Category: 08th

In this city again
I gaze in awe
At the paper fountains
That haven’t changed a bit

Still folded
By the loving hands of an old woman who knows about
Too much
Depth of the world
Love and hate
That she enchants into the water
Too much

Still crafted
By the candlelight in an otherwise dark room filled with
Too much
Sadness and hope
Love and hate
That she enchants into the water
Too much

The water from the stone fountains
Is sickly sweet
It tastes
Artificial
Like the color yellow
Like the sound of tinkly bells
Like the feel of plastic
Like the smell of perfume
Like lies

The water from the paper fountains
Is bitter
It tastes
Real
Like the color green
Like the sound of drums
Like the feel of sand under my toes
Like the smell of sawdust
Like life

Still created
By the power of a fall thunderstorm that has
Too much
To cry about
Love and hate
That she enchants into the water
Too much

Mittens dyed brown with chocolate stains,
a tiny pinecone tucked close to your heart.
A little boy smiles and kisses your cheek,
twirling your fingers around, a snowlake.
A dancing nutcracker, a wreath of holly,
A fairy of snow and frost
Like a statue of ice, magnificently carved
of the flourishes of winter,
brushing, swaying, breezes of cold.

Rosy twinkling lights
and benches crafted of ski poles,
white silvery logs gathered in piles high up.
A flutter of evergreen trees in the biting cold wind,
papers folded and passed like soaring cardinals,
Mittens dyed brown with chocolate stains.
a little boy smiling back at you, mirthful.

Ghosts represent our talents and potential
But on death’s bed, they sigh
With disapproval and deny
Knowing you didn’t comply with your note-worthy potential
Because like most people you chose the easy preferential
Instead of the rocky and steep road up high
The greater achievement when you eventually die
You chose the straight paved path
The seemingly obvious choice
The easiest way to possibly rejoice

But perhaps the main story of life
Isn’t your greatness or legacy
Or being the hawk instead of the crow
Triumphantly soaring in the air
But be the ordinary chicken
Or contempt pigeon
Fine with hanging on street wires

Once I went on a lonely road.
I was told not to go there,
But my stubborn self refused to listen,
And I knew no one who would care.

And off I went with tears arising,
No one to stop me, as I alight to the skies.
I wanted to see the world, so now I would.
To travel it all, bring tales of good.

Once I went on a lonely road,
No traveler to meet one’s eye.
My only provisions, I stocked what I could,
Too content to heave a sigh.

I traveled all alone, never meeting another soul,
But who am I to wonder? and take upon my toll?
So by and by, the years continued,
And I never regretted my choice.

Once I went on a lonely road,
And I,
I,
Walk from the fields that I sowed.

Have you ever heard of spoken word?
I hadn’t.
The courage to step up, give a speech,
Make a declaration, preach?
I had.

That’s all it is, they said,
But now I see it’s more than that.
The ability to speak truly about your life,
Your own words,
In your own mouth.

It doesn’t have to be perfect, or free-flowing,
The words just need to come to you,
Not written on a sheet of paper by somebody else.
But even when we CAN do this step,
Does it matter if we don’t listen?

When they say open your eyes,
Do we do that?
What is True Courage?
It’s not just a man going to war because he was told to,
It’s starting something that you’ve already lost at,
Even if you know you’re not going to win.
Those with True Courage have the ability to be unstoppable,
And those who speak their psalms have unstoppable power.

I used to live in this world,
Blinded by lies told to me by everyone else.
But now I stay awake,
Waiting,
Listening.
I heard some words once, and now…

Have you ever heard of spoken word?
I hadn’t…

What is the world?
It’s a question that’s been asked…maybe once or twice.
It’s a neverending belief of…
What’s wrong and what’s right.
Ask it.
Where does it lead us?
Into the bedroom of a small child.
Alone.
Mentally Alone.
She was told it was in her head.
They would never stop loving her.

What happens when the hourglass stops?
The final grain hitting the pile?
It’s not forever,
Is it?

She becomes older,
Changing.
She convinced herself crying is for weaklings,
Cowards.
But she still does it,
Sometimes.
All these years with the yelling, the mental abuse…
Has left her believing there is no love.

Why have beliefs led you astray?
The very mention of hope sends you reeling?
It’s not forever, right?
Right?

In a future that hasn’t happened,
A change becomes a part of her.
There is still no love.
She is better, but when no one can be perfect,
How can she?
She is using her talents of listening to help others,
But she feels as if she isn’t good enough.
She’s Not, but no one can be.

This is a story of the world,
Born to a place of fear and terror.
This is a story that is true,
Not sugarcoated in a “Happily Ever After.”
This is a story of life, not how to do it,
Vivere.

We speak;
Vestiges of a thousand nights.
Cast through overbearing shoulders,
Proclaiming Eternal Life; Eternal Life.
Yet they fell;
Nine days like the Bronze anvil;
Nine days to home.

One path followed;
The Twelve Gates of Night.
Follow the Dog, come to claim one’s soul.
Either that or live near eternally,
In a place destined for destruction.
We are destined to remember our flaws,
Destined to be amiss.

They speak;
Just as We once did,
We were once upon You.
But now you’ve come,
On your own Will;
On your own will,
You’ve come.

Now We shall wait for others;
Like We have always done.
Forever and Almost Recessive,
We watch.
We will always watch,
Till the End of time.
We have always watched,
Waiting for you,
For You.

A skull upon a coffin,
A dead heart on a sleeve,
We are neverending;
We will never leave.
And We are:

We, the bones that are here, await Yours.
We are:

Memento Mori.

Eternity is for Forever,
That’s what we were told.
Then why was she abandoned,
Left to thrive in the cold?

She never gave a doubt that he,
Would return and bring her home.
But as the years reflected by;
She felt buried in the loam.

Yet every morning she woke up,
And looked within the mirror,
“He said that he would come again,
And take me away from here!”

“He said that he would never again,
Except me for…Eternity!”
She thought he meant Forever,
But she could never see;
Hope believes what happens never,
For Eternity is not Forever.

A clash; a clash,
My heart relishing in the stale smell of fear…
An endless cycle of vengeance and loss,
Who would want this?
I would.

A toppled throne,
My city divided,
Civil war is undecided.
Who would want this?
I would.

Laugh in foes’ faces,
As I take my place;
I decide the kingdom’s fate.
Who would want this?
I would.

Fire takes the palace.
My army against me;
Leading toward my resting place.
Who would want this?

I would.

Dew-drops on cattails,
And starry floors at night,
Soft breeze and ripples,
Under the moon, so bright.

Tales of imperfection,
A woman in the clouds.
Watching over waters,
Shepherding the crowds.

She is a beauty,
However alone…
Her glory never wavers,
Her light always shone.

Dreams are usurped,
Stories are broken,
Yet she watches all,
None favored with her token.

The day may end,
As man is unsurprising,
Now she watches her reflection
For now, it’s moon rising.