Caught within the hollow parallel , of the past, versus forever; my heart had fun playing with waves of ache, but could never find the opulent treasure. You'd think "it's such a shiny thing, I'd spot it right away." and dive right down to the very bottom, to peer inside the dark decay.
Oh.. but it was never there, and one must understand - the beauty is in the glittering seams, joining the water with the land.
When love was spreading across Hatred was at a loss She had invested so much Results were quite dismal Fact finding committee found Love affairs was the reason Hatred money Easy source of income Meeting day to day Love expenses
I felt empowered indeed And for me you were the source To the front you always lead Saying the stage is yours Though it was hard for me to stand And to be noticed by all the class But you made me understand That courage is needed to progress
You knew exactly the right way To show the girl who used to hide I still recall my yesterday I was your student, you was the guide You teach, you help, you support too And here I am passing the test Of all the professors that I knew You are definitely the Best!
Calling to the dawn, Baying at the moon, Petitioning the horizon, Summoning the faithful;
The yearning indefinite, In pursuit of an enduring affirmative; An echo searching for its source In the boundless beyond.
’Ibi tu es, tu es, tu es, tu es...‘
‘When at eve, at the bounding of the landscape, the heavens appear to recline so slowly on the earth, imagination pictures beyond the horizon an asylum of hope, a native land of love; and nature seems silently to repeat that man is immortal.’ - Madame de Stael
Van Gogh’s ear sings tales all night Soulful moaning over mind’s eye sight
Antagonize the heart and turn the eye A visitor to the heart or passing by
From this spring that we all drink What whispers all the thoughts we think
Lunatic genius with eyes turned in Tell me where my mind has been
A freighting tether is shelter and cage Where the writer’s pen touches page
Ink’s fossil trail bleeding from my pen A history of where my heart has been
To go and not say in doing so Beyond this point no words can go
With feet of clay and hand to chalk I’ve come to hear Van Gogh’s ear talk
There is a moment just before an idea, it's origin. The magic of the written word is a spark that comes before the writing, up stream, unknown, untamed, shear new. I would follow the path to the origin and bring back great treasures. I have been lost many times, but what else is there to do?