// Walked too fast
or
Crawled too slow?
Woke up,
a dark day.
Lost and
Locked in
Empty halls
Echoing
Broken syllables
Whispering
in the
Shadows
Who am I?
The floor is cold
my feet bare
and
the path long
To my knees
I fall
Palms on the cold
I bow
and try
to
reminisce
Yet, only nullity
resounds in
broken
solemn
Psalms
To know…
Back I must walk
Decades back,
step
by
step
Back to the womb.
Into the distance she looks
Far into the beyond, her eyes stare
As if in wait for something,
untiringly,
unmoving,
in patient penance she sits.
The clouds move aside,
as the sun bustles through
the birds have flown into the world
and yet,
as unimpeded as
the falling sand in eight’s glass,
she sits in unending stillness.
Not a crease, not a twitch.
She is alive,
yes she is, for
her breasts heave
as she becomes one with the life around.
Yet, still she sits,
like one among the grass,
rooted in the greens,
unseen
by nature,
nonchalant to her intrusion.
Who is she waiting for?
Me?
I watch her beautiful face
for in it I see something
I never have.
Ever.
Twitch. Turn.
Her gaze shifts to my eyes.
Unfazed and cold her stare,
exuviates
my chivalrous shields and
leaves me in sweat.
Glacial remains her face
callous to all feeling.
“Who are you?”
I venture in volatile boldness
Her eyes sear my skin
as she deems me.
“Evya”
Her voice
cryptic as the lives of past
cuts the nullity
as she speaks.
“Evya is my name.
I was dead,
once,
now
alive.”
Godfather - shared via CocktailFlow @ http://share.cocktailflow.com/PQWYFG
Fake faker fakes fake fakes
Brain - fried
Heart - broken
so,
When the roses are wilting
and the leaves are dying
I’ll light a candle
and set fire to the world on my mantle.
The little bits that form
You, me and all
little and loosely bound.
Kept, yet hardly so.
Sand in the hand
in the wind
ready to float away.
To disappear and
disintegrate
into anu
and then nothing.
Nomads,
our little bits.
To break, crumble and fall.
To pull apart from within.
Why do they remain?
Chaotic,
our little bits.
To rebel, struggle and drown.
To cut the chord and cohort as another, elsewhere.
Our basic selves,
the little bits,
not really ours no more.
A new dream:
falling heights
Music dripping of its peak
Wind swimming through its hair
Honey whispering in its ears
A breath of freshness,
a raga
Of uncut rocks and pearls
laved by waves and tides
blood and dew
wetting its mossy skin
A taste of longing
Lingering off its dry tongue
The worlds light in
a tear
shed of it’s wound
The sky’s blue,
it’s face lucent over heaven’s silver
Life, a canticle on it’s lips
Death, a Cimmerian tempest in it’s eye.
