Words are my loyal subjects I command them absolutely yet without them I am but a husk.
playing amidst meadows in mists
My mind plays amidst unspoilt misty meadows and tall trees. Lands that have no memory of murder, exploitation, lives torn asunder. Where wild things wander still and the Earth retains its innocence. My mind has no longings, no needs, sustained by the golden streams that lay only in dreams. I wish to go there one day but I am stuck here in a world where humans reign where the world is treated as an unworthy whore. Left only the bare minimum as we wage war on all misunderstood, including ourselves. Where words are weapons and stories are no longer heard of the wild beauty of the old Earth. We are not a cruel species. What darkened us, left us silently weeping upon the cold rocks that were once our homes. Whatever made us fearful and powerful, left us rocking, muttering embittered curses to all those we know and those we do not. I wish to join the dreams of my mind, but I know to do that I must first understand what torments us.
Untitled
The light is but a blinding road to me the glare of the watchful star my guide. Be it true, like a sincere lover, then when the dusk falls upon this valley and the wild flowers; I will be satisfied. When the wild flower closes its buds for the new dawn I too will close my eyes and wander still to dream. Perhaps I will discover eternity on this earth but I know time erodes more assuredly than sea, stone or wind. But my heart will never wither; never wilt as the roses of the bush. For I have my dreams, my health and my mind all within which you reside.
Beauty…
You cannot create beauty. It must be as old as the ancient Earth yet as young as the eyes that behold it. It must dance before your eyes inciting passion and yet remain patiently unnoticed like the flickering of a candle in the glaring sun. True beauty beguiles men yet sets them free; confused and focused, left satisfied but wanting. True beauty leaves ruin and discord yet born from it is harmony and transcendence of mind. Beauty is difficult to know, to touch and to feel yet it lingers on our lips, the tips of our fingers and our sight. Whatever you perceive beauty to be, know that beauty is as water ever flowing, fueling the human desire. Whatever you perceive beauty to be: whether chord or word, whether rhyme or time, whether vista or lover, whether the idea or the practice of an idea. The very fact that you perceive that you feel, is beautiful and as such instills within you a beauty too.
You…
You were found wanting; bare against the spring roses. Your skin as fair as the softest Indian silk. The smell of dew cursed my senses with desire. A fire not so easily removed. You were no viper tempting immoral souls, nor plagued with the dark and melancholy rain of memory… Pure and true; as all love should be.
Smoke and Mirrors…
Smoke and mirrors only work with the light on and the windows shut. Facades founded on less fickle thoughts have crumbled to dust.
When two great forces collide one must give way so the other may fall.
—L.S
Inspiration
Inspiration. That common feeling that feels as the flush on a lover’s cheek, or that electricity that surges throughout your bones and invigorates your body to just… move, react, react in such a way that imposes art in the world, or to create from it more inspiration. To feel each tendril of your senses derive a wholly new perceptible beauty or tragedy from a morsel or a star. Driving and breaking new and old ideas. A rejuvenating nepenthe for the soul adding that little extra colour into its pale pallor. That to me is inspiration.
I find that the best kind of inspiration is the one that comes from within, its heat can keep you warm through a thousand winters, shining brighter still than a thousand stars. Making an impossible situation seem only implausible, overcome-able, achievable. This feeling, when it is wasted, that is a tragedy. Why is it that inspiration can be all around within every observable thing, every spoken word, every stolen breath yet it appears so scarce in the hearts of people.
From Pariah to Protector
Filth I see around me spread mountains high.
My art remains unseen lest stained with greed
Framed for none to see, my unrooted seed
Can’t grow in the sands of a barren lie.
Send forth my feral words and thickened thoughts
Send it forth to teach, to sow furthest fields.
Weighted words glancing off of idle shields
I hear clearly the famine we had brought.
I’m an outcast, free to do what I please
But unhelped and unable to feel free
In what I do, with what I can agree
to behold as art, these words, all with ease
In time, time will be kind, I will be found.
Found protecting the liberty of thought
With the freedom of inclusion I sought
With no restraint, no seclusion of sound
Or word lost on the idlest of minds
A vanguard of my purity; my art
Outside of the surety of the part
I play. That I, myself, must find.
From the Pariah to the protector,
The outsider to the overseer
Once hated, but now to be loved here
There’s no such concept as artistic law
Flushed Cheeks,
Kiss the rosy lips of jealousy and brush the flushed cheeks on infidelity. There is no such thing as an unfaithful lover, for he or she who is unfaithful holds no love and therefore is not a lover. Though you may say you love her, I see a fire in your eyes quenched only by another. Though above her you place the guilt, a reflection of your shadow, because you know not of manner or tact. In fact, you bathe in the marshes of immorality. I will never be as you, you whose soul is cracked.
