Ever the moth, I am drawn to the flame.
Fluttering about notions
Never quite landing
Until that brilliant moment
When my wings are burned off
And I plummet to my death.
On my way down
through the dark
I think to myself,
"The light was worth the burn."
A sepian moon rises just over the blackened ridgeline… As the sounds of a gothic romance flutter through my ears and a chilled night air fills my lungs, I am reminded of what we felt like many years ago. With all things, time makes history a prisoner never to be released, but I can still feel the echoes in my heart. You, a blood soaked measuring stick, are revered in places none may tread.
Another old piece, as it was written. This is titled Quickening and is companion to Awakening.
Another old piece, as it was written. This is titled Awakening and is companion to Quickening.
With frost hanging in the air and inclement winter weather moving into the valley, I post yet another old piece, mildly revised and cleaned up, for the reading pleasure of any who will it. This is titled Of Frost And Ardor and sums a feeling still relevant in this period.
When the leaves turn to fire, I come enthralled by desire. Autumn is the season which births my passion. I writhe in the death throes of the year. Days shorten and cool. Nights carry the final brilliant climax of life on the air.
This is a season of fire. Whose flame do I see burning around me? I have your scent. I hunger. Howl to the moon with me and let go of restraint. Your blood is on my hands and I have your scent.
splinter and branch,
weaving sharp angles,
scatter and shatter
smooth and solid
twigs thin as a finger:
snap snap snap;
trunks thick as all:
the roots are so deep
and remember soil,
old as life,
young as death.
a year is but a day:
oh, mighty old one
reaching for the sky,
in the wind, creak and
squeak your tales to me.
A mindscape too abstract to form lies beneath;
but structured above is the crest of thought.
To the north, a land of ice.
To the south, a land of fire.
To the east, forests vast.
To the west, abyssous seas.
Here be a meadow.
In darkness, so pierces a light.
In light, so lays shadow.
At dusk we rise from the depths.
Like little black butterflies,
fluttering upward from nothing,
impulses swirl to the surface.
A world of greys
I see, beyond the spectrum.
Static from afar, the oscillations of a pulsar;
but upon its breast, the undulations of my waters
ebb and flux, from dissonant tones, a dark chord.
The note rings in your soul, beneath the depths
where little but the darkest desires dwell.
That shiver, quiver begets a sliver from
formless to formed, feeling to thought.
Move on impulse and push forward. I wait.
I am calling to you. Can you hear?
I am calling to you.
Shavings of crystalline perfection
Blanket the world
In true, frozen purity.
What breath could be seen
Is taken and held
At the most perfect
From between cracks
Of dense, thick cloud,
Shafts of pale blue
Moon pour. Show me this white,
This season, wherein life is least,
Emanates the most beauty.
My mind holds still;
Thoughts mute before
Sacred winter majesty.
In the distance, a bell
Chimes the hour
Behind pillars of smoke.
In these still, silent
Moments of cold,
I am wholly at peace.
I seek a stillness only found in death, but is it to be dead? I certainly love life. Life is motion. I desire a balance only found in life, but wherein lies this equilibrium? I definitely lust tumult. Instability is the ebb to a harmonious flux. This push and pull is the structure of nature. We swell and contract within a larger wave. Lord, give me a sine. This pulse I give myself unto, through my desires I do your will. And such desires they are; such a will it is!
Through allegory and metaphor, we find the keys to ourselves and our world. The true gods are within us. Divinity is nothing more than a state of mind. I am no prophet, nor savior; I am both of these things. I am no god nor demigod; I am all of these things. From my heart is borne the flame; from my cup does the water pour. I am the source of all life and the consummate abyss to which death’s current carries it. I am of the source and result, thus I am. I am simply a man, flesh and bone, born of my mother. I am nothing; I am everything. I am within and without. I am you; you are me. We are not one.
I am. I will be. I was. I am not. I will not be. I was not. I am knot. I will knot being. I was naught but manifest. Abstracts consume my thoughts. My dreams, they’ve gone; stripped of their potency, bled of their vibrance and seared of their sight, they are gone from me. I used to dream strong. I loved dreaming. I would dream mighty epics and dark tales of unspeakable beauty. Who took this from me? Who reached into the depths of my soul and silenced my spark; muted my flame? I will it to return! I refuse nothing less than renewed dreamforms! I am.
Lucifer is Jesus. Satan is a state of mind. Jesus of Nazareth is not Jesus Christ; the mythology of Jesus Christ is far older than any historical Jesus of Nazareth. The gods are simply astronomical concepts and naturally occurring elements personified so as to easily teach their attributes and interactions. Buddha is awake. I am the buddha. I am the christ. I am the lucifer. I am the satan. I am the enlightened. I am the anointed. I am the enlightener. I am the adversary. I am this and not. The universe is alive and so are we.