There's a peculiar kind of beauty that can only be experienced with the innate knowledge that the moment is fleeting and the most intense beauty can only be seen in the presence of both light and shadows. For it’s often in the loss of a thing that its worth to us becomes most precious and by letting it go with grace we can best savor its purest delights. Realizing that the pain runs so deep only because the beauty ran so deep and that without it having once touched us we wouldn't now know the emptiness of its loss, our grief will eventually turn to thankfulness that it ever touched us at all, and we will be left awed by the mystery of its haunting.
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes. Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind. Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight. Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass. A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.
A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade. Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand. A cackle is heard, a shriek undone. To spite the brittle wood, the formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own. The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find. It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls. The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight. We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion. The camera slowly backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon. The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.
Our only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.
Just something I had fun writing, figured not posting it would be a waste despite it not being "poetry", just an experiment I guess. I feel like it would be good, in like, a high-school, short story competition. *****.
Thankful I’m thankful that my sin is weightless Carried by a Father who’s been nothing but gracious I’ve tried to out run Him And He kept up Pouring His Love In this broken cup I’ve tried it all I’ve danced with the devil At the sinners ball I let him ride And he took the wheel But My God was stronger All it took was to kneel I gave Him my life He took my strife Ive been given new life The Son sacrificed For all of my sins Now made weightless By a Father who’s been nothing but gracious
It's hard to be thankful for the past year, when its been spent breathing in stale air and looking through broken glasses. Sometimes it seems easier to leave the wound open and unattended, knowing that even after it's healed it will scar.
But there is power in becoming brighter than the reality you surround yourself with, knowing that despite the ending there are the moments in between, a colour coated scene that reminds you the cold will come, but it will not last forever.
A warm drive home after a cold day, cozy hands and falling leaves, an in between moment, brighter than the darkness could of ever planned for, we are eating dessert in the tv light, and I am thankful for you.
thanksgiving was this past weekend in Canada. A day I thought was going to be dark ended up being filled with love and it filled me with hope