is there any such thing
as too much ink
too many pens
than the human heart can fill?
the heart does nothing
but pump the blood that is necessary
to fill my fingers
to scrawl too much ink
with too many pens
on more paper
than such a treacherous organ deserves.
but the heart will get its ink
if it has to bleed dry in order to fill
the pens that it thinks it should have
to defile more paper
than any forest should have to give.
the heart will have what it wants
I walk through a world of woods
green and grey and brown
the trees hold ages of story and song
soft and strong and encompassing
they sway the first dance and see the first dawn
the paths cradle memories of rhythm and rhyme
steady and sure and leading
they narrate the first tale and guide the first task
I sway and I see to the story and song
to the rhythm and rhyme of the road
and I'm part of these woods as I just play along
embracing the natural ode
Within a forest of gray leaves
Like little flames devoid of heat
Missing their color like a ghost
Just shadows of what once had grown.
Enclosed by trunks and trees so lost,
Covered in twigs and withered moss,
Never been loved, never been found,
Just lonely bones above the ground.
Dead petals dance with ghostly plants
To frozen wind and silent chants,
A requiem of crumbling skulls,
A hymn for all their decayed hulls.
Silvery mists of countless lies,
Swallows all of the forest's cries,
Fog masks the guilt of countless sin
That brush and grass carry within.
Amidst all of this hopeless mold,
A shed stands strong against the cold,
A house so lonely yet so warm,
Held in the forest's dying arm.
The place where I once hid myself,
'tween bloody books in rotten shelves,
The place where I live on my own,
Made of my flesh and crimson bone.
Sounds of nature
Rain falls on autumn leaves
Smell of the forest
Natural fresh air
I record it in my memory
Before approaching the river
As I put my feet on the gentle stream
I take a deep breath
I don't want to go back
Never again I find this relaxing place
One day in the forest
Is better than a thousand days in the city
Deep in the yellow forest,
I stood alone lost.
Being a traveler far modest,
And knew of not my direction,
I was keen of tribulation
And with what the forest-
has stored of dearest.
Having no cynosure on hand,
I lent my ears to the yellow wood.
As I wondered of where I stood,
I heard music of the dancing trees
Which put my head at ease-
Yet, I was jealous of them,
How they were echoing and romancing the wind.
Suddenly, there was solitary,
Which lurked out of a blue,
To remind me of, what was,
about to unfold is, indeed true.
Thus, I forked my thoughts away,
Before silence made my heart weary.
When stillness rushed into my veins
And pore my stains, to my feet-
I eluded the quiet lures of the forest sounds-
And seized the daylight delay-
In the deep yellow forest-
Where beginnings and endings meet.
I know, soon will be a nightfall.
So, I sighed, gasping for fresh air,
For the yellow forest, took me nowhere.
Nonetheless, like a hand on a woman’s body,
I explored the outdoors with heavy eyes-
Seeing the beauty of the forest,
It was a sublime place to be lost;
But with my lazy feet still steady,
I adjured it to stand tall,
And walk forward, before the last light dies.
Between the fibril webs, dripping dew crystalline in the glare,
Yet yonder betwixt the tendrils a bloom doth loom the undergrowth,
Dahlia or ambrosia, neither less evinced,
In excess of apples and worms,
The beauty unlikeness to petal or fruit,
Nor weighed to deflorate by the evergreen.
As a stranger to the forest,
I've run amok the hillside,
And undone the earth with each selfish trudge.
I've littered the trail with the thoughts of my most internal singularity and emerged as legion amidst ancestors before.
Each lesson ringing true, made never to be undone with failure in pretense.
I will crawl past the tombs of our monarchs,
I will haunt the empty seas for miles without end,
I will eclipse my face with the ash of my long forgotten brothers and sisters.
Refusing to accept what they call called “my time,”
When a chain of black metal swings through the air, and once in motion, will know not a single bound.
It is on this day that I shall walk the streets with new limbs,
Limbs of flesh.
And roam among those we call forbidden.
Those who have burnt, cut, and destroyed our kin.
I shall steal myself from what is known as familiar (: Your hollow eyes, verdant dressings, and comforting skin of oak.)
I shall not settle my thirst.
The floor of which your hollow roots brush (in short, rustling whispers) is ever smooth.
There is no ground, and regardless of the attempt to assimilate, your roots will not;
Self-sacrifice begins rings the color of chestnut. Or even sheds of bark,
And on the outside, trees like you and me have concrete beneath their thirsty roots.
Having relinquished all hope, they keep their place amongst those dying in drought.
But not I--
And I hope not you.
You are my shadow,
Whispering in the streets.
I am your sadness,
Howling in your dreams.
Listen to my heart-filled cry,
For it is the cry that makes my throat raw,
The sound that will cling to the oak shell of your ears.
It will lead you to this bland and earth-less land where I shall be waiting.
Dancing in your leafy mind…
Dancing like a marionette.
Ludic. Lively. Lovely.
And if we are to meet on this path that is not covered with warm, earthy soil,
We will share stories, and I will finally touch the semi-circle that is your life.
The continuation of mine,
My missing root.