Awoken Past

Awoken Past

On broken wings, I ride the angel till’ she dies.
What serenity- a flame that licks and doesn’t burn.

A round, silver face, broadly flaxen towards the sunrise,
In the light we all become alive, thirsty pupils to learn.

An everlasting crusade condensed in ancient, thick outcries,
Written beyond the stars, fueled from The Pit of Fire & Bleeding Eyes,
Presumably, it’s God’s turn.


By Fate

By Fate
Roundly hollowed out by fate,
Between the dangling tresses of trees,
A pure light beams down,
Revealing floating dust specs
In still air,
And your attention.
To you, it means more than you know.
So you snap a photograph to study later.

My feet meander and compress the fuzzy grass of a park,
As my thoughts run ahead like children.
A slender tree with long, parted hair pulls me from a directionless path
To sit on its naked root for a while.
I lean back on its trunk and look up.
Warming my nose, a pure light beams down
Between the dangling tresses of the tree.
And all feels right. To me, it means more than I understand.

So I snap a photograph to study later.

Not Everyone Could Understand

Would you like to know what makes a man break down
Until his brittle bones lock like steel?
Where instinct salivates between two, dry flaps,
And there is no going back?

Starvation is a disciplinary, the drive that forces a tiger
To sink teeth into fur & flesh. *Glass Eyes*
Many black nights, and close shades to it, under moons,
The inner peace ruptures-

Starvation awakens an internal drive in me,
But its pain is a grey fierce,
A right against wrong fierce.
To stand on my own legs can be the most difficult task.

An empty fueled mind spitting through a grinder,
And poured into a cup of coffee that I slurp to replace the hunger,
But the pain intensifies, blocking thought.
I cry to seek an answer.

Once upon a time, I hadn’t the money to eat for three days.
On that third night, a man came to my door
And gave me a loaf of bread he had baked, himself.

Why it happened, I will never know,
But why it happened is how I mastered starvation,
My disciplinary.

But sometimes, master or apprentice, caught in the moment of hunger,
Anyone has the ability to lose that, kind, cultured smile,
And transform into the tiger.

Beyond The Window

The sky falls in fat blots of ink,
And I collect distasteful droplets with my tongue.

How ghoulish I must seem to you, there-
Stopping to observe your window of life
With a thin line of hope.

You blinds cross and cover it all.
And I fear that all is lost.

Do you hear the words in each drop?
The sound of a story.

The door opens,
With a white umbrella and towel in hand.

Everything black around you dissolves it coating,
Amidst the storm,to return a natural color.

Under the umbrella,
The ink that soaked my skin dissolves.

I wipe my feet on your welcome mat, just in case,
As you lead me into your home for earl grey.

This is a Journey, This is a Test

Comrades, marauders, vagabonds,
This is a Journey!
We’re all welcome to join,
But I must confess-
The mind can mimic a field of crickets,
Chirping in unison.
The mind can mimic a field of mines,
Combusting all at once.

Nomads, wanderlust-ed, and all who are curious,
This is a test!
We’re all destined somewhere,
Whether we like it or not;
The soul in good hands finds a home with company to rest anew.
The soul in bad hands finds no home, no rest, and tries again from learned mistakes.

Falling Asleep To the Sound of Rain

The Unconscious lies
In a bed of feathers…
There is no ink,
No blood that can trace back
A stamp of a feeling, just a whim that finally comes
Or just passes.
There is no fear, when this occurs,
Fear is a human’s curse,
Though, an instinctual tool to its survival.

The bed of feathers simply s.t..r…e….t….c…h..e.s
Into a tossing sea,
Where varied shades of yellow
Beaks coast along like shark fins,
Waiting for the glint of
Emerald dragonflies hovering
Just within reach.
The Unconscious floats on.

There is no hope, or woe,
Only close or apart.
A warm, blinking, orange glow,
Like a fly during caution on the glass
Of a traffic light.
There is a rhythm.
A pattern understood,
But to the unconscious,
It’s hypnotic, however, it’s…
At a level just beyond reach.

…………Clouds of ink On the left                                                                            …………………On the right, clouds of blood
……..Glide from the horizon and………
Above The Unconscious.
The sea of feathers buckles under
The stamp of a feeling
The red mixed rain brings,
And the dreamer regains conscious
To the sound of thunder.

The Wondering Soul

On Autumn days, from dawn until dusk,
The children throw stones
So high in the sky,
They never come back.
The evening begins to settle,
Life below and above- as still-water.

The children lay to rest,
To try again tomorrow.
It is now, the moon appears.
Barely a sliver,
Like a worm trapped in a glass jar.

Charcoal chunks & shades of black
Creep down the sky,
Chasing a thinning mauve horizon,
Effacing golden clouds,
The sun’s guiding light,
The mountains, trees, and I,
Watching it all on a dead stump,
a cup of hot coffee,
Tearing pieces off crumbly,
Red velvet, white chocolate chip cookies.

At night, the adults come out to play,
But I stare into the white worm.
It points out the stars.
It is only a harmless thought,
But the mauve ring constricts.

My wondering soul,
Ignited like embers that will never die.
Where is the silver knife to cut myself out of this painting?
I unsheathe the moon from its glowing hilt,
As a scimitar,
And erase the Earth’s blood,
That has settled to the bottom.

How I want to rip pages out of
Beautifully written books,
And let them find their way,
With the help of the wind,
To wandering souls. With words
Reflecting thought,
Throwing them high in the sky,
As if they were children
With stones in hand, once again.

But my coffee is finished,
The cookies as well.

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