Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Its in the darkness it comes to visit, slithering
its whispers around the night sounds,
the tiny hum of street lamps numbs
my ears as I sit and listen and hear the whispers. Eyes hung heavy deep inside my head painting the round dark rings I can no longer see when the darkness has washed all over me. The cool midnight breeze from my opened window slices past my face and with it brings the whispers. I sit calmly and without worry staring ahead from my heavy leather chair,
arms hung over and head hung forward
but my eyes stare ahead.
Nothing moves inside this night nothing except the spattered beauty of red lines,
slowly painting their trail of final absolution rolling downward unto the floor. The whispers talk amongst the shadows and among the trees outside my window the eyes peer in to look in at me.
All I only have is this wall of defiant beauty and that body that painted it for me.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
"That Cackle Laugh"Oh how that sweet and contorted mess of jumbled flesh lies before me, smiling a final smile that will forever infest this mind of mine. In the darkness of pale gloom that face lingers above all else staring deep into me looming low from the darkest corner of every room, forever haunting me. In the throws of disparity a dark ambiance slithers over my ears banging deep rumblings of oscillation, over and over on empty lonely nights and only the deep voice of my greatest fears provides any kind of thought. Sitting inside the filth of perception I see it again, that smiling face again, laughing, looking, watching as the noises get louder and from far off comes a deep thud where my soul has finally dropped its salvation; leaving it all behind with one final echo of past. And the cackling begins, a vastness of black lay before me only I see, a deep cavity of emptiness only I feel and there at the beginning of my absolution of insanity the face lies there smiling as if knowing it knew, but I cackle that last laugh because I knew before that face ever did.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
I can only hope that somewhere inside the fabric of time exists some kind of line of cotton thread, unraveled and twine this line of thread ready to be pulled but tightens instead. Why do I prefer to live inside those dreadful memories entwined in cotton thread as a prisoner of time even though however I cry my salty reminders dissolving away this fragile mind of mine with lingering thoughts of her. Further along this loosened thread I find my way misled deep within a river floating on down the stream drowning forever, however hope is not lost when I always find my unraveled string ready to bring me ashore just to mislead me once more to these sandy banks hoping I drown again once more.
Monday, October 10, 2011
In the morning mist that lingers around us without us ever really realizing it there lies in wait a beautiful sunrise although not yet. The dull blues and grays drip in from night to day and we see the morning mist, we see the gentle shade of waking day, the blended gray of a world waiting; it's here we are, it's here we lay dreading the day to arrive never realizing however the gloom beauty of this morning mist because we see only the sorrow and pain of a dreaded day, never looking past those dull monotonous but blended grays and into that shaded beauty of morning day. The blues get lighter and the cold gets warmer and the softness of the orange begins to rise over the horizon painting away with it all the morning haze. It's here in these moments where we never realize how easy it is to forget about that lonely morning mist where instead for a moment we feel the beauty of day never to look back, never to acknowledge the beauty before, forever to never be in that moment of morning mist although it's there in those lonely moments waiting for the sunrise that the brush strokes of a painting are created, where the tears of a memory are shed, it's here in this morning mist where we shed all the burdens of pain and sorrow just for that single moment of fresh air when the oranges come over, where the shaded mist of the morning takes all we are willing to give and forever accepts it is not beautiful like a sunrise because of the pain it sheds for us, but somewhere in the those morning moments we do see its beauty but forget in a moment of clarity, inside a tear gone, for a love of infinite gray, we forget and the morning mist accepts its not beautiful like a sunrise; however it looks on through shaded mists of gray and accepts because it knows more than we can ever realize how we are more beautiful than a sunrise.