an open letter to the king of hearts my dear friend, the king of hearts, i write to you from my little cottage, and you know where its at: the edge of the cliff, overlooking the abyss, a solitary man, with a solitary mind. i have read your letters, and thought about them a lot, given them my time and planted them in pots. exotic flowers sprang from the soil, deep roots broke through the bottom: had to lay them on the ground. some flowers smelled sweeter than others, but all of them were a beauty to behold. and they lined the edge of the cliff, like a fence against the abyss. like grass upon a battlefield, with blood upon its blades, i looked into the beauty against the backdrop of disgrace. but: change. the abyss is never the same, it is constantly on the watch, to become everything that youre not. like the land against the sky, it is the other of where you stand. but like the sky upon the land, the abyss is never without. it is always inside you: changing with you all the time. ive had visions of your kingdom, although ive not seen it with my own eyes. the land over which you rule, in the ocean of the soul. the id some will say, where the king-spirit controls. the soldiers you command: the letters you write down, the battalions they comprise: words to sing out loud, the brigades they materialize: sentences, with luck, will make some sense. the nobility subjects in your court is not hand-me-down, it is earned every day by thoughts and actions every way. to gaze upon this fine kingdom, yet your humble demeanor is unchanged. gravity, my friend, does not fail. nor does it lie. truth in euclidian space, where all is relative: the roof is out of place. some objects exert a greater authority than others. some command the spirits, and others are at the whim of whats not seen with the eyes. the gravity exerted by you cannot be denied. i feel it even now, when we are kingdoms apart, in your letters and the memory of your recent visit. and we danced and we drank upon tables, chairs and firm ground. time shared between us and the wolf with the painted face was a vacation in both time and space. every day when i look at him i am grateful to have a beyond+worthy companion in this life. he still goes to your quarters in the morning, hoping youll be there. and in the afternoons, he will stare down the hallway with the same purpose, Im sure, in mind. he is a smart animal, an agent of my mind, an extension of my hand and a teacher in all walks of life. as im sure you know, there have been rumors about the poet child wandering through these lands. he is not yet a poet warrior, but he is of substance: a precise little brat. twenty two days ago, i was sitting right where its at: the edge of the abyss waiting for it to stare back. as time passed i began to make out its eyes, but my gaze was broken at the sound of the voice of this child. he said to me: your eyes in mine. dont blink at the demise of these ties or the blue skies, we dont belong in hell because fire will always rise. he was skipping along, as a child plays, but to close for comfort to the abyss. my reflexes jumped. i was just in time to grab him by the hand. I pulled him in and calmed him down. i said to him: you create your mother and I, you sing fire, you play host to the mystical ghost. you destroy your father and I, walls you break, life you take, and time you reshape my dear boy. he stared into my eyes, a bit scared and flustered, for not even light can escape the abyss. the child poet and i are as one. he is not without as much as i am not within. the poet child does not kneel before pain and sorrow. the poet child does not retreat from the destruction, from the war waged every day against fear and doubt or the abyss. the poet child will assert, with every smile and his soft gaze upon the world that there is no doubt, no truth to shout or thing to be scared about. I believe it was your visit that called him to come about once again. momo, another word for poet child im sure, in some innocent language of years past. the soul prisoner. the anti-escapist. the warrior we all have inside. how bright must the sun have shone on his eyes when he finally was released. but im sure he was not taken aback, because in eyes as deep as wells, light does not reach the bottom. a king of kings, who walks with a steady pace, who knows that the horizon will slowly reveal its face, and only has to keep walking to be in the present embrace. whos tribulations brought to us all your letters to read upon. ive never met the man, but that is beyond the point, for he is within all of us, waiting to be released, waiting to be acknowledged and lady freedoms kiss. when i am out walking and the wind blows from the behind, i try to find the words to describe this attack. but my dictionary fails me, words stumble and fall, syllables tumble, and finally, crawl. im already gone: flew away on its back. like a volcano ready to blast, full of magma ready to be out-cast. but magma only exists underground, under the guise of faith by the pound. when the blast comes, its already too late. the inflection point of faith is gratitude for all that is made, all thats to come and all that is gone. forever at the crossroads, we carry our weight. no-stop motion towards the horizon, we manage our gait. may yours continue to be graceful, and may nothing, ever, put out the fire that you are. may your kingdom of hearts live on long after your body is gone, long after we all go home, and the party is done. i salute you king of kings, and your cousin, who now lives within. i love you my brother, and today, i am grateful to walk with you. flores flores flores
Posted on: Sat, 23 Nov 2013 20:32:27 +0000
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