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Tag Archives: prose

A Sleeping Witness

Dreams are the harbingers of prophecy. They are the conscious decisions made in a world of subconscious space. Within each wafting glide of wind and dust, sand and religion collide in trust—deciphering visions of abstract states, encoding tomorrow’s future with the promise from a forlorn and forgotten state.  Application of belief transforms the deepest realm—where the flickering sands of altered terrain become placemats for each inspiration we awake unto.

 

While the many doors we traverse abed, may never unhinge their paths, momentum, nonetheless continues forth, where through such forward action, thrust upon this life’s fate, our nerves becalmed by the understanding and the knowledge, that no matter the hardships our physical beings must bear, our minds shall persevere—each strain of burden and every stress of fractured straits—the tumults ever hovering near, creating an alleviation of sensation and a today that serves as bridge, between a bountiful future and each impossibility our yesterdays had just explored.

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Mankind is rife with terse reminders of the ever-lengthening scars formed deep within the lost crevices of his interior.  It is, at such hours of disenchantment, where treble-tinged vivisections stir the scalpel cold to flesh. Therein a pulsating vibration beckons unearthly fears unquenchable until the manifestation is acutely committed to.  The surgeon, fresh off a seventy-two hour misshapen bout against reality, stands, imperceptibly shaken yet shaken nonetheless.  It is then, beneath the blankets of operating room lights, that the keen observer will unmistakably notice the contrast of appearance.

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Lost amidst the trellises of radiant glitter and crimson scaffoldings, is corded insignificance.  Such passageways endear their exteriors to those impatient with palatial gardens and the valleys of waking doldrums.  It is here, in such dominions, where the keen blend fastidiously with the ermine, slinking about in secrecy, gnawing upon the vestiges of dignity, and all the while creating a martyr’s trove of varicose reactions. Beneath this new estate, there are magnanimously enriched life forms, biding their days with the frailty of a past-lives’ prognostication citing the prominence of the days that follow suit. They flee beneath the radar of disconcerted eyes, collecting and scavenging whichever degradation their fragile frames can amass beneath such convoluted armor.  They collaborate with their brethren, engorging upon the hollow earth with their so-called civilized modernity, enriching the soil with the well-placed trinkets they’d ensnared from the last descendants of humanity itself.  These gathered idols are reminders, of just what the tiny form can conquer when cooperation and unyielding belief coincide so generously.

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.

 

A Castle’s Tale

Deep beneath the castle’s walls, stands a tunnel century’s old.

 

Hidden well below where the moat runs most foul, is a boulder grand yet hollow, which dictates the opening, of ancient earth, connecting this world to the world beyond, so seldom known as creation’s first.

 

The height and width alter and vary greatly, shrinking where the elves were rumored to had carved for days, then enlarged to immense depths, whence the seabirds wept and the dactyl’s flew, which coincided neatly to the point when the giants crawled to take cover from the magma storm. Deep down under they would surge and bore, pushing into the passage from the caves and homes left alone way up high.

 

Candles filled with fragrant oils live in secrecy still, taking but a match to time a glimmer, resurrecting the shadows of the past below back to life in the present now.

 

Months can be lost, at peril’s cost, if wandering is what one will chance in order to protect their life.  For the tunnels sprawl in every direction, multiplying to impossible dimensions far and wide, this was to prevent the insurgencies of marauders, thieves and skulled vermin alike.  If the route be found by afflicting scourge, increase it would, through impossibly dim and unadvisable paths, with traps that trick and rocks built to slip as foot nestles into loosely designed crags and lifts, all constructed by lantern’s light, to the staunch delight of the ancient inventor’s chiseled face, thusly decreasing the likelihood of escape by the wayward travelers misguided fate.

 

It is said, of those last to live during such a time, when dragons roamed the horizon tall, and the tunnels were alit each the seasons from winter and back to fall.  It was here, at such a time, that there the legend spoke of be claimed, as only a single cipher man could see, and that being one truth above else and all.  This one chance to find direction, the one possibility to maneuver safely through, to direct pathways where there where otherwise none, could only be found by those travellers moving from aristocracy and out into a rebirth of primacy, only found outside, beyond the castle’s historic, if not infamous golden walls.

 

The legend also states, that the only manner to map one’s way, is to stand immovably still, and reflect deep inside and let the heart and soul adjust to present time, thus stirring a merger of space and self, melding together the directions and the key, which alone creates the light to see the many paths as they be, true and real as man himself ought to be.  This light to guide shall be for the pure alone and it shall lead to the farthest point from the castle’s walls, where a gate stands, to which the traveller will insert the key and thence sing of freedom’s song, as journey be done, unlocking the last of the ancients hidden mysteries.

 

 

Choice and It’s Subsequent Pathways

The avenues we travel in life are never identical.

Some are paved, some tarred.  Others leave their stones unturned,

awaiting flight from vehicles capable of excessive speeds.

The roads we wander are often forked,

leaving direction up to individual choice.

No matter how confident we are of the path we have chosen,

there remains a lingering of doubt; an internal emanation,

that no matter which choice has been decided upon,

there is a casting of opinion rendered unto the self,

which succinctly states, albeit irrationally crafted,

that any of those other possibilities,

would’ve produced a more amenable destination.

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Those who preach solely upon their own depravities,

would just as soon curse you deeply for any alms received