Storms gather in the bliss of solitude and in the sea of imagination while the stress of want, the indignity of need, the fragments of fantasies and the cinders of careless love vegetate. We are the fires that consume one another, the clubs that bludgeon and the blades that slice. We wrestle in the currents of the Hell Gate, off course, chewing memories, spitting them out. Swallowing the rusted, pointed edges of the self, digesting them and growing ill. We are children of Mondays speaking with the night-silence and tangoing with the days. Soon to float in crumbled seclusion spattered by the dried blood of yesterdays friendships that drift farther and farther from the shoreline disappearing into the horizon with their joys and their poetry stained with sweat and urgency. The shards of miseries, fugitive pieces of love, shavings of trust and the stones of exasperation continue to reign with splinters of actual seeing. With the loneliness of the moon in the soul we walk shoeless in shadows mindless of direction as secret as the dark mountain’s haunting melodies we are dust and mud, rain and flowers, sunshine and darkness; we are vanishing wind
Posted on: Sat, 28 Sep 2013 20:27:13 +0000
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