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Tag Archives: Nature

The Bond

Coruscating thoughts betray thy primal instinct.

 

To the witness, the clouds commence, skewing that which has been long since known of man.

 

It is here, where the heart begins its activation.  An internal clock of inborn premise commences, stirring forth the Grimoire incoherent.  In counting down and spiraling through, a leavening of complacency spires to, flecking the stars with gold and sparkling hues.

In a momentary lapse of permutation, reflective as it is refractive, adjunct to the enemy it stows.  As is the composure under compromise, baseline’s stilt, rearranging polarity. Such damask blends breed patterns unrehearsed.

 

Pulsation bleats awhile rapt in throbbing undulation. Emulously, in duress, the synapse skitters to inert measure; a weight felt reactively within the fading doe.

 

Struggling, she battles each interval coursing in the plague. Struggling, to remain focused, to ignore the loosened clasp. Struggling, to deafen the fleeting harmonics born this eve. Struggling, to adhere to innate notions, to see through, both the vision and the virtue, she’d painted in her dreams.

 

Fledging forth amongst the besmirched quaking born from such dystopian avails, one would not think ill for fading soon to the aberrant qualms that darkness drew.

 

Despite tremors, of consequence, nature is discovered; where traits, of perseverance, dare not yet escape into death’s ever-alluring, outstretched arms.

 

And, in as such, violent resolutions forego their anticipatory applause.  Instead, baffled as they should be, said constrictions grow intrigued by the tarried rebuking from this beast.

 

The doe, now pale like pallor’s bride, rejects thy outcome, denouncing the agonies your restrictions make.

 

She adheres instead, to the coursework determination phrased within; blocking all currencies of pain and by staring deep into her pleasure’s swoon. And it is within this now, which sensations become avowed, thusly taking her through, to that time, in which she elsewise would’ve claimed.

 

Amongst each meandering pause another echo would emerge.  Upon a bed crafted in cruel reality, in a setting coated by seeds of unnatural parlance, maternal impulse still chose to surge. Instructions whispered she to stay. Whence came the word, perhaps the ethos spake, perchance the wind itself? Though none knew such a cure, enough was spoke to stir the beast e’er still. Mystery kept wake her eyes, to stare, beyond the pain and through the sadness it would purge. Mystery kept full her lungs, to breathe, inhaling another tinge of life.  Though fleeting still, mystery kept alive both instinct and hope, enough for her to feel what it was she knew as truth. Mystery kept her silent, still, to marvel upon the art she gave and to lay eyes upon that which she would invite to set her free.

 

Yet, when time came to, she looked away.  Many stood agape, to believe she chose to test the temperament of fate. If not for the architect with womb, never would this truth be sate. For the salt cast stream, which was all the story needed a mother to see and know.  Such action was not bred in denial but rather bled from sacrifice.

 

As the doe would have relished taking her leave with such a sight, it was out of fear she chose no such reprieve. As much as her lids did beg for this delight, she could not bear to know her expiration would be her artistry’s initial sight.

 

Such strength uncommon, born of a love noticeably unseen in such a time, to sacrifice the love she bleeds, so her blood can bear not the timeless burden of such bloodied sorrow.

 

Seasons would shift and time did pass, leaving us our return to this unfamiliar familiarity, a present path connected with the seeds of life’s past.

 

A hunter, it is told, often discovered a child scampering through his favorite tract of lawn. Upon this day and for each one that does still pass, he would stand still to watch, as this child aged upon his familiar stretch of path.  Here then he sees, each time he does, the child is cuddled close, amongst a warped wood of unnaturally yet naturally shaded hue.  And strangely enough, seasonably without expectation, such a man, of his line, should choose ebb back such a gifted sight.  Never did his quiver part from the spine, effectively deboning sycophantic notions of archetype.

 

And as the well worn boots march away each time, a child scurries along through brush and wood, ever looking back, leaving indication it would return again, a truth this hunter proudly knew as true.

 

And what is to be said of a predator that sympathizes with his prey?  Perhaps all that can be said, must lead us through, past the points of typical convention, to the precipice of an unlikely connection, a convection, that forever onward, only two would truly know.

 

Or quite possibly, as I like to think it through, perhaps the myths are true.  To which, so the songs bestows, that despite what we know of as truth, a doe still protects her own, even after her days were eternally through. The tale then retells, that through a promise made, between a sickly doe and a hunter who fared not well in hunting, that bonds be built, between man and nature and nature with man, creating an ouroboros between adult and child.

…And Silence Looms

The guillotine extends

And annelids we are

Bisected harshly,

By all the edges we’ve embraced thus far

 

The adder puffs

The lamprey’s splash turns red

Stinging, struggling

Tearing, gnawing upon

 

The wolverine

And the panther, both

Sharpen, their many rows

 

Leaving but

Prayer…and then

Only Silence—

Seemingly

Forever looming—

 

Another string undone.

 

 

I Won’t Talk About The Weather

There’s a tranquility only found before the dawn. The night is still covered by its blanket of dream.  The birds whistle the first words, low yet understood.  The air is crisp. It is clean. The lamps speak in amber, a language all it’s own.  The wind is alive yet reserved.  The rabbits stir the grass, stopping as if the moon fails to illuminate their bushy tails.  There’s wisdom to the emptiness, a fragrant melody, sating, the still yet tired, flesh we carry anonymously.

 

If one listens, the music can be heard.  If one pays attention, an entire world previously unnoticed can be observed.

 

Soft tones of arrival creep amongst the shadows, brilliantly exposing themselves in glimmers and shades.  Here, I could speak upon the loveliness of spring.  Or the words could form an ode to the summer that the months have since become.  Yet, I won’t talk about the weather.  It is unnecessary, as it’s all around our every movement.  It is senseless to repeat, that which is so easily consumed. It is impossible to relate, just how many miracles swirl each moment within the eye.

 

The Mustang and The Cobra

The mustang is a beautiful beast.

It is wild, free and caresses the air

As it roams the unconquered plains

The cobra is a perplexing creature.

It hides amongst the branch and brush,

Slithering with purpose.  By nature, it’s

Species is damned at birth.  Yet, fate

Bears no bounty upon its ability to survive.

The cobra dreams, as does the mustang, of a never-ending

Day filled with idealistic skies.  It may not have the speed or the strength of the untamed beast, yet it has its own power, the ferocity of its silent strike, the ability to think.

Some say the mustang cannot be stopped once it achieves full stride.  I do not know if this is true.  Yet, I am certain, that if a mustang is galloping like the wind, across the open fields, if, by chance, it tramples over where the cobra lay, it would take but one bite from the fork-tongued fiend, to bring make the heart of this magnificent beast to permanently halt and cease to beat.

An Uneasy Suffocation

Embers raped the deadened sky.

It covets the lungs, just as it devours the sight—

Reaching deep within the seer, until only it can be felt, disposing all feelings of anything else.

 

Well-lit at quiet hours, the adjustment scintillates the

Theorist and paranoid alike in here—drifting in and out of

Conscious states, altering the breaths in and on—devolving quickly to, a sedated wherewithal, flooded by uneasiness and questions impossible to solve.

 

Bred, tonight, was a most brilliantly painted fear, one, when layered by man’s affinity to disbelief all he can not understand, stirs the gasping for air, that undoubtedly will ring even louder still.

 

An Exhumation

Angry sea-beasts iodize
the causality in protractive
failure

Every essential crumb is
swept clean, even those
to redirect from dire seams

Satiate our timelines in
hard-blent wiry gates, allowing
limited opportunity for diversified
expanding quests of thought

Radiate the inner pulse
in reflections so grand,
one must hesitate, to believe
something so true
could be stirred from someone
so otherwise predictable

The life and times of the lonely scorpion, living beneath the shadow and the stains, on streets somewhere in between sincerity and pain

They say there’s venom flowing through me
I cannot disagree,
yet I like to think I’m just a defensive character
not the kind that seeks trouble out
not the one your momma warned you about
as she tucked you in at night

But I can be a real bastard
If you catch me in a foul mood

and I can be down right demonic in demeanor
if certain escalators rise within

But I never wanted to be this bad boy image,
in fact, I always dreamed of being that lovable,
cuddly, take home to mother type of guy
yet when you’re mind is built like mine
rarely do all the conditions meet up
as you planned it all so easily would

It could’ve,
It still may
but until such a time appears
I’ll be scrounging through the gravel
with my fists thrust forward
and my tail stinging in the air

so beware,
as sometimes the
baggage can truly inflict fear
and it can hurt like hell
when scenarios play out
the way nobody wished they had

I don’t mean to deter
but what’s fair is fair.
In full disclosure,
that’s the only advice
I have to share