, the mask shows you nothing. Jump, then fall, tumble to the ground. Tick, tock, tick, tock, the sound as time goes by.

Tick
tock
tick
stop.


The roaring sound of applause from the demons in her head is becoming too boisterous to bear.

A flock of cameras and video recorders begin to huddle at the corners of the platform set at the unseen bottom of the pit. Actors, dancers, stage crew, and all of those who tell her, slowly line up for the grand finale.

*She takes that step.

Virtue in waiting:
Patience is tested, again,
hair cut, then go home.

’P’s don’t **** people.
Golds, gunmen do it for them.
Or, they let them die.

Give them poetry
and they will come
to feed their souls
upon the sustenance
of your everlasting words.

Parents act like they've never been children
Just like teachers act like they've never been students.

I was danglin' my feet off the edge of that pretty throne
called Childhood..
swinging up and down and all aroun'
twistin, sometimes just dangling my feet, twin tin'...

and all the while, My pappies were standing by the picnic table,
talking about how sad it was
that they ******* a man.. ruined his life in fact..
and well, after all , thats just how it's gotta Be
it was accident and all... sort of

and I heard 'em telling a lie in fact!!  a Whole Lie about this guy!!
an wasn't even nothin' that took place.. Nothin!!
and not one of 'um.. with enough integrity to say anything

so I sat there swinging.. thinking 'bout it all...
then,
I heard a man come up and say "problem solved ...he done killed himself..."

and it was then, that I saw the LIFE leave their bodies
everyone of them..
except ONE.....

lifted up like smoke
just left em...
knowing what they'd done
lied, hated.. ruined a person, took away his Name...his  hope..

left 'em, with all the children unfinished..
not one son grown up yet

So I asked that One... what are gonna do?

and I Saw him Look... and SEE
the legacy of his Life
standing out like a Vision of the Grand Canyon
Pristine like....

and then suddenly, there was rivers  inky Blackness flown' like crazy...
running thru the hollows
running,
like a River of unstoppable Magnitude
cutting through Rock like it was Nothin'

creating a whole new World of UNDERSTANDING.....

and he turned to me and said...
I'm gonna make it Right
For your Pappy...

and He did.
He saved my Life.
He fixed my breathing...

Seated in a window was a young man named Eutychus,
who was sinking into a deep sleep as Paul talked on and on.
When he was sound asleep, he fell to the ground from the third story
and was picked up dead.     [Acts 20:9]


Ye Olympian poets, hearken well
while the fall of a tragic youth I tell.
My Lydian lay, unsung by Homer
in pastoral ages far and former
shall warn and chasten your Patrician ears
recalling bygone Hellenistic years.
Pardon the insufficient gravitas –
the intention here is not blasphemous…

Saul, since Damascus and the desert days
had progressed to his apostolic phase;
a minor Asian town, Trojan Troas
lent him their ears. What we came to know as
Western Judeo-Christianity
was birthed in near-comic humanity.
But Saint Paul was completely serious
feverishly focused, quite delirious.

And so the first story he narrated-
second, then a third story related,
foreshadowing from Moses’ law the Christ
and Gentile nations grafted in, or spliced
as shoots from a wild rebel olive tree;
the Eternal One who is Trinity…
and many other holy mysteries
he taught and unlocked with scriptural keys.
By his third story, some eyelids fluttered
the lamps burned low while his truths were uttered.
The allure of Aegean night was deep –
but he offered something greater than sleep.
Among them one languished, barely alert,
a young (very tired) Grecian convert.

Eutychus nodded, his frame lightly propped,
in the night-freshened window. He had stopped
heeding Saint Paul who was preaching Jesus…
and thus he surrendered to Morpheus.

Unfortunate, weary, his tired head nods;
still exegeting from beyond, Paul plods.
Finally, the liminal threshold reached
E. falls – to encounter the power Paul preached.
His toga billowing as he plummets
from peaks of Christological summits,
he descends to gather cryptic renown
and a dubious New Testament crown.

Was E. bored to death by St. Paul’s discourse?
Descending from grace – did he stay the course?
Was his revival a first holy fruit –
or an arrival by alternate route?
One wonders, in retrospect- was he saved?
or is this a picture of mankind, depraved
fallen in slumber, oblivious, dead
until Truth’s unkindness touches our head…
Like Lazarus, this one had to die twice
We ask: how many more deaths would suffice?
Did he talk to the Lord while departed?
Could he fathom what Jesus had started?
Like Luke’s blind man, the sin was not his own,
but that God’s power be openly shown.
For his pains: a two-fold resurrection
rebirth through Paul and divine election.
(Unless the whole thing was allegory –
mere Jewish fable or pagan story…)
Don’t censure my Lydian levity
nor discount apostolic gravity
lamenting the youth bored to death by Paul;
we discern, in Eutychus, our own fall.
Revived, he learned, before the rest of us,
the difference between Christ and Morpheus.

If there be details still to verify
or vague scenarios to modify,
we shall, in heaven, request to hear it
from the lips of Eutychus’ own spirit.
(And then we can corroborate with Paul
The how and the who and the wherewithal.)