Tiny pebbles tumble down a staircase
Of concrete, rock and sand
They keep their momentum going
With the assistance of the wind

Tiny droplets cover the decks
Of thousands of fleet
Through the blanket of light
They ascend and dissipate in the sky

The mere occassion
Bonds narrowly with evocation
With assistance of the heavens
They coexist

But through painful contemplation
The momentum is lost
A fraction of an entity
But what am I?

I once heard that art is most beautiful when imitateing life . I never understood this; imitation infers a falsehood, a lack of authenticity. Art can only be what it is, unapologetically,It can’t build a facade.
I ,the one who is deemed alive, lie habitually to those around me and worse my self.
I am a performer playing the part of least resistance and greatness propitiation. Solitarily contemplating a collective I want to both develop beyond the horizon or envelop in the flames of a star.
conundrums are the base of these self destructive edifice. Best escape is outside of self, either on the wall in the air or on a shelf.  

Now who imitates who,
When One feels most real imitating art?

I look at you often, always have, enticed
and seduced more, than you’ll ever know.
Your sight overwhelmingly sooths me, lifts
my spirits up high, closer to you as I wonder,
where you end and begin, where you meld

stealthily with my being.

Stretching my inadequate body to reach,
unable to touch you I feel, the gentle caress
of your ethereal otherworldly skin, all over,
around and within, me. Enveloping my shape
you suggest, metamorphoses to come

as we blend.

You, unable to utter a word, speak, so loudly
to my deafened ears prevailing vibrations echo,
in the warmth of my veins. Your muteness penetrates
unhindered my listening consciousness compelled
to give in to the richness of your horizon filled,

with promises and potentials.

Recognising my essence in one of a thousand
sceneries you majestically create, making me
feel special, proposing I am unique, till the moment
I believe, keeping the secret all to myself, unwilling
to share, to lose, to acknowledge the truth.

As I grow in your pervasive shadow however
you scold my limitedness, monstrously obliging me
to accept, you are not mine, we are not exclusive
and I alone, am not unique. No reserves to passions
shared, with many more. I look at you and feel so far.

I cannot even reprimand your betrayal, admiring
your mightiness and bounties as you love, protect
and embrace the entire human race, inviting me
to rid of greed, of wanting you all for me, until
I realise, you are me, and together we encompass

the whole of humanity.

There's half a bottle of wine the fridge
and a lifetime of worry in my bones.
I'm being dramatic, maybe, surely
when there's all those kids
starving over there in Africa.
My sister studied great whites there
without a college degree.
What did I want when I was eighteen?
We are all so sure, aren't we.
I lost my motivation
as easily as a senile old man loses his shoe.
It is there, somewhere, I know it.
And the longer I look
the more frantic I become.
And there are days when not caring
seems okay.
They shouldn't tell us
we can all become doctors
and home owners, actors,
professional chefs, humanitarians.
I wished for something I didn't know
I didn't want.
And what do I wish for now
but a happiness that exists
at the end of a dog's leash.
Is mindfulness or oblivion a better choice?
The answer is not at the bottom of a bottle
but in this case
it is only half full
so what is the harm.

If mankind were a sun, would it dim
at the sullen forces each expels?
Not controlling the innate emotions.
Would it just burn bright for a time,
expelling  he need to be seen and heard.

Could we in power our reactions to not
consume, but to burn slower over time.
Nothing is between our actions and emotions,
we are the heat of each and every moment.

If we were a sun, could we not give light
to our contemplation, enlightening not
just ourselves but the spaces between our
reactions. Would be not burn brighter if
we took a moment to see the reaction within.

When words are spoken
      then man will ponder on every meaning.
Roads will be viewed
          and taken upon the thoughts of all.

Some will say there road is the true one,
       while others will say theres is higher
                                         than those below..

Putting them on a ledge of ego and contemplation..

Thieves in the night
Playing with copyright
Poisoned pens
Vultures in the den
In the Palace of hypocrites
Tea served at ten
If only the winds of the sea
And the rains of the sky
In a massive hurricane
Could sweep the Palace on by