Another thought in passing

I walked along the shore and saw,
as I walked, many trees
that had been felled by gusts of wind
as birds sang in the breeze.

That's not really it, but it's a reinvention of sorts. The point is, I wondered how a bird could sit so contentedly in a tree during a storm strong enough to uproot the trees they built their very nests in. It actually goes like this...

How can it be
that a bird can make
to stay atop a tree
when a tree, itself,
is made to topple
over by the breeze

Meditations on Loneliness

There exists nothing that solidifies the feeling of loneliness quite like the gift of absent company. In their presence we may take for granted their humours and all other emphatic qualities, but as they ready for their departure, so then does our heart leap and send prayer past our lips: "stay...", so that we might not be alone. "Stay... or else, please, take me with thee."
Eyes search imploringly to find their way through labyrinthine defences, to penetrate so deeply as to stick and skewer those two passing bodies as one, and in realising their charms, finds the door shut firmly between them.
"... please stay, for I fear the approaching hours that I must spend without you."

And if you only knew the way I feel as you slowly prepare to take your leave... Well, just maybe you would.

Written during the storm

The night before Christmas, or perhaps, the night before its eve, I was sat reading in bed and couldn't hardly break away from tuning in to the sound of its passage. I was reading about ancient cities, their great beauty that had been all destroyed by time and conquest, but for their bones, and I wanted to combine the two things, the way they had been united within my own experiencing of them. I don't think I succeeded, but here is my attempt.

As it is
the wind does blows now
to set the sands
in starry flight
so that they reach
from dune to streets
to the far expanse
of this very night.

It is a wind
that's roared for aeons
see, how it's cracked relics
of past days like a whip;
war scorched and glory worn
this very same wind
once sent man across globe via ship.

It has carried our faith
and many a fear,
our love and often a tear.
This wind will yet blow
when we are nothing but bones,
riddled and burnt
into Earth.

Today, I have aged...

...... The celebratory self was welcomed whilst treading out, and now tired, but happy, I rest.

In beautiful, peaceful,
quiet calm,
I rest.
I lay my head
upon my pillow
and with complete concentration
I envisage my deeds;
those done and those
yet to do.
I consider my duties:
eluded
and the sins on my shoulders
are shrugged
as the silent repose
takes hold-
I feel the life of the world
around me
and am happy to be one
within it.

A thought in passing

I'm a man
who entertains myself
best
with thought-
though a fallacy,
I profess!
See,
they hold no weight,
it is shown
as truth,
but mere conjecture
for their proof
and best of all
is saved
for last-
that this is
no more
than damn
and blast!

Lilith

Life
is not life as we know it
but rather
it is sleep
for the life that follows
is our true life
and it is the life
eternal.

For the birds

I wrote this a few days ago, it was night, I couldn't give the particulars, but it was fairly late and I was, as always, suffering the cold of the front room for the purposes of some senseless distraction. (From what, we are all entitled to ask...) Sometimes I yearn for company, and sometimes it makes me furious. This was a case of the latter, but as every one else slept, the birds sang, and it was for them that I grew courage to write. Some other things were occurring within my mind, too, they shall not be divulged.

Sing, Bird,
sing.
Your voice fills
this ill lit room
and spreads about
the still strewn out carcasses
that have lingered here
since yesterday.
Idling by, they stretch
across sofa and chairs.
Though the sun is sank,
sent to
with the hearkening
of night-
Steady night
I look to you
for comfort
for answer
for escape,
and birds beckon mind:
"Take flight!"
as they lull me to them
drowsily,
alert to my exhaustion
I surrender
to the commingling
of the cold night and
the heat against my back.
   To the absence
and noise; to the
insular aspect of
company; to
feigning smiles and eyes
that search for love
and where they lock,
find none.
   To treachery.
To never being right.
For innumerable
pressure and sense:
   I surrender...
while the birds
yet call me home.

To you, to those...

I've been writing here and there, little things, mostly, on my way to somewhere else or during transient stages where I'm not really fully dedicated to my cause. It becomes easier to write lots of little then it is a little lot.

Well, I've not been on 'here', but here are some things that are little and may, one day, become more then they were. Probably not.

How can we get better

than perfection?

What more is there

than this?

The love we share-

the way we fuck-

and the highest aim

of our human race

is unity.

                                                                                   *

If you live

for a lie

it is for a lie

you die

To Hellen

This is just a work in progress. I wrote it rather quickly when an idea came to mind as I watched an old movie. The idea, is that I thought about the adversity of willingly looking upon the corpse of a recently deceased lover. Would our dreams become plagued with their face? The verb can be exchanged with the metaphorical 'looking' deeper into one's existence and will. The corpse does not necessarily need not to be breathing. The titular female is a reference to the archetype of all unfathomable/unreachable beauty, and also, a play on the phrase "To Hell and back"...

Do I dare to look upon thee?
What sacred cinders
remain
nearly burning deep
within your eyes.
To see the face
that will forever
haunt me-
the inescapable crutch
of your demise.
What love, for whom
there exists no fight
too great in size,
no wager, 'cept life
too great to bet-
and even then...
   How does one plunge
unto the very depths
and hold expectations
to return as was-
to survive.
I am no hero
-no Orpheus-
and fate would prove
too great
for even he.
There is no place
that yet remains
will be left
unperturbed;
no memory that holds
its one true form
of beauty
will ever be
un-marred, untouched
and left justly so
as always was
in life.