It was the night before the moon shifted phases from old to new that I was visited by a girl, so beautiful, in a dream so vivid. I asked her who she was, and she answered in seven poems, accompanied by seven pictures. Each poem was of an unfathomable esoteric allure. Each photograph compelling like a Pre-Raphaelite painting. And when I had finished taking it all in, I felt like she had shown me her very soul. The core of her being. Her rights and wrongs. There, in that realm of unbridled fantasy, I loved her. And I could not help but create something similar to what she had shown me, here, in the world of the waking. Fitting together the little pieces of her I had left after waking up. Her art could never be approached, so this is merely an ode. To her. The dream girl.
“Soft. Ethereal. High above where the wind plays with messy hair and flusters cheeks a healthy apple-red. Innocence. Sometimes I disperse in blue to let the universe in unfiltered. It often hurts. But when I then return to that endless sky-meadow, I am so grateful. Always so grateful. Tears of joy stream over my face as I frolic among my kin. As if everything will turn out fine. As if every day could be the equinox of spring. I am that cloud, ephemeral. That lamb so vulnerable and small. But when I drift away in aether, I reify unwavering hope.”
“The mountain, the cottage, the skylight. The attic where a child hides to read ancient books in silence. She must have read a thousand. A thousand wondrous worlds. A thousand escapes from ours. I let in the sun whenever she feels darkened. To hug her warm with arms of amber. And when there blows a gentle zephyr, I let it seep through the cracks in my window. It stirs the dust and cobwebs that, with a little help from the daystar, shimmer a spectacle in sepia. It keeps her from being disenchanted. She lives in me and I protect her.”
“Imploding stars. Antimatter. Within my rib-cage, mother Titan inverts. Creation malforms into obliteration. A vacuum of nothingness. I am dead, and yet, I am less than dead. There’s no memory of me or who I was. I’ve turned into a shade of light-absorbing pain. Below my sternum all collapses. My diaphragm mimics the spiraling maw of the world-eater. I dare not move. I dare not touch. I dare not sleep with all this rage surging through my veins. Is this the real me? Stay away! I’m so afraid. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to hurt again.”
“My hands are soft. They ache to touch. I am moss, overgrowing the lifeless grey of ancient ruins. Returning what man robbed from nature to the grand cycle of symbiosis. Mine is the life abundant. I am made of root and earth. In my arms I cradle fledglings. And butterflies surround the flowery vines of my hair. My cheeks show streaks of sunny pollen. Painted by bumblebees clumsily bumping. I care. For the toad that hops on my head when it rains to croak. For the salamander and newt that hide in my coat. For fragile things. For life unconstrained.”
“Mother moon birthed me. Primordial breath, exhaled. And I, within the dark of nil, exploded into being. Shimmering in brilliant chaos, a light-catcher. Intangible, incomprehensible. Yet I am. Small and grand. Traveling in limitless expansion, searching diamonds of life-giving evolution within the never-ending. I soar. My butterfly-net of sparkling mesh, a comet’s tail illumining the darkness. I’ve sewn each star caught on Nyx’s cloak. And when after aeons the earthen sky was finished, I left mother moon for space. Shaping brand-new constellations and nebulas. I catch and sow the brightly orbs, forever expanding the last frontier between veil and void.”
“Water. Soothing weightlessness. I drift in dreams depicting crystal clear images of Antediluvian civilizations. Tranquil, I am. Yet ever flowing. Ever exploring the depths of our planet’s chalice. Diving into the deep blue cornucopia. Come. Come with me. Feel. The sensation of flying. Hear. The stillness only broken by the distant whale’s melancholic song. Don’t worry, we can breathe here. See? My cheeks are still touched by the vagabond blush. Flustered in wonder. Warm is my blood. Here, in the womb of creation. Where curiosity’s never sated. Where we, if we dive deeper, may dream the answer of our everlasting.”
“Connection. Heightened senses. Hands brushing in a passing by. Foretasting electrification. Hold mine and feel the sparks fly. Energy surging in undulating waves originating from our linking palms and interlacing fingers. Squeeze harder. Feel our heartbeats synchronizing. Pounding. Eagerness incarnates in the space between our atoms. Souls sparkle signs of life to prove their existence. Look into their pools. Pleading. Consume me. Fuse with me. I am the moan in your throat. The silvery thread of spit connecting our rawly kissed lips. The reaffirmation of a million lives simultaneously lived and unlived together. The emollience of the whole. The affection.”
There’s too much r a g e now, boiling in the canister. I let it all simmer down to some sort of reduction. Essence of self, slathered in the gaping maw of a gutted stomach.
How else am I gonna eat these parts in me that want to kill?
The bridges bleed, and I’ve grown weary of their wails; pillars crying under the weight of every corpse I’ve yet to burn.
When will I ever learn to praise the scent of scorched earth?
I’ve waited too long to cleanse these fields in ire. Black turf smolders for many a lifetime’s aeons and it won’t allow any cyclical rebirths, so I’d rather disintegrate each atom; crumple the sun and let my wrist drip golden.
This death will be the death of all, cherished and in the pierced earth naught will grow nor bloom. You say phoenix; I hear, ‘chicken stew’. You say absolved; I hear, 'consumed’. And when I finally sew up my gut there will solely be a faint rumbling, like the distant thunder, growling: the hunger,
How many times do I have to claw my way out of this soul soup you call heaven
to make you see my light is lightning; violent and ephemeral.
One remembers there is something
drempt, being left on a distant shore
catacomb of reality sliced open
heart beating ancient relics
of spirit vibrating from cells
all swarming within
creature of self, made alive
in so much one sometimes argue
against self as though mirrors
could speak, in any voice including
ones, own. A silent vertebrae on
infinitesimal back, a breath lost
in a notion of time, sanctified
second hand faded dance
Continues on, these parts
of one self, hour paced by
squrrillings of mind minutes
measure an hour glass of sand
doom, dunes like back covers
another story living (as lived).
yet, in a library, one cannot recall
names, nor labels or thought
rather indifferent knowing
breathe out star dust.
one can experience sheds on
a breeze undefininable regions,
a memory so precious that it
graces space seen, hearing echoes.
gift impressions, instant ashtack
to introspective, observer
veils eyes whilst giving cheat sheets
to a masked charade
walk lines between heaven and hell
all waging within a mind that
does not even really exist…
except in moments
one, breathe in
two, breathing out, one.
The ever ongoing invisible wave stretches through all-time’s flow and so travels through the children of stars; through the meshes of their atoms in the dips and rises of low and high resonation, either energizing or physically demanding; soul nurturing or bodily toiling in the sequential demands of human evolution wherein body and mind struggle for dominance.
So, the world hurts and we hurt with it at times when the heart must learn to bleed, and we open ourselves up with arms spread wide, welcoming the pain to give it a place and grow beyond our former effigies of selves, self-made; our collection of atoms, kept together by purpose.
It isn’t always easy and we may curl up in a coil of misery, yet in the end we’ll always stretch out to meet the sun and greet it as an old friend.
We both experience this undulation, and I recognize each dip and each rise; deep breaths before the plunge, the calm and silence of sinking to the cool and dark of the bottom where we sit and muster the strength to take off and sky-rocket toward the surface again; the flight – that never lasts a lifetime, yet in those soaring moments we love from soul to soul, and that’s why I cannot let go, nor escape our ethereal bond, for no matter the physical distance between us we follow this exact same pattern, and in a state and place where we are unbound by our fleshly cages, we are already one.
It seems to me the eternity as of yet still beyond our temporality driven imagination has already begun.
In order to know true Freedom- without which true Creation is impossible- one must be free within themselves to choose between Good and Evil, which are the visible manifestations of the Higher and Lower Intelligences, respectively.