A Vine Covered Statue

A VINE COVERED STATUE

Paul Fearne

This book represents a time of hardship for me. I had recently been released from a mental health institution.  I was struggling, and just wrote.  My outlet was my blog, paulfearne.com.  I wrote and wrote and wrote.  Hopefully I inspired some of the readers.  Enjoy these words, they came at a cost (one I hopefully will never have to pay again).

WHAT IS FOREVER?

There is a question I must ask myself. Do we change on the circles of the neverness, or do we launch ourselves on the wings of forever? There is no choice in this question, as it begs the difference of a logic that is unfounded.

Being dogged, I am at a loss to really be. Do not carry me when I am down, I will forever get up, and know the distance to a culprit. Forget the forget-me-nots, I am here to stay.

There is pain here, but it is not the pain of you.  It is the pain of us, as we fathom once again for the pleasures we used to have.  I am a beacon, as the solstice is a willow that will not bend.  Do not bend me – you will find out why. I do not bend, but merely sleep, when the time is right.

I am a turner in sweet things, as I am muffled by the daylight.  This is a bind that has only one result, and that is up. Do not catch me, I will not fall. I am an expert at these things.

There are musics that hold in their embrace a sort of catching rhyme, that beckons us to listen closer.  But in me, the music is of a sharper character. It knows when it must stop, and when to go again.

I feel happy here, in the midst of things. I have not been given a smoothness as my birth rite.  It is a rough embrace, this imagining I harbour.  But when should we be happy? When all is lost.

I wish that the tangential would have me close, and the feelings of renegades would be mine to saviour.  Be kind, and I will show you a boat of unsinkable reunion. There can be nothing more to say. But I will continue.

When fame is at its last, there will be a rocket that carries no works, and a belief that this will carry us there. I am like the child who has no wind, and the adult who only knows one way.

Be cautious, there a sycamores that don’t seed, and I will learn their ways.  I hear music, what is it? It is the music of the past as she rounds into smothering mackerels that calculate before they are given.

What have we now, but reminiscings that gorge themselves on the now, and have the fruit of the vine as there slow burn.  I wish I could see what it is that blinds us.  It is not in the milk of forebears, but in their lasting seminar.

I write, but not for the clouds.  They pass too quickly. I write for something to take hold of me.  And that is forever, and then back again.

WHAT HAS NO SHEEN

I am wandering, but not too far. I see clearly, but the road ahead has ice.  I am needing to lay down, but the road is cold.  Be with me, you creators of the world.  I will come back, when time is right.

I see something rise from the darkness.  It is compassion, and all that will come to pass. Believe in me, and I will take the world. Believe in the treasure, and all will be yours.

There are catchings that win the race.  But there are new needs to have bound to the rock. I sense a new accomplice, but I don’t know which direction she comes from. This is my lot, and my concern.

I will not think, only rise up when the moon is at its height.  I have felt many things, and they are lonely things. I will not feel pain, because I am a renegade, that does not care for fashion.  This much is true.

There are meanderings that have faith.  Their faith is the faith of us all, as we search for that which will make us happy. I am at the keys, and they will open doors for me unknown.  I go against the grain.

I hold you, so that you will never go.  But our time is over, and this much is like hands in blossoming silk.  This is not a poem from the heart, but one from the trenches.  I hear your call.  I will not come.

I have found the way, it is not easy. But what is easy is the leaking tap that covers the wounds of a thousand nights labour. I am here now, let me be.  I will not take a backwards step. As long as I am free.

Upon closer inspection I see the ramparts gaining momentum. I will not salute, as we are all equals here. I have found the way.  I have found the way.

All this of which I speak has no sheen. It is dull – dull, but beautiful.  I have seen this once before, and it made my eyes fill with water.  But not this time.  For I come for the silk, to line my pockets, and cushion the fob watch which came from my mother.

Going in to the midst, I sense fire on every side. It is my duty to record this, for the aeons to decide what will come. I am with you, stokers of the fire.  You are my friend and my enemy. But we will share a drink at the end of this, and know respite.

Come now, all is not lost.  We must rise ourselves for the journey, and be content in the knowledge that smoke is here to warn us, but fire is here to scorch us. Believe me, there is no right or wrong, only shadows in the twinkling moonlight.

WHAT CAN NEVER BE ENOUGH

There are places in the unseen, that are for night-time unfoldings.  They replicate what it is the holds us close. There are messages in tiny bottles that come up on our shores.  We will find them, if we are not too late.

I am in the middle of a circus.  It harks back to the withering I experienced as a child.  There are no states of complacency here.  It is battle stations, and all that will come to pass.

We cannot go back here.  The only way is forward.  But do not be distressed, you who guide me. I do this all for you, and for the dreams of our forbears. The time is now for the picking, and I will use it wisely.

There are joys which can never be enough, but I do not feel them.  I am in a languid state that compares itself to a winter that has no heart.  Come, this is not how it should be.  We must not waste, and we will be forgiven.

Close to the centre of this mess, is a swallow. He chimes, and in that chime is the world. I am referencing myself here, as it is all I can do. What comes to pass, will pass, and I will know the daylight.

A shattering is what I hear.  I get myself in that state, and I plough ahead.  It is all I can do.  But I do not worry, I am the executor of a great will. The estate is vast.  I will keep some for myself, and scatter the remaining parts to the gulls, for their pleasure.

I am a man who wants for nothing.  But what I really want, I cannot have.  And that is peace, and a modicum of happiness.  Death will not have me.  I am beyond his grasp.  And here I will stay.

A cautionary note – do not simply be, if being is a slavery. In this case, be something greater, and harder, and more in tune. One must never give up hope, when the sands of the hourglass are reckless. Be, and be greater.

Opening up to the honesty, I find rebellion in my make-up. I implore that the distance between you and me will not change a thing.  I am still in your embrace, and I will only give up when it is truly time.

What is more scandalous than a flock of peregrines as they near the edge of the cliff.  They fly, they fly, and then rest.  And in this rest is the travelling we do to placate ourselves.  In this rest is everything.

I will be content with what can never be enough. I will let it still me, and then – ONWARDS, and more, and more, and more and more…..

SOMETHING THAT KEEPS US

There is something in the way the stars move that makes existence possible.  Without this, there would be a silence so definite that none could hear your voice.  Believe me when I say, this is enough.

Catching hold, the fire that burns the darkness has as its centre a lifetime’s joy.  Be content to stay awake here.  There can be no more powerful sense, than the sense of right in the face of the wrong.

A dreaming, I feel it.  It comes in spattering, but they do not believe me.  This is fine, as long as I have my supper at the correct time. Conscience never matters, only the sun will know which is the right way to go.  And it will burn the vision of a thousand soldiers.  Come what may.

Be content, there is plenty. This is the vision I seek – through the corridors of love, and out again into the prying light. I have taken a risk here, but I do not care.  As long as I am read, that will steel me.

I come for further things. They are not for the unworldly, but for those immersed in the goings on of strangers.  There is a lightness that won’t last, but I am content to keep going.  There is no way back.

Will the pier that holds me give back its playing cards? I hope there is a second question in this smoke.  Maybe there is.  I will spend a day looking elsewhere, and then return to find the answer.

What is time, but a solemn joke. It saddles up the horses of our desires, and then whisks them away.  There is a mounting, and an accumulation, and then a dispersal.  This much is clear, what about the rest?

A calmness comes. It means I am doing the right things.  In times of hardship we must never forget this. The aether is solid, as are the pinions that drag us away.  Do not be afraid here, I will follow.

When the night is all we have, there will be something that keeps us. It is hidden, and I have not found it for oh so long. Now I have it, and it is mine.  Drowning still, I peep through the door to my heart (which has been left ajar) and I see all of existence. I will find you, and keep you (this time).

A fate I have never wanted is upon me. People come for me, but I direct them to the shining of the sky.  Here they will fall, and I will have what is left of my life. What is this piece that is left? It is all, and all that shall be.

RAIN AND FIRE

There is a peace in things.  It travels to that distant place that is sighing in the wilderness.  I have trumped you, oh spirits.  I have found a way to be happy, despite everything that comes my way.

A sound that lurks, is the same sound that keeps me awake.  It is a low hissing, and it bends the fabric of this being like a fire that has known rain. There is nothing more to do, except exhale.

There is a hand that reaches.  It reaches from the abyss, and has a talent for finding the worthy. I seek pleasure, but do not find it.  I seek love, but have no feeling for companionship.

Thinking of past events, I sit here and look out the window of my dis-ease, and know that, in time, there will come a pause – and in that pause will be joy. How long it takes me to experience this, I do not know.

Compassion is a mighty word, but it is not something I am likely to feel. I have embers for eyes, and a dark recess where my soul used to be. Do be the one to tell me I have my soul back.  I will not have it.

A fire, it is in us all.  We stumble and are reluctant to get on the right track.  This track is for everyone that has had a say, and knows their wisdom to be lacking.  One must follow ones own aegis, and then be content to let error have its say.

A listening I cannot hear.  I fathom something else, but have light as my guide.  I can sense a presence, but know no other way.  Continuing, I discover something.  It is the muse I thought had left me, but now returns.

Old and new. I prefer the old, as it is like a warm blanket. I will more time to wander now, as the thing that beckons me is here. All I have to do is wait, and I will have it all.  Do not be afraid, there are things that love, and things that bite.

Hours, if not days, are the wantings I have. They are my constant companions through this thing we call life. I have nothing left to give, only that which is in the marrow.  I contemplate, and am forgiven.  I am here now, like never before.

There are friends, and there are friends.  I am piecing together something that should not be.  I call it luck, others call it fate.  I dismiss these ramblings as an affront to the muses.  Do not call me, I am waiting.

Fire, and the rain that should extinguish its life.  But it rages on, and knows how the welcoming of summer fruit is the thing that really steels us.  I fight on, and have the belief that I will conquer.

Be assured the dreams we have all left behind, are the same that count the blessings of the sleepless.  They shine and shimmy, and coach us to do what we desire most. I am so in tune with the ghost. This much I am sure of.

They will come for me, these hallow men.  But I will be ready for their forceful touch.  Nothing else eliminates my mood more that the treachery of an invader that has nothing to give, only take.

I move on, and know that the road has a depth that transcends the lullabies of the night.  There are catching phrases that hold their course, and be what is something more.

Why have I not seen you before? Because in the twilight there rushes in a feather, a feather that breaks as it tears asunder.  This is the call, as this is the sentience.  Believe me when I say, we are done for.

There is a sense I have, that trees will catch on. Not with fire (that is another matter). But with love.  I don’t say this lightly, but only out of respect for those who love.  I have not love, but many things in between.

I will make you laugh.  It helps to soothe the horizon, and give back what I have taken.  This is my one true exposure.  I am exposed to the dancing Naiads do to welcome the rain.

My belief is strong.  Whenever I feel upright, I go to ground again.  It is for the safety, a safety I would other wise not have.

Time moves quickly, and there is a chance that I will not make it.  But this I dismiss, so that the fragments of thought will not bother me.  I have one goal, and it will be the fire that covers it, and the rain will speed it.

There are chances that arrived at through speed, and there are chances that must not be.  I love the chase, and when difficulty comes to close, I will hear the siren’s call, and know myself to be away.

Having no sense of what is right and what is wrong, I am strong in heart. I have thought many things, but this one thought hounds me.  I must not be the person to fall.  I must be the person the rises.

MOONLIT WANDERINGS

There are passages through to the other side. They hide themselves, and dream of nothing other than release.  Few have seen them. But I am one.

There are new things I hold in my hat.  They are the chances we have all had at coming into our own.  I hold on here, because the sand is shifting, and the rosary beads I hold to calm me are closing.

Come and be my companion on this journey.  It is long as it is grand, and knows only the whisperings of ghosts to tell the tale. Some have the night, some the day, and others courage to salvage what is next.

There are windows into the soul that can only be glimpsed at certain times.  When danger is rife, here we can see what people are truly made of.  I have sensed this in my self at times. People can see my soul (I hope they don’t judge).

I have found a way through this, and that is to sit at the keyboard and write. Only jail will stop me.  There are tendons that do not bleed, and they are the ones that will steel me to greater things.

A song I often hear, is swallowing through the ether.  It is the song of angels – angels who do not know how to keep the peace.  I am trudging, I write, I feel the feather, and know it to be a friend.

Constantly, I hear the sound of crying.  It is ultimately something that wakes me, but I know it is not me.  There are beings who ride the waves, and I am one of them. I catch myself, because I can.

What did Rimbaud entitle his work – ‘A Season in Hell’. This is my journey also, as I come for that misty shelter that is the word. I have had many such seasons, but I always continue (I am too scared otherwise).

Be with me now, my love.  I see the sense you have in your moonlit wanderings. It is a time for stillness, and for sorrow.  We see what we have, and know the other things to be a ghost.  I once saw a ghost, and I ran. Maybe one day I will be one also.

I have new feathers to adorn my hat. They make me look as if I am from the 19^th century.  But I still cannot find that space in between raindrops.  It is because I yearn, and I fight, and I see things so clearly (but then it fades, and I am back again).

When rain has the guard duty, I look towards the bliss of togetherness. But I am alone, and know no other way to be.  I seek shelter, and know the rain to be a prisoner of its own immateriality. I come, but I do not wait. I come, and am content to be.

A gorge, I will follow it. And then I will know moonlit wanderings to be all that I have.

HOLLOWED OUT

There are side glances that shield us from fate.  When I am here, I shudder.  I have nothing beside me but ancient wings.  They do not fit me.

When I catch the last vestiges of the juggernaut on the horizon, I speed up, and know that I will not slow down.

Feelings of wisdom cascade, but I find them too didactic.  I love the chase, and all that summer will bring.

It is cold here, without the sense to do what is required.  I am paralysed, but know only one way.  What is left, but a hollowed out shell.

I come to clean the mess of a thousand nights labour.  There are rings and bracelets here, but I return them, just to make me feel like I am good.

There is a chime I cannot hear.  It makes the feathers on my back seem all too real.  There are nuances to this, which I will tell you of when I am well.

A succubus waits for me. She is hungry.  I steel myself for another journey, but the weight on my back is too great.  I find those wings, and put them on.  I will go too close to the sun.

Reckoning that time will slow (as it does in all dangerous situations), I find that the tempest is a warrior.  But I have won, because killing is not what I do.

Feelings of companionship ease the burden. I will feel the pain for this, and then when I am through, I will sleep.  I drop words as the tap drops water.  This is my lot.

Coming to the closing movement, I know now that time doesn’t last.  It is an ephemeral beast that argues as it beseeches.

I have achieved, I have died, I have known love, but what I have not done is win.  The writers journey is about loss.  And when things are dark, I will come for forgiveness.  In the mean-time – write.

How many scars does it take to create a universe? Many more than we can count, even using both hands.  There are scouts that lead the way, but we have found deliverance in the nod of a head. I will be there.

What becomes of the headiness of life, when the stars lose their lustre? It becomes a race of the quickest, and of the most courageous.

I am here, do not follow.  I am sure I will find the way, but it is dark.  We must be on our guard.  There will come a time when all will be right.

HOLDING ON

Chasing the dream.  It is in me. I will not wilt.  I will have salt, to wash my wounds.  And when we are done, I will rest, and be no more.

There are things that have no say in the matter.  They are sparks that crash and burn, and have negligence as a forefather. Be my guide, and I will let you take me to that other place.

Kindness is a thing most sought after.  It pushes through the pain, and lets us know that the ship we sail on will be a more sought after thing.  Being in the midst.  That is my wish, and that is what I have.

A unicorn knows itself to be part of a great fellowship.  It holds on, until the stampede is only an echo, and the distance between willow reeds is the same as my heart to yours.

Fathers, brothers, keepers of the steel, mothers, sisters, unite, and know the journey to be a difficult one.  There is in this pain a catch.  It is for you and me, as we saddle the dreamscape with new charges, and new ways to be.

I must only bring what is required.  What is too much here will bring death. I am the naysayer, as you are the light that burns. We must hold on, and not damage ourselves too much.

Questions, and answers.  I will hold you in my memory as a trinket that is given for a first birthday.  I will know pain, so that I can shimmy through it.  I will hold your name, close to my heart, and there, be a darling of the sky.

When we are close to death, here I will send for you. It will have been many years since we were lovers, but your hand is still on my heart. I am blank.  But I am cautious.

There is a stark reminder of the travesties of history in the sparkling of your eyes.  You know me to be a truth, but there is nothing left to say. Hold on heart, you will be the victor, as I am the accomplice.

Desiring, that is my achievement.  I do anything for this, and that is my feat of strength.  To deny life is to sing a song that is not for human ears.  We live on a tightrope and wish that the sound of water would calm us.

I am a never-ending ride, that has the mana of the gods as its final reward.  This is something I am thankful for – but I must get there.  In time I will know this place to be water.

A final accomplishment – release, and acceptance.  These two things are my guide, and I will reach them before the morrow. Be a stranger, and I will be your forever.

FURTHER THAN EVER BEFORE

I have a plan. It is not the plan that moves me, but the motion itself.  I live to create words, but the words are not what fill me. I am in a vacuum, and am only filled with the teasings of fate. This much is sure.

Can the red of our lives ever truly be caught? I think they can, if the well-wishes of strangers is enough to fill us. I come for greater things than the arrows of fortitude can give. But that is fine.  We will only win if we need to.

What is the sense the dust has, when it has reached its final destination? It is a comparable existence, one which has the flavour of milk, and the colour of dreams.  I will be with you.  But do not console me.

Ducks and drakes.  This merry-go-round is full of what consoles, but also what uplifts.  Do not be shy, the drakes do not fear the bite of human hands.  I wish I could still see.  But I cannot.

What I seek, is further than ever before.  It has glass at its base, and feathers at its apex.  I will only go on if I have to.  And when we are through, I will sing a song, and it will be like none before.

The weather is like the sunset here.  Right in between cold and azure, and it will comfort the messenger before he is too late.  But come, we must try, and in trying, lure something else out of the block.

 The fire is not bright enough.  It can be contained, but only by the sky.  I hear what you say, but I do not hear anymore.  I am deaf to the suffering of the world, only because I cannot see beyond my own suffering.

There are trespassings that add to the mix.  But I do not wish to see them in full. I wish to avoid life, and be true to the many comings and goings that fate has to offer me. I am crushed, but not for long.

What is there left to do? I have chosen a path, but that path has lead me here. That is enough for me, and all my wanderings. I will consider yours shortly, and know them to the treadings of angels.

I consider all things.  And here, where burnings are brightest, I will have the ape that is present in the room, and teach him all that I know.  Then there will be a duality of things said, and things unsaid.

I have lost it all, but there is something more.  And that is hope, and forgiveness, and a little dash of bravery.  That will keep me going, until I have once again, found my home.   

FLOWERS IN FOG

A special type of wandering covers us.  We wander through the hills,, as our home gets further away.  Who knows why we experience this, but it is the thing that drives us onward,

A liking for all that has fallen.  We seek escape, or adventure, but we are never really the same as we started. I bunch my hands, and believe once again that the night will never have me.

I have renounced all.  I am at the centre of something I don’t understand.  But that is okay, because when the tempest blast has me, I know which way to turn.  This is my life, and my need, and all that has come to pass.

There are chains which I cannot see.  They are lying in wait for my every move.  But now that I know they are here, I am more than capable to shed them, and know freedom.

Freedom, what is this? Is it something we draught with our favourite wine? Is it the day, as it bleeds into night? I know what it is. It is you, and me, when we first met, and have never seen since.

A clatter of crows walk on my roof.  They are here to guide me, and warn me of the adventure ahead. I listen to them as I go to sleep. Their bark is like ice, and their knowledge is great.

I am like ice.  Impenetrable. No sense enters the void which is my being.  I try, but I am a blankness.  There is something more you must hear.  And that is, I sold my soul – for what? For this.

Magic comes from the sky.  It litters the ground where we walk.  It is like the need we have to run on glass.  This much I am sure about.  But could there be something less? I fear not, only more.

When the sand between my toes is gone, I will have a mighty rest.  And here, where the gulls have no food, I will scatter bread crumbs, and believe once again, that things will right themselves.

Matter, it carries no weight.  There is a dish I serve my compatriots.  It is of the missing, and the righted, and all that lies in between.

I could sit here forever, and I probably will.  There is nothing to disturb me, only the countless numbness’s that bound my heart.

I see flowers! But the fog has moved in from the sea, and I only get a fleeting grasp. This helps me in what I wish to do, but I will see them again, when I have time left to squander.

A WEATHERING THAT LASTS

Beneath the structures of our hearts there is a deeper pulse.  It hurtles in known acceptances, and breathes like the breath of the dead.  Here I am.  Take me.

When all is over, and the sentience of the hills is still, I will come for the feather in your hair.  I know it not to be mine, but the strangeness of this adventure carries with it the chance to make things aright.

I am at peace now, but it will not last.  I have gold, but no coin.  I believe in simple things, but the traipsing through the sand dunes has withered me.  It is like I never was, and am eternally created.

What is my most sordid adventure? It is this, as I come again for the light that is not my own, but have faith the journey will end appropriately.  This is hard, but what isn’t?

When the tangles are let go of, I will a believer in things unreal.  They will know me to be a comer-and-a-goer. All the rest is tryst. There are meanings to be had by all things.  I am coming for them.

What I haven’t got, is the light between the trees.  This magic is all, and about the finest weathering that can be had on this earth.  It bends and stretches, and creates beauty. Untold beauty.

I cannot rest.  I have no rest.  And in between times I smile. It is what I do best.  In the heat of it all, I fall to my knees, and have a sense that soldiers are not warriors, they are simply life-livers.

When the train comes in to the station, there is a sound that I can’t fathom.  It is the sound of you and me as children, and that place we can never return to.  What am I to do next? I do not know.

Gathering up the rose petals of my past, I have a wish to send.  It is too all those who have hurt, and not recovered. I am with you, like never before.  We must believe one thing.  Be strong.

When the photo-album is empty, or lost, here we reach into that deeper part of ourselves.  It is not for crying, or watching, but for doing.  Enter the fray of life, and the rewards are endless.

I am weathered, we are weathered. It is a weathering that lasts.

A VINE COVERED STATUE

There are instances when the dark becomes a fortress.  But what we must remember, is that the time it takes to give back the dawn, is the same time that the stars have to finish their wandering.

Much is said in these halls.  But much remains unsaid. I have a vacuum of ideas upon which to lay my canvas, but I know that the things that bind, and the same things that release.

I am riding the wave of happenstance, and I know, that whenever my boat comes adrift, I have this to guide my way.  This is my promise to myself, and it shall be forever more.

There are things that shrink, and things that expand, but right in the middle is what we are all about.  I come to this with a certain naivety, and hardly take a second glance when the twilight gives me her splendour.

I write, but do not look.  I take this as a spiritual journey, to be locked away in a room that doesn’t let the light in.  My time grows resistant to such things.  I know I am a ghost, but I will write great things.

I believe in two things. The semblance of companionship the birds feel towards the sea, and the stark reminders that I am human.  I will not use this as an excuse, but will tame the bonds that bind, and have them for another day.

What is this acceptance?  Is it my prize for all my troubles? It is what I most need, but dread being a part of.  I will write so that I do not have to think.  I will be one with the embers of this world so that I may do something I have always wanted to do.

What can be said of the march of ladies in secret night? They are respectful of the morning light, and endear themselves to the chosen few.  They are right in what they say - there will come a recompense.

I am loose, but I don’t know what the reason is. I come in platitudes, but have found no place to call home. It is all happening.  But, if that is what has come to pass, so be it.

Why has the weather stopped searching? Because in the time it takes to bend an oleander branch, there will be enough time to steal the dust from our eyes.

A statue stands in an abandoned house. There are cobwebs at its base.  No one has seen it since the occupants left. The vines must be careful. They are dry, and will cut. Maybe for another day.

A SNOW FALL

Without sight, I reach for something more.  But all I can feel is the daybreak as it nestles up to the sea, and is no more.

I can no longer believe in the sense that makes sense only to the chosen few.  I break, and am renewed.  I fall, but only so that I will find a more cushioned point to land.  I do not tire, but am only lead by the blind.

My gladness at the painting is a testament to the artist and his ability to fly to places never seen. There are dust marks where his soul used to be.  My sense is that he lost it for his art.  One can always tell these things.

I catch a glimpse of the longing the sky feels at the never ending dance which is life, and I feel that things will improve.  There is change, this much is true. But there are things which are beyond the beyond, and they will find us when we least expect.

A few scatterings of snow flake meet my grasp, and I know the blanket will soon be thick.  I have a heavy cloak on, and a top hat, so decide to sit in the drift and watch nature’s mighty show.

There are whispers of things to come. I am ready now, so that the feathers of the new moon will only touch me slightly.  As long as I can keep doing this, I will be happy.

Repetition and difference, that is what these words are all about.  For when the sand comes, there will be nothing to hold it back.  I will write until embers have no fire, and to slay a dragon is no longer a dream.

Come to this place with a sense of what is possible, and I will show you the way.  Come and be welcomed by the neverness which is the top of everything.  We are timeless you and I.

There are new seeds that have been caught in winter honeymoons, and they are the ones that have the most to give.  That is why I take this risk, because it is in me, and it is in them.

More, more, I will not stop. The prison holds the blessed, as they are the ones who see time going the quickest.  This seems counter intuitive, but how long is a life? It is longer than you and me.

I could believe in things more ardently, but I must be content to simply sit and watch, and be a victim to the very time I renounce.  Come for me snow fall, I will give you all.

A HARLEQUIN STORM

Wishing that the steeple wasn’t ready, I fight towards nothingness. I come form a place that is not of light, but is of the daring, and all that will suffice.

Catching myself before I land, I don’t have the fortitude to carry the load I am given.  But when I come to, I see the changes ahead, and I know that happiness will suffice.

Gathering in numbers, the sentinels of the race are here to tap the last shoe, and have it ready for the great adventure.  Be careful, this footwear is not for the light hearted.  It is a serious game we play.

Being careful, I light the last cigarette I have, and believe once again that things will not crush me. I have an advantage – I am invisible.

Coming now to the turning point.  I am at the peak, and only stop to look down.  There are clovers here, they guide the way, and my footfall is careful. To kill beauty here would be a mistake.

Glancing at my companions, I take a double step.  Is it too much?  Will the stars give me up, and I will be forced to say goodbye to the night? I have a feeling I am already there – in heart, if not in spirit.

Galvanising my strength, I see the jester. He rises over the hill.  Behind him is a great tempest.  It is something that gives me the thought for flight, but I know fight is the only option.

The trees groan, as I lift myself over another cliff face. They are aware this is life and death, so they let me be.  But what is more, the clouds have finished their journey, and now stop to watch.

Being content in the moment, I saddle up to a new beginning.  What I have learnt, is that no matter what has gone before, I am here, and ready for the movement forward. The deepest well knows this, as she drinks the dew of a thousand nights.

A shock, and it is all over. Silk comes sliding down the rock face, as the tears of a multitude of weavers beckon me home.  I will not sleep though, as tomorrow will bring fresh adventures, and new tithes to pay.

Can we ever know the truth? This much I ask myself. The truth comes for those who wait, but I am not of the waiting, I am of the breathing. A bumblebee finds my location, and is content to play.  I will find shelter for him, and then let him on his way.

Be sure in what you do, there can be no other way. The time for bending is over. We must stand upright to know the wind.

A FRAYED EDGE

What we have missed, is something more. I am talking, but the listeners have found their rest.  I will believe in one more thing.  And that is what the daylight will call an enterer, and the stars will call their heaven.

When I am most in need, I will come here.  It is a palace of long lost regrets.  The rear again, and I know their fire to be a well-spring. Do not be afraid, there is something larger we aim for.  It is something we cannot regret.

I am late, but I am not weary.  I sing a song, but the words are lost in mist.  This is not my turn to shine, this is my way.  I have a feeling that things will not last here, but they always do.

I get myself into a state of mind, and then relinquish the tethers that hold me back.  There is something more to be said, but I cannot say it.  I only exist, and there, have companionship.

What am I aiming for? I cannot tell you, it is too much like the darkness, and too much like looking directly into the sun.  I follow what it is that nourishes me, and I find new tethering points from which to lay down my arms.

Why do we not see, when feathers fall from great heights? It is because we are all wanderers, who having found a bed to rest on for the night, believe that the night will bare no scars. We must be strong.

When the loneliness of two thousand newly found sprites is at hand, we will give the business of talking a new name, and it will be for all of us to work out.  I see clearly, but my heart is rusted.

A sense of relief washes over us.  It is like we cannot turn the screws that keep us locked in place. I have found the answer, but it is too late.  I found what it is that keeps us burning, but it is not me.

A new chance to breathe.  This is my wish. I have had my fill of simple devices, and believe now that the catching of fireflies will be enough to the fire, and extinguish our lives.

A time before all this began, is where I will find that which raised me, and that which has taken me away. I feel content to do this, only because I am a sleeper, and only wake when the tempest is near at hand.

A FAR AWAY PLACE

Testing the strength of a bull. I hide, and am never forgiven. The lights are weak, and the solstice is too far. I have strength myself, but it remains hidden.  I will win for you, and that is my promise.

I believe in one thing. And that is meandering in winter snow.  I feel that the talons are here to stay.  They lounge, and never really feel the cold.  But do not worry, I have sense in these bones.

What is more magnificent than the dawn, is your height.  It reaches like a tower in dead of night.  There are treasures that are for the weary. I find the lights, but there is no one home.

Come and be placated. I hear the weariness of destruction. This much is true, but what of the laughing we do to hold back time.  It finds itself in a deep place, and is not for the weary – this faraway place.

There are times that should not stay.  The wrestle with angels, and feel that companionship is for the thrown away doll. I am watching, because I cannot speak. I feel the burning, but turn away.

What is this pain? It is the pain of too much fun.  I find ransoms that have no intender, and am happy to while away untold hours. Is anybody listening? I have the key, let us use it.

Catching glances, I find solace.  That faraway place is not for me.  It is for the wind, and all that will come to pass. I have sense, but no understanding of fate.  Why cry, when crying is for the whisperer.

Dense, and unfathomable. There are times I would see gone, but there are times that have wishing as their base. I have never known such trouble, and I will overcome anything that is in my path.

Why is there nothing to say? Because wind is for gathering, and the tempest is for laying down.  There are things which should never be, and I have found them.  They lay bare and brittle.

I will overcome, and know the sentence to be a trace, and the blistering of twilight duty a sequence of non-events.  Be calm, I will be with you. Be with me, and we will have it all.

WANDERING IN THE DARK

Arrows that have only substance.  I have known a special thing. It is something that the blades of the wind have not yet been able to dismantle.  It is you and me, and our covenant. I will love no other.  I will love no other.

There are trees in the distance, but I can not see them.  My vision is impaired by the drink I have consumed this evening. It helps sooth the pain, and brings me to that special place which is the night, as I know it.

Come and be a piper. I will listen to your tune.  I hear no other sound.  You are gone, but I am still here.  Reapers comfort me, but their call is the call of death.  How can this be? I have heard it all before.

I renounce, as I pick up.  I come for the evensong that envelopes as it expires. Does nothing here last? I am going for it – for what.  You will see in good time.

There are places we should not go to.  I have been to them, only so that my soul can see what really happens in these places.  I use the spark to burn the dry wood, and then I sit, and write, and here we are.

There are talons that shine.  We see them just before it is to late. All your towers, all your mighty buildings can not shield you from this.  I am here to conquer, but what is left to conquer? The soul.  If you have one, be pleased.  If not, come with me.

There is an avalanche that brings with it a sense of the right.  This is not a sense we need here.  We need passion, and strength, and camaraderie.  And in this, we will be set free.  With hope, not before it is time.

There is hope here, I can feel it.  But I must remember, the bitter fruit comes from the same vine. Dazzling, I will make it.  There is not time to waste, only that which is remaining.

An absence, I come for you.  I know you to be a truth, and yet….I stumble.  Why can I not see properly? It is because I dream, and am encumbered.  The conditions are right.  Or should I say, the conditions are write.

I bleed, I know not how. But when I sing, there is nothing but a gurgle.  I love this place, it is where I feel most at home.  But despite the distance, I will have more of what is, and more of what is not.

Carefully, carefully, I have sacrificed much for this, but when I am through, I will be a builder, a builder of things unknown, and unsaid. Careful, sparks will fly, and if I am true to myself, I will not come undone.

I am walking, like never before.  It is dark here, but my vision is heightened.  I can see, in the distance, a single rose, that despite the heat here, has yet to wilt.  I know my touch will blister it.  But that is fine, I have a memory for these things.

A road too far.  I miss the adventure, but have it in full.  I will ride the castings of strangers.  I will gather them up, and be more content that they are here. Do I write of my life.  Yes I do.  But not in the way you might expect.

Water comes in from somewhere.  I want things to be dramatic, so that I will know my life to be full.  I once knew someone who told me in the midst of night, ‘I wish to walk home, to have an adventure’.  I now know her words to be truth, and speckled with gold.

I am flying, I am wrestling. I am doing all things as before, but only with a mightier breathe.  I will not let these things constrain me.   I let go of them. And have a bottle of absinthe to tide me over.

There must be no room for hesitation here. I am taking a great risk, but one that (with a modicum of luck) will not let me down.  I always think, ‘you must always trust yourself, you must always trust yourself’. And here I am, forever trusting myself, and only sometimes falling.

There is a glue that binds us.  It is the simplest of substances, and it is the word. He who conquers the word, shall have more than enough. She who conquers the word, shall be the grand personified.

Poverty, you are great. You strip back all, and have the namesake of forever. When we are poor, we sing.

Going, going, gone.  I love the race, and know the distances to be insurmountable. When we have nothing, there is gorge that opens up, and spills out love.  What is this? it is my attempt to withstand all, so that I might escape.

A glitching remembers all that has come to pass. It senses there is nothing left, except scandal and the trite. Be with me listeners! I will lend something to you, that is not for music, but for wine.

What is the noise I hear? It is something more than I had hoped.  I have heard this sound a thousand times, and know it to be a treat.  What has darkness to do here. I banish you.  I take you backwards, and through you.

I have opened something very special.  It is not something I hide lightly.  There are beliefs, and then there are beliefs.  A constant ringing in my ears will not silence the critics.  They are here to stay, but so am I.

I work and work and work, and then, without a backward step, I let go.  And here, where the silences are in truth the night, I will ravage the sentience of wellness and truly be well, once again.

Does this flight never rest?  I am one to wonder if victories have a cost.  But what is the cost of this? There is only one.  I will let you guess what it is.

Fate hounds me, but I am content to write great things. I can only feel one thing, and that is up, and out and then through.  I break, so that I might continue.  I wish this will never end.  I wish, and am forgiven.

Be what may, I will speak.  I will constantly be that which I hoped I would be. And when we come together , I will have more to say.  This is my way of being elusive, but enough of me, what of you?

I catch the light, and have more courage than I can possibly imagine. But what of the night? Where has she gone? She is my guide, and my light. The light is from the stars, and from my heart.  I let them guide me, so that I might find higher places to reach.

AUTUMNAL WHISPERINGS

What is dearest? It is more than we know. I can have more convictions that I ever thought possible.  There is wind, there is water.  I will have that so I might give it to the sky.  A plenitude of nothings.  They come for me.  But I will have them back.  I will distil something as yet unheard of.  Come for me now, and take me.  There will be times when things are enough. And now there is now! I can think of no other way.  In the disheveled mess which is the dawn, I will come to wind back the years. There is no time anymore, but I will find time. The dancing is what the willow enjoys.  It enjoys it like no other.  But I have one thing to say.  And that is that when the April sky hurls its abuse at the sun, who will be there to gather the shards?  A real need to levy the banks has come over me.  It is like I never was.  And what we breathe is more like the foreshore as it winnows back and forward through the years.

I seem to be saying something. But that I am not.  I have silence as my most treasured companion.  And in this, sentience becomes a new name.  It is a brand that is not for the forest to understand.  Talent, it is like a feather, and is sought after like the fellowship of withholding.  You know what to say in these situations.  But as I asked before, who are you – this ‘you’? I will not let on. You are not like before, you are a new need.  An absence.

Despite this struggling, I find myself flying.  I find myself in two minds, and they are what the crackling of the moon dictates.

When I am free of things, I will come again.  There is a chance that things aren’t right.  But when the sun tells me that the light is here for play, I will be in enough spirit to find myself aright.  Moon beams also tell me that the apple of the tree are fine.  Come, the distance between this light and the next is like the fathomable travesty that haunts me. There are things which should not be said.  They are things the rain will not speak of.  But when the motion of the stars is a god-send, there will be a time for rejoicing.  Many people have worshiped at this alter.  They come in droves, they come is spades.  But what is it like to live in a world unpopulated.  It is like nothing else.

Keep me company, for I will know. Keep in the melting that is abbey as the morning sun traipses over it.  But in the mean time, I will have a vestige of solace, and know it to be true. There are times when the mounting pressure is like ice.  But this will never be.

I am like the wind. It finds itself in me. And when I am through, there will be more time sing.  I will sing a song that has heart beats like its father. In the shallow meeting place between two hearts, there is a constancy that allows more that can be met. Have a righteous feeling, and all will be allowed.

And when the trees have stopped their motion, it is like a band of silk. It will come for me, and I will know it to be true. But despite all of this, the sand will come for us like never before. But without a single thing to keep us still, we will have a partner.  It will be a glorious insistence.

There are places that should not be. We only see them when it is too late. But when I am through, I will see them no more.  The autumn is with us though, always. It is here that the fresh breeze sends us to that place we knew as children.

There is a wanting that transcends the day. It tells us that what is most important, and what is most at lack.  I am in the middle of a storm, but that does not make me stop. I can see clearly, as the shadows of the dawn guide us.

A pitter-patter of silences sends the distances of the night through the being of accomplishment. There is a sense we have, that when things are right, they won’t go wrong again.  But what we need to know, is that the moon will harvest all, and that the starling has a special way.

In time with this fugue, is a music that rises up, and has the newness of a fading light as its accomplice. Writing is what the sea most feels like.  It trembles, and then knows that the distance between this break and the next, can often lead to our undoing.  There is only one thing that will save us.  And that is autumnal whisperings.

A gap opens up in the space between things.  It is this gap which shields us from the worst of things.  It is this gap that believes itself to be a soldier, and will be more than we can grasp.

Be close to me, and we will find more than we can ever imagine. We will rise on sails of forever. But this can only be accomplished by tomorrow, and all her ilk.  The now leaks into tomorrow, and sends us sheaving, but without a sense that things can be righted.

I think there is only one solution, and that is to continue.  To stop with things is to let the devil have his moisture.  This moisture is a manna that knows no respite.  What I have felt in this hell, is more than the dawning of the sky can tell of.  If I had to say how fathomable the dimensions of the bell-bird are, I would so that to stop is the limit.  Feathers are like gowns here, and in them, we find life.

I treasure the measure of life.  Its measure comes from the backs that are bent in duty of the reminiscences that come our way.  What is death, but a doorway?

Finding that fission to do the work is a star lit paradise that tapers down into the strength of things.  I will always feel this way, just as the night has no claim on me.  I know, that in the distance, it will come.

Here, oh, here. Transport comes, but to no destination.  I am feeling like the wind.  I have never been able to fathom the mystery. It comes in unfound ways, but despite this, I still travel.  I travel to that misty climb that is the summit of kings.  But do not be afraid.

There are chances which are more than we want. I have found things that have never been found. I am drunk, but still able to articulate.

What is most present is my wish.  There is nothing more here than what is present. When the fibers of the soul check themselves into the night, here there will be recompense. Hurry now, the time that is lost between us can never be gathered again.

When transposing a great text, as monks of yesteryear did, there is something more.  I am this more, as it dries in the sun.

Feelings of camaraderie are here, and they know themselves to be a vapour.  This vapour is the wind as it travels to that mist climb that only the strong and the brave are willing to experience.

There are places that should not be. There are things which have always been. But in the middle of the adventure, I will find a place for you fate. It is a place that lets go before there is anything to let go of.

When the rain has fallen, there is enough of my foraging in the darkest places.  And here, where sand is want to fall, there belittles a new and inviting hope. It is the hope of ages as she comes down on silken roads.  This hope is like the stars as the sing to us of further places.

When I know you to be true, there will be a sense that lightning will not strike. It is the same sense that the starling has before it knows how to fly.

There was once a nuance that held in its embrace all the world.  But when the time is right, it will come again.  In this there resides something that should not be. It is me, as I find my presence in the mounting stream which is love. This love is not something we should forget.

Now that I am here, I can see what it is that keeps me blistering. I am fully aware that the treading lightly on worn out paths will come for its full necessity.

Now that the science of the ruff is in play, I will know it to be the sense of a thousand nights labour. Come and be my pity boy, as it sends its shards over and over again.

Now that I am free, I will tell you a secret. This secret is more than we can tell.  It is in the very fabric of our being, and knows that when the distance between this and that is divided, I will come in shapes that have no stir.

There is now something I will not forget. And that is the inside of the outside of things.  Believe me when I say there shall be no more of the just and the unjust.

When I am without, I come for you. It is not something I need to do, but do.

Now that I am without the seeming intransigence of nature, I find you singing in the breeze. I have a sense of what we should be dreaming about.

There is little reason why we have the touching to guide us.  I am in the middle of a sandblast.  This blast catches what we do, and sends it that further place that is like the nations we have to call our souls dead.

In the matrix of the mind that tells us that things are right, there is a well-being that believes itself to be true.

And when we are free, there will a new found longing, that drives as it sparks. In the mean-time, there is a foundling that resonates with the dawn.

I am seemingly here, before anything else. This sestina is our fathomable mass. Come now, do not be afraid.  I will be here so you do not fall.

I have yet to finish. But this is okay.  For all that is entered here is the dark. I will write until nothing is left. What I find most compelling is that the landscape painting of my life is nothing to go by. I have really had enough of the swings and the round-a-bouts of the night.  But what I must never let go of is light. This can appear like a wind that transgresses.

I can wax about the travesty of the past, but what I prefer to do is sing, and then repeat myself.  This is not something the lyre-bird has told me.  I knew that when the shadow had been cast on my endearing love, I would go on, and then be content with the mess that was our lives.

Traveling now, and with the nearness of the departure fully flushed, I will have more than anyone can ever know. There is a sense that what is lost is not enough to move us.

There comes a time, when the sentience we seek is more than enough. I know, that when the far-away land is here, there will travel with me a sense that being is in the middle, and life is cast adrift. I can only be what I want. This is my promise to myself, just as Redon wrote only for himself.

Come, we may never die, or only die when the sand has shifted.  Where is the wisdom in this? I do not know.  But what I do know, is that barking orders from the tree is not something we should out shine. This marks us as the noble and the true.

I will come now to my native topic – and that is Truth. Sometimes when the forever guiding light is turned inward, there is something that surprises us, as shocks. When the marrying of the majesty of things far gone is here, there comes a chance to be once again the night.

I see now the startling mess, as it jumps through time to remind me of times past.  But what is more in tune with Truth is that I have in my hands the power to change my past, and be assured of things.  There is a meaning to it all, and we all recover.  No one will ever know when I write this, for the view is shrouded in mist.

There is something about the gift.  It ebbs and flows, and knows the wandering of fireflies to be of comfort.

I will never again trust myself to the light of all that is. I will always find my own way, and there, where the chance is right, believe in things small and in their own right.

I have something else to say.  There are points in history that only garner recognition in retrospect.  But the sounds that guide us divine themselves by different beats. There are things we should only fear when time and chance are right.   I will listen no more to the ringing of water-born disappointments.  They only serve to be what we want.

 I have only one wish, and that is to be someone who does not dismiss autumnal whisperings.  I have in place, something inside me that will not wilt.  I have been to places that cannot be fathomed.  There is, in the spaces between this heart beat and the next, a sureness that lingers in the dead of things.

 There are new needs which have a hold on me.  They are what we knew to be gold, and what we thought was less. I see things a little clearer now. For when I walk in the middle of a lake of the dire, there comes a feeling that I don’t understand.

Wisping towards the newness of the rite, I look forward to the treasure of forgetfulness.  This desire I have found to be a strength that holds me up.  But when the meaning of things becomes bland, I slink away to the business of life.

I see something else here.  It is not me, but a vapour of all that is. This vapour rings in my ears, and has no chance of escape. There is something telling me to stand once again on the upright of the dawn. But I will not fall.  I will not fall.

When the far away neverness lands its bow on the seat of my love, I know that dreams are here for the taking. Be quiet, I feel something that has not been felt.  It is in me, as it is in you.  I will go for salvation, as a lead beater goes for the safety of the fire.

When the rippling of the snow feels itself to be a wanton believer, there are things we should not settle on. These things are drags of spindle as they come once again for deliverance.

What I have said is that things are in the balance, and there can be no new need to start again. I believe that when the curtain has fallen, there are flecks of dust that catch no light.  But when the being of the night is in our grasp, there will be a reckoning that has a fallacy at its base.

Come now, treasures do not give, as lightning does not take.  For in the window that is our lives, there is a doubling that is also a halving.  It sends us to our graves, but lifts us.

There are sounds I cannot comprehend.  They are here, and I let them lift me until I die.  But what is more mysterious, is that when the broken glass of our lives is lifted, here there will come a lightness that believes itself to be a jackal.  This beast is Dante’s as he comes again in suits of gold.  I once used Dante for love, but now, I use him for oblivion.

Forgiving the sand of all that is.  I have never been so in tune with the sea.  It lets me breathe, and then I can come up for air. This is not for me to explain, but is there, like autumnal whisperings.

I believe in things so strongly.  I hold onto these beliefs like landfill.  When the darkness covers me, I sense a new need to stay.  I have here things that are only for recording.

When madness comes to stay, there comes a placid calm.  In it, the embrace of the stars lights in untold majesty. Come and be a part of this grand adventure.  I love the whisperings of angels, as they placate the newness of forever.

Mist, and morning walks. These are the things which hold the sentience of the dawn.  My mind cannot control such things.  But that is okay, as the minions rises again for another challenge.

What is most important to me? Is it the sails on ocean bearing vessels? Is the time it takes to wonder through the seascape? I have no idea, as it turns out. But when I find that solace, I will be like a boy who has found his father.

A thing I often muse on, is that when the gladness of wanting nearness has harnessed itself to the sun, I come to that belief in things – a belief that wasn’t there before.

What are we living for? Is it the play of rays of light in the evening? I beg to say yes.  So when the dreams we have to still the disruption are there, we will find a way through.

I know something that very few do.  And that is that the easel is more than we can know.  It’s very fibres are a lock, that brings us to our knees.

There is more to see here.  It lingers in the worn out parts of the soul, and lets the travesty of marginalisation fail. I feel, like we all have, that the seeming distance is no distance at all.  I like what I see here – it is me.

When I can no longer be embraced by the withholding of sunbeams, I will find a new place to reckon the wind by. This new place is the moon, as it gives guidance to the mighty.

There may be one more thing I can feel. And that is your presence close to me.  This keeps me going, but does not give me the solace I seek.

Bend me, break me, I will not care.  I will only be what is never enough.  Things are made for breaking, but this breaking is not for me.

When the touchstone of a thousand afflictions guides me to the place of rest, I will know that many a night will be spent gazing of the ground of the antelope, and all her appraisals.

There can be no greater suffering than this. And that is, that when the trilogy of sunsets as cast its last embrace, there will be noon-tide, and great things will be accomplished.

I am in league with the devil.  He haunts me still. But when we are through, we come to a new dance.  I believe in one thing, and that is hope. This feeling leaves me wanting more, and having that near and far experience.

There can only be one thing to do. And that is have my sentience in the sun, and have in be burnt until there is no more. I like what I see here.  It is not me.  It is not me.

Coming to my place of rest, I am in mourning for the time it takes to saddle the horses of desire, and have them race. I am fortunate that I believe in things.  This is my mainstay, and my mighty choice.

When the demons of the glacier seek their price, I say – yes! And here where fate travels down from the top to the bottom, I know that grinning will get me somewhere.

What I have sought from the world is security.  But I have not found it.  But in the traipsing from this place to the next is a never before found wanting.  This wanting is what we all feel  like, when the sands have rushed down our arms, and the dead have had their sleep.

I know, that when the sun has reached its zenith, a happiness will impart itself in our lives.  But I must not be afraid, for to be afraid is to lose the fabric of our being on a distant shore.

But imagine this.  Someone works the minerals if our souls, and has the tempest to coach them.  But in the meteoric capitulation of all that is best, there comes a fire that listens as it undoes.

 When I am through with the vigour of the solstice, I will carry you like never before.  But in the meantime, I will undo all that has transpired.  This happening is what we most want to bring sailors to their knees, and ships less need to be still.

I have a need which is in the sentience of the light.  It comes in tears of forever.  This need is what the falling acorns want to capture.

There is something else I must say.  And that is, that when the minor bird fills me with dread, there is a rush that belittles the morning.  It sends stupendous wriggling into the spurious encounter.

Night time is here, as it always is. I will end the chase if I can, but only when you are there, fate.

In time to a chosen few, there will be someone to guide me.  This guidance is what the Minotaur can have as his own. But I must not be afraid, for to languish in  dreaming splendour is to whittle away reality. But this is what I must do.

I have found a way.  It is in the deepest night.  It is where we never thought we would come to.  All I can do is write, and then, be content with the meanderings of the stars.

Be with me, oh fate. Be my guide, as I am the newness of being as it feathers up to the treasure.  I am what I can see, this much is true.  I said to the starkness of reality, be what we want, and you will have all.  And it is truth.

There is no escape from the mourning which is our robust efforts. Catching the sound that escapes the drill is more than we have ever felt was ours.

I am like the wind as she settles on one of the things that harrows us.  This harrowing is my device that constantly belies the injustice of it all. But we must continue. We must continue.

I have a sterling desire to know the world. It is in me, as I am in you, world.  Come to the gallery with me, and I will show you something that is untold. We are untold, as is the world.

Green on the hills indicates brevity.  But this is not what I have come to achieve.  I have come to bring something of the obvious.  And that is something we must speak of another day.

Lay beside me, oh lake. I have seen your morning mist, and I know your beauty.  But I come for something more.  I come for the marrow, and the belief that childhood is for finishing, and adulthood is for adventure.  Be with me, oh calm sea.  Be with the familiar, as I am the unfamiliar.

Wishing for stillness, and having something more.  This time I spend on the top of the highest mountain, is what the damsels of distress call the unforgiving.  I sit in a room made of silk.  But there are barbs that do away with the need to be conscious.

When I die, there will be no one to greet me.  No doors, no ins and outs, no this nor that.  I have felt this in the contagion of the word as it spills me forward, and then back again.

What is left of us? I know than when the dawn lifts its spell, there comes more than we can ever wish for.  But when we see the well for what it truly is, then we will have nuances that know no bounds.

Come now, this is not time for recreation.  This is time for doing, and undoing, and being concerned with the well-wishes of the sun.  Be my keeper, oh sun. Be that which empties me, and keeps me floating.

I have made light of many things.  But not this.  And what is the ‘this’ of which I speak?  It is the Inferno Dante wrote off.  I am here, in this hell.  But I care not, because I can write.  This is that which spurs me to greater heights.

I wish to know one thing.  And that is – ‘why do we live to be swept away in the debris of time?’ This question I cannot answer. For I am a traveller, that knows his task is to finish, and not be blessed by any charm of any snake.

The time it takes to wander is my time.  I believe in many things, but what I do not wish for is the sun the daunt the feather of the corporeal magnificence.   I may die at any time, but if there was one thing I would do, it would be to gather myself asunder, and be that spark in the night.

There are mind-sets that give way, and there are those that hold sway.  But when the traipsing of footsteps in winter’s night come for us, we hear nothing of their call. I will be with you, despite all that is in the dead of things.

Much insight has gone into making this a lovely spring.  But what is insight, unless it is a multifarious combination of things that do not go together. I sense that when the call of the vicious comes, there will be nothing left.

I would rather give away the moon, than be silenced.  But what is captured by missing heart-beats, is the room we have to move.  I am like a feeling we never thought we would have. I seek this feeling, and know it to be true.

I love what cannot be accomplished. I love the side-glimpsed hopes of a thousand generations. They placate me as if I never were. And when the distance, between this love, and the next, is heralding the mighty, I will give all - every fibre, until it is gone.

When I have time, I will recollect that great adventure that is my life. But when I am through, the temporality of the darkness will be in my keeping.

To distil the yelping of the day, is what I most fear.  It comes as I come, in shards.  But this belittles the messenger of worn out souls.

The temptation I have is to set the bar straight, and have it rush in great wonderment, towards the precipice which is forever.  This is a need I have, as it bends the souls down into the meandering of the night.

Be with me now, of muse.  It will be what I have most feared, but only more. I must find a way through this malaise.  And when I have, I will rejoice, and know myself to be at peace.

What is this whispering, it is me, as I embrace the autumn, and have in nestle up to me in the coldest places. This is not something I shed lightly.  I feel this transparency in the light, as it cascades down my never ending shadow.  This shadow lights me in the darkest places.  This is not a contradiction, but a wish.

Hang on to me, for I am the one that does not rise on the wind. I am the one that flounders, as I let go.  Be with me now, as I find myself on pleasurable grounds.

There is a distance that has only one belief.  There are things I see in my flight that are more for findings, than for meanderings.  Be with me now, oh muse. Be with me, when I come for you. I know, that when the death that stalks me is through, I will have more need to do away with things.

There are sounds, and there are sounds.  But I will not be content with nothing.  I will fight and fight, until there is no more.  But when we are through with the dance, I will rest.

Come to me, sweetness.  There is in this voice a crescendo of appreciation.  But I have more to say. It is as if the leaving on the stable door of love is in the marrow of my veins.

Clashing and banging.  This I know to be a troubadour of utmost license. But be clear to me, for I must fight this ghost like none have done before.  Do not despise me, for I am written on the sands, like times of utmost pleasure.  Be true to me, for I will not fly.  This notification is written in the sky like a tide that has no name.  Come for me.

When silence is tumultuous, I will go to that other place, like it is the nails in the trees. Dispute me, and I will come for you.  For I am in that place that has no living, and no breathing.  I am in that place that takes as shards of glass.  Come for me, and I will have your soul.

There are tastes which forgive.  And are those that forget.  But where I am there is neither.  This fact has brought to me in my brief foray into the underground of the soul.  There was neither pleasure, nor delight. The only thing holding me was the dew on the ground in a morning walk.

I can only be one to tiptoe. For this traveling is like sand underfoot.  It shifts and snakes, and completely vanishes when we are free. Freedom, that is the key. When we have that supple solace, when can once ride the wave of forever.

There are things that should not be said.  But I have said them. Time and time again.  This is not my fault, but the power that guides me.  I live to reckon, and this reckoning has brought me to my knees.  I am writing again, for I fear life.  This is not my fault, and yet is! How is this so?

I can only be one with things through pain.  This pain is like my bed brother who hands the victims of calamity their righteous chains.  I can be one in the mist only by letting the seraphim wax bleed down my back.

When the needles have punctured, here I stand. I stand for you, and I stand for the rest.  I will fight to save things.  I will fight to be let go of.  But if we are not fighting, then we rest, and have time to steel ourselves for the next fight.

 What keeps me awake? Nothing.   I have witnessed so much, and yet I feeling nothing.  I like to believe I am immune to everything, but this is true only one sense.  I have that treasure which is the mound of dirt amongst the embers, and it lifts me, as only I know how.

Come and be a passenger on this long ride.  I have experienced madness, it is true.  But have I have only experienced recently is understanding.  This understanding tells me I am a writer, with wings in my hair, and fortitude as my embrace.

There is a sense to all this.  It is as a sea breeze, and as a new being in my belt. I am like one upon a rock, so said the great.  But I am more than this.  I am as one who confounds as he uplifts, one who says nay, when the saying is nothing other than oblivion.  It matters not if I am read. To be, to write, this is where our senses take us.

I am firm in the belief that hurrying from this place to the next is not what we have fought for. I come to clean, clean away the cobwebs that know only one thing.  And that is up, and away, and into the night.

I know things that bite.  They are the way, as I am the night. I will come for you when things are tight. And here, where a stark reminder settle us, I will be at the top, as you will be in between.  Come now, we must be away.

I set things alight for you. It is not because I can, but because I want.  This is where we are, in the middle. But certainty only prevails when the distance between rocks is at the place I can see it.

When a consciousness is brittle, it will bend again under your force.

I am only here in spirit.  I know no other way to be. My corporeal being is lost in transit. But when the sands of the hourglass are at rest, here I will be again, and be reticent to change anything.

I know, that when the belief that things can be set aright, I will be in that misty clime that is for changing.  Do not discourage me, for I am no longer here.

A stranger once said to me – ‘I will not come’.  But I did not believe him.  His voice had the tone of a warrior.  But this did not worry me.  I was sure he would follow.

What is left of me here? I do not know.  But what I do know, is that when the barricades have fallen, there will be more time to release. I have released before.  But not like this time.

Sometimes when the dancing is at an end, I can see that little bit further.  But my accomplice is like a visage, that like some hungry ghost, darts this way and that.

I am determined here, to do what I must.  What is there to live for? But everything. I am lost in the mist, and this tapping at keys fills the void, as I know it must.

When the solace of a lonely night fills me, I am in the embrace of some grand vision. In me it fills, and comes in tremendous over-reachings. There is in me something I don’t comprehend.  It is the scythe, as it is the harvest.  Come and be with me, it will bend us all.

When I have lost hope, there is something more.  It is pleasure as I know it to be. This believing is what the moisture of the believing has at its core.  I know simple things will not hunt me, and for this I am grateful.

Seeds of dust are what we want.  They are the force, as I am the last thing that diminishes. Come, and be the solid to my liquid, be the sun to my moon, be that which it may.

Glasses are half full, but what is that, when mischief rears?  It is more than all, it is the sentience of the trees, and the need to be what it may. 

When beans are in the bag, there arises a full encounter with the longing of the night.  Being so well travelled is not a god thing.  It shows us how the skeleton belies the well-wishes of all who have come before us.  And when we must muster our arms to the dawn, here there will be something more, and it will take us to that greater land, and tell us, all is well.

What I will not grasp, is all.  When I have found this solace, I will be with the chains that bind.  In this there is a mighty cascade that travels through me, and believes itself to be a lie.  But this is no lie.  It is the truth personified, and when the vectors that heat have burnt their way through my soul, I will come again.

I must try and try again. Because when the darts of angels have left their meagre earnings, I will be like life itself, and will know myself to be a god.

But when mistletoe is at the landing, I will fly, and be that thing which raises up, as falsity knows itself to be a truth.

Come my troop. We must know ourselves to be that which does not flag.  I come, only because I can. And here, where the forests are in the manger, I will come once again for another chance at immortality.

Be sure in one thing.  That the compassion we know is not what will keep the boat rocking.  It is that which calms, and soothes, but has a sting in the tail.

I hear music. It is beautiful.

Be with me, oh muses! Raise me up so that I might fight. And when the lounging of fireflies are enough to be with me, I will hear something else.  It will be me, and all that I can accomplish.

When being incarcerated is a curse, I take it as a pleasure.  I do it for you, oh word.  Master and slave.  Master you, slave me.  But it must not strangle us. We must continue.

I am in love with this, when the slights of hand are at their zenith, when the night-time is weary, and the heat of battle is our lives.

 Take what you will, oh life. I know that through this pain, there will be a victory. It will be sweet, as none have know before. This is what I promise myself, before it is too late.

There are things which should not be said, but I have said them.  These words rifle, as the dawn rifles through the corridors of my life.  This bending is what we knew to be the fallacy of a nights labour.

When catching these things, I have a sense that boisterous meanderings will teach me a whole new way.

 There is a lack in this grass. It bends and winds as a snake in our incompetence.  This night is like the rest.  It is something we do not comprehend.  But when I am through, I will come for you oh muses. This is not my delight, but my must.

We must always be doing something.  And in this must, there is a muster.  This drawing together holds us, as we must let go.  I know this to be a truth, for in truth, there lies life.

In the middle of something special.  I come, and then am placated.  But despite this, I know that weatherboards hum your name, and seekers have their delight.

What I have thought, is that when the meaning we find in life is sentenced to the wind, here we find that deeper meaning.  This is not something I would wish on anyone, but so many people find it.

When the distance that our love covers is a moisture in the hills, I come again in new guises. This eruption tethers the new starling to the withering embrace of the after-sound.

Be new to me, oh fate.  Give me something I have not seen.  For here, where the listening of angels is a rack, I will be more content than I have ever been.

I will send you to places never seen.  And here, where the night is like a god-send, I will be something else – something you can’t comprehend.  Do this for me, and I will find you in silk.

When choices are all we have, I will know you to be a planner in the midst of business. Do not linger here, for in the density of reverie, there will come a time to stop.

I know that when the traipsing on nuances is littering the sky, there will come belief, and  a little splendour.  It will be for you and me, and our combined belief.

 Stampeding through the corridors, I hear a noise.  It is the noise of heartbeats as they deliver what they never should.  I have come for you, oh soldiers. I am in this mess because there can be no other way. I have a sense, that when the nightingale is rapt with sufficient hunger, there can be more than we hoped.

I hope I am alive.  When the tendrils have mitigated the vengeance, there can only be one stop.  And that stop is up, as the life we all lead comes closer to itself.

I believe in many things.  But one thing I believe in is that machinations of remembrance are the soil that keeps us young.  Without these thoughts, there is a feeling that none have had. It is the feeling of fecundity as it lifts the weary.

Steering towards that greater sense of things.  I have often heard it said, that when the night-time has risen, there will be a case to answer.  But what I feel is the truth is more horrible.  It will be in us, as we are in it. I have the conditions, now let’s go!

 There will be more to this story. It is more than contempt can keep. Please be mindful, as the stairs are heavy with soot. I am one to marry furthering shores with steeples of last regret.

Watch as I fly towards what is best. I know, that in this wingless maze, there demands a new need to dust of the cobwebs. But when the winter hurries us, I can find only one thing to do.  And that is be what I most want to be.

There are businesses that transpire in the deepness.  But then there are those that come again in the twinkling of night.  I can only be one of two things. And that is the right, and not the night.

Come and be beside me on this great journey.  There are newness’s that  while away  as they sink.  But we must forestall the next encounter with the stars.  For when the travelling we all do is like fake water, there becomes a little bit of ice, where there was once heat.

My belief is that when the turning of spades listens to the distance, there will be a feather in my cap, and a belief that the dawn will be here to hold us.

Never in my life have I seen such praise.  It is the praise of ages, and the gathering of autumn fruit.  But this is no usual gathering.  It is the gathering of clouds as they sink once again into the horizon.

Be with me, oh moon.  Be with me to guide me along.  In the wondering of fireflies there will be a coat that has no solace. But it is a coat of much insistence.  It bleeds as it rises, and gives wonder as it gives milk.

In the distance, I have for you a gift.  It is the gift if ages, as she fires down the slopes of our lives. Please do not be disappointed, because when you are through, there will be release.

In the morning, I sing a special song.  It is the song of my first embrace with you.  I know it has long gone, but do not fear me.  I have seen a thousand things that travel as they pass. Be content. Our time has passed.

In the evening I let the song pass past my lips, and be a more withheld being.  Before I can see you, one last time, I tell myself that journeys are here for taking, and the newness of forever bends itself towards my knee.

I have a saying, and it is this – ‘be what you want, do what you do, and there will always be a feather to guide you.’ This is what I say to myself each morning, when I think of that which afflicts me.  But I am free now, and that is what is most important.

In the next instalment of fire, I will have a sneaking revelation.  And that can be my only hope.  I believe in you.  I believe in you.

There comes a change in me.  It is from the pressure of this life. In the heat of battle, sometimes, something arises.  In is in the mind, as it feathers towards oblivion, a new feeling, a feeling that is powerful as it is remorseful, comes.

In the mist, a kind of stark reminder beckons.  It tells us that the seeking if weather born blindness is what we need to nestle in things.  Be with me, oh muses, I will not let you down. I have come for you only.

When there is time, I will tell you a tale.  It is long, like so many travelled roads.  It twists and turns like the water on still lake.  But be sure, you will like the end.  It is in pieces, but is grand.

When the time it takes to whisper is etched in snow, here blossoming rose petals will call out your name.  This is no easy thing, and so takes some thanks.

Believe in things, I hear you say. But I must anyway.  I must, so that the worrying we do is like a fast sinking magnet.  This is my wish to you.  To be more than you want, and be everything.

There are eddies that shine. Their current cradles up, and lets the sun know that your rising is like the sea, and your denomination is that of the world’s currency.

There can be no greater crime than to push things to the edge.  This starts a motion that ends in only one thing – and that is greatness.

I put a spell on you, so you no longer sleep. This I do, to make you realise what it is to breathe.  I have the talent, and I will show you if you like.

 There are traces we should not let go of.  In this amount is the sum of all things. I tell you now, that when I am through, there will be nothing left unsaid. I have the power, and I will use it.

Come now, believe in me. I wield the Trojan, just as I wield the sun. I am mellow in my anger, as you are soft in your epiphany.  There are things that will leave you unwieldy, just as there are things that have no bite.

Do I write from experience? Yes and no.  I write as if this casting net was full of holes.  I write as if the never ending fight is upon our doors.

There are places we should not go.  I am here, but do not despise.  I am hungry here, like a ghost that has no wandering. Forgive me, I am at the limit.

Too much is left to the devises of remembrance. I am at that stage where end meets end, and that is where all writing begins.

Pleasure, that is what I leave to the gulls. There are pleasures at the occasional thing, but I need more. I need a life led in its fullness. I have known people like this, and I hear their call.

I write because the soft rainfall is with me.  It barks as I do, so that dreams are sweet, and snowfall gives comfort.

Beginning again, I hear that angelic whispering that is the autumn.  It is a time of closure, and of new beginnings.  Who knows here it will end. I am like an apostle, who, having given up lodgings, finds a new place to stay.

Alright, enough of this.  I will show you something that will leave your head spinning.  It is more than I can tell. It is something so deep, and dark, than none who enter will escape.  It is this.  When the trepidation of an age has had its fill, there will be a noise, so poignant, so inside itself, so apt to pilfer, that the sun will finish its arc, and the moon will fall in on itself. This much I have said.

Now, there are other things in this world that are not for the foolish.  But then again, it may be said, all things are for the foolish.  Through these words I create a world.

There is something that drives me. It is not you; you are gone.  It is me, in all my refinement, and all my misshapen guise.  I have this, and it gives me something to wonder about.  I was once a god, but having fallen on hard times, and now appearing dishevelled (even more so than before!), I wonder amongst the hell beings, with only one thought.  And that is to write.

 I am in that seething mist. It controls me, as I control it. But I must not be concerned. There is something more that I do not realise. It is life, and I am it.

Come and be prepared. This journey is not for the light hearted. In fact, it is not for the hearted.  It is for those who have no soul to give.  It can’t be given, for it is already gone.

Do not read me for pleasure. Read me for trepidation. Read me because the stars demand it.  Read me, not because I am dead, but because I live! I have heard your call, and I come for you.

Come on, let us be friends. I have many, but you are required.  Let the semblance of a shadow not be the thing that binds us.  I look, and you are gone? Why?

The green that the distant hills speak of encumber something more.  Their grandiloquence is mine, as it is yours.

 There are new things which the old could not believe in. These things are what the dawn shudders to comprehend.  They are the things that night-time used to call home.

Come now, believe in me. I am the one who shudders when the fruit is on the vine. I am the one who kneels in supplication when the trees will not stand.

When disasters strike, there is a sense in which things are still fine.  This is because wires are like ice, and they are no good for supplication.

When the fire that guides me has recovered, there will be a rejoicing like none have known.

Simplicity, that is the stasis point.  And when the meeting of two minds is at the forefront of the morrow, I will be in need of something to drink.

Foraging around for nothing. That is what I want. But is that what the design of the stars wants? I think it is, but I can only show the way.

Fast approaching. Fast approaching. This is the signal for the last.  The last of what? I can only see clearly when the mists have vanished, and the need for tempest blasts has had me.

Be what we want, and you will be without care.  Be what we need, and you will find solace.  I love this adventure, and know that my time is not up.

I have once heard it said, that when the time is right, music will spill from the heavens.  This is true in only one sense.  And that is the sense I make.

I am finally here, that long sought for place, where the moon is at its height, and the sun is rearing to strike.

I actually cannot believe it, the little bit of forgiveness has grown full-blown. It has come to take me away, and I am here now.  I cannot believe it.

But what is happiness after all? Is it the sense we have that things in the world are nearer to their source? I believe it is something more.  It is the sense that moisture countenances the most ardent pleasures.

I must be careful what I write, for in these words are the most simple things.  They travel through me like a wind that knows no recourse to the afterlife.

FORAGING IN THE NIGHT

Tempest blast.  In is in me, like never before. I smile, because I am like the wind.  I let things come, and then go.  I have no need to tail the vapour trail. This is my continual denial.  There are beliefs that herald themselves around the moon, and they are mine.  I feel like something is amiss, but it is just my wondering that falls flat.  I have a second sense, and that is for suffering. Do not believe me, but follow me unto that misty shelter which is home.  There are homes that lead to the mess, but there are homes that comfort.  I will send for you, my love.

And when the dance is stable, I get bored.  There must be motion, and more of it.  I can only be what things are not.  This negation sends me scurrying into the undergrowth.  It is a mission that has no hope, but only glory.

I come for you, oh night. I come in that guise of the warrior, as he steps down from the slopes of time, and travels back again.  There is nothing like the slopes of hell to comfort.  I do not know if I will surface, but I must continue.

Be with me, oh muses.  Do not sink me. If I must be sunk, make it quick. For in the time it takes to beat one heart-beat after another, I will have found solace.  I drop what is most precious when the time is right.  There must be the right conditions, and these are they.

When I have had my fill of suffering, I will fly to that lofty place which is the dawn.  There is a great prize there, which is me as I have come to be.  I have seen all (but one, and maybe then), I have smelt that fires of the Bedouin night, but there comes a time when there is too much.  And when I reach there, I will come again, and know nothing to be too strong.

There are fires that seek no milk. In them, I find my solace through the word. The word is king, and his queen is the night as I know her.

With feeling, I continue. As long as I have the means toward the word, I am happy.  But there will come a time when that is not left to me. But I must write, and in doing so, feel my compassion for things slip away.

Believe me when I say, that the night will not have me, and the words I spill will take me there.  I am about to go on an adventure that that has no might, and no power to compel.  Be with me spirits, those of you who lurk in the dark.  I am yours, and for one reason – to write.

Feel my need, and I will give you all.  There are new found wanderings that belie the fact that stasis is here for a reason, and new found grass has the smell of heaven.  I never liked heaven, it is too short. I look to hell, and there I can create.

Be a sense that the night is a travelling disguise.  I have never really believed in anything but myself.  I am read, but only because I write.  There is a duty in the dying of things. It is the duty to begin again, and be more faithful the aegis of what is.

I cannot be what you want. I am past that, and here, the neverness of spring binds us to the shores of hatred.  I was once a good man, and sometimes, even now, I sing a song of the righteous.  But I am past that now.  I simply be, and write.

When I am at the end of things, I can sense a new adventure.  And that is one that does not stop. It is one I have never heard of, and only believe in because my heart will not stop. Silence you fools who try and stop me.  I cannot be stopped.  Not for any flirtation, nor any thing that titillates.  I am the one that forgoes, and in forgoing, senses things aright.

There burns in me something brighter, something stronger.  I no longer eat, but only sleep, when things are right.  This is what I have always had, and it sends me dreaming of many uncomfortable things. I live for the adventure.  And in this, there is something that uplifts, despite all. I will sit at this keyboard until there is nothing left.

Be my guide, oh powers. You were Strindberg’s guide, and I now know you to be mine.  There is much that you take, and much that you have as a feather to consol all those who laugh.  Be with me, and I will give you a never ending ride on the wings of misfortune.  I feel you, and so will not stop.

This is the greatest ease in things.  To be free of the shackles as they blister the sun towards another chance at fate.  There is more in heaven and earth (hell) than your philosophies could dream of.  I am aware of the powers of hope. But I renege them, just to see what I can see.

In the middle of this playing with fate, I must stop and be considerate of inspiration.  This little bit of calm clatters in my soul (which is no longer with me) as a baton in a solemn race. What do I care what will happen to me. I am more concerned with the life that is lived by scoundrels, that set aright the testing waters of all of our combined wantings.

I was once a well man.  I had pleasure, I had sense.  But now the snow belittles my solstice, and the little bit of calm I now have comes in the face of it all.

I am here to do one thing, and that is ride the wind, just as Shelly did on his ill-fated lake.  But mine is not death, but a death of the soul. I am here to work, and reach the goal.  What is that goal? I will let you work that out.

Money. It is something that has a whispering quiet.  We all seek it, but I am sure we will never truly find it.  Lust, that is the factor that winds through the corridors of our combined existences.  I see more, and less.  Of it, and of everything that is not it.  This is my wish, as it is the wish of others. Come and be my sand, oh money.  Come and let you sift through my fingers, and let me believe there will be no end.

What I have found in the telling of fortunes, is that the believer is not the one to benefit.  The believer rings in our ears.  When will this end? What am I talking about? Only the truth, which has always been my guide.  There is nothing left to say, only all that is.

Music. All the composers have gathered by myself to sing one last hymn as the wind rattles my spirit, and knows that things will never end. I have made my choices, and they are real.  But what I have not yet decided on, is where I will settle my soul when I have reclaimed it.  It is gone, and because I will not stop, there is no hope.

I need a new belief.  It must sway me as the sun sways the sea.  The great sea, whose movement is the movement of us all.  It comes for me, as I come for it.  It is not my expense I consider here, it is my will – a will that is cast aside like the drowning of the tell-tale liturgies of times passed

I will not tire in this concentration.  It is because I will, that I will succeed.  And when I am in the midst of battle, I will come for you, oh fate.  And I will have you.

Dreaming is still to come.  And when I am through there will be no more dreaming.  There will be a great light, and then nothing.  I fathom a great calling, and it shocks as it renounces. I will find myself tether to the light, and as I speak, there will be silence.

Come now council, I must do what I must do.  In the twinkling of an eye, I will be there. I must not falter.  I must rise myself unto that unduly gathering that is the distance between this star and the next.  And when I feel like stopping, I will call to mind what awaits, and then be content to draw and quarter myself, so the stillness will not have me.

I am awake now, as I always knew I would be. The new and the knew.  That is something I must whisk away to truly be the handsome man I used to be.  But there is a cost.  And that is work, and solitude, and all that lies in between.  Do not be a soldier here, be that which bares no arms.

A likeness that follows me is the footsteps which fate unduly levels at me.  I must awake before I am through.  I have found new ways to be, and new beacons to guide me.  Listening to the stillness I find that which can only be given in the dead of night.

I cut myself off here, for it is all I can do.  I must dance this dance, and then let the marrying of winter angels make their decision.

Be what I want you to be.  It will be in my faith to let you down.  Despite the condolences of the deepest regret, there will come a time that doesn’t last. I know many things, but they are not in my belief. I feel that treasures are for keeping, and the night will have its fill.

When the direct action of the daylight sits down on shallow slopes, better needs will have their say.  Believe me when I say, that the treasures that are our birthright will come again in a more menacing form.

This is my journey.  To light the things which cannot be lit.  To weather the storm that is the harbour of the fading of neverness.  I can be sure of one thing here, the considerations of the dying light are something that we must do away with.  You are right, oh night.  You are right, as we are wrong.  Come to me when I sleep, and be assured that, what it takes, will be enough.

Measured in times of bliss, the ambrosia of considered near misses is what we want to dispel the lingering acceptances which are our fate.  Am I mad? Indeed I am.  But I revel in this folie like a sandstone bridge.

Come to me, my senses.  I am on the shore of a never before felt belief.  It comes at me, so that I may never stop.  This belief is the one that stays me.  But I move on anyway, because the night is our brother, and he sings as he weeps.

Be assured, I say. Be assured that the time it takes to write these books is the time it takes to unwind in passages of neglect.  In the measure we have to see clearly there is time enough to find love. But who wants love when the whispering of delinquency is enough to soothe our souls.  I am going for something great, something I don’t understand.

The weather is here with us – or I should say the gods that bestow weatherly fortune.  The best joy in life (and there are few, which are the good ones) is to deny oneself the oxygen to breath.  Always follow your inner aegis, and know that, when things are at their worst, there will come a sign that has no modicum of birth.  We must search deep for it, and have as our accomplice the dawning of fate.  There needs to be something more to this, which we will come to.

I have had many near misses.  But the one that strikes me the most is like the one that never sleeps.  I have recovered, because I know the world to be a scandal, and the distances between selves to be that which can no longer be upon us.

There are many shocks that I will encounter, and there are many shocks that I will cause.  But the faster I go, the more assured I am, that what I do is for a greater good. You cannot deny me this, oh fates.  Because when the chasing we do ends us, here there are new likenesses to do away with.

Come with me, oh fates. I am at that point now where it will all come closing in on me.  You are the one to guide me, and that is be one of the few.  To guide myself is folly.  But to be guided, that is what the dawn will have.

In this desire, is all things. I have heard it said that death carries no weight.  And this is how I respond - death carries with it its own yearning, and a feeling that wells are not deep enough, nor wide enough.  I can only be content when death is at my door step.  I believe in you death, and your power.  But it is not enough to say how far, or how wide, or what is in between. Paying for life, I reflect on the powers that be, and know that the tempest will not be enough for me.   I must go now, just for a while.

I am back, and what I have found, is that things never last.  Difficulty is my blood, and the things that tempt us are not too dissimilar to ourselves. I beckon a greater calling.  When death has me, I move to that beyond place which is the sky.  And when the dancing of footsteps has a new need, here breaking bones will be in disbelief.

 What we cannot see, is what the distance between this and that has to offer. I come prepared for any eventuality.  I hear your voice, but it does not register.  I hear what it is that makes you suffer, but my love is elsewhere.

In the feelings we had as children, is more than we could ever hope for. I know things will right themselves, but I candidly believe they will be more than we can comprehend.

What have I left? Is it in my song? Is it in the trees? It is me, and all that longing will entail.

I have more than can possibly be.  And in that, I mean to say, I have nothing. All the riches in the world cannot placate me.  I quest for one thing, and that is hope.  When I have it, there will be something more. I am heightened, and I do believe.  Will it get me there? I hope so.

When foundlings distance themselves from life, I know I will find them wanting. But the birds of the trees will only have something special if I give it to them.  Motion, dear motion.  You are the rock, as I am the solstice. Be calm, my precocious.  There will be more to come.

I line up my sins, and have them bounce back on me. This much I know to be true.  But life can come in shears of gold. Tapping away is all I have, and in this legitimacy I will know a peace.  I do not presume to know such things – only write of them.

I have found the gold that covers life.  It is in the heat of battle, and knows itself to be a traitor – when times are right.  Keep going, keep going, I have found the prize. It will take me all the way, and then I will want for nothing.

Be calm, I say. There can only be one solution.  And that is to through you into the deep, and have you swim a million miles.  I will not rest.  Not now, not ever.  There are things which cannot be, but there are things that excite.  And this is that one thing that we shall not name. Hope!

Be content, there will be a time for redress, and a time to let go.  Ah yes, to let go, I know the phrase (and the practice) all too well.  I once let go my soul, and have nary see it since. But that is fine, it has gone to the devil. He has given me riches, but I do not feel them.  He has given me all, but my time has come to give it back.  My soul is still his, but this is his way.

Life is a never ending disciple.  Or should I say anti-disciple.  Whichever way you chose.  There is no going back, only over the trenches, and through again.  Do not ask me to be polite, I have nothing left to give.

When a beggar asks me for money, I give it.  Whatever is spent upon is not my concern.  The dawn has the same covenant with the clouds.  We each dispense misery through our charity, but for the dawn, there is appreciation of its beauty.  For me, there is nothing left but the journey.

There are times I wish to give in.  But then...a magic appears.  It is as if the snow on the mountains has uplifted me.  There are changes to this, intermittently, but all that is left, at the end, is force.  A force to do with as I might.  Come now, we must not be pleased.

I will sit here all night if I must.  But the starling knows differently.  It hides from the tempest, and only know the spring sun.  But what I quest after is the temptation to gather the tempest blast, and let it rain in shards over my tattered life.

There are things which should only be held, and not kissed.  That is the face of the un-faceable as it drips sweet tears unto the shelter. Be with me oh muses.  Be with me.

I kindly let go of all that I have learnt, and I sometimes believe in things that should not be believed in.  I use them as a sounding board to cast a net on all that is.  Believe me when I say, ‘we will not return’.  Only our conditions of existence will be there to greet us.

I am like the wind.  I do not behold what others do.  I am not special, but unique.  I write to conquer, and not merely to quell.  All that life has presented me with, I cast aside.  I continue with the shirt on my back, and now that must go. The journeyman, who knows which footstep is which, will have his hand in everything I say.

Where does time go? I enter the void, but I have companions.  They are the ones who rub milk down my aching limbs, and lift me up, when the dance is no longer a real one.  There are real consequences for my actions, this I know only too well.  But they are mine, and no one else’s.

Pity the sheep who cast the first net, they are the ones who will be invigorated by the death of another.  I feel a power that is not mine.  It is a smothering as it is an uplifting.  Crags on mountain passes are wont to be in touch with their aegis, but only because we let them.

Be still, there is power here.  It is a rock that knows no rain. It is a belief that tracking through the storm is only for the unique.  I will only beg once, and then it is time to go.  The stain glass of the ancient abbey (a structure that has known time, and all that it can entail) is all that fate will let us have.

When will this be enough? Of course it never will.  There is nothing that can attack us here.  But the rite of spring will be something that will placate us. Who will ever read these words? Only the lucky, and those who wish to climb to the peaks, and have the great adventure beckon to them.

Most of what the forest says to me, is to be calm.  But this is not my lot. I have feathers that need flecking, and tall stories to tell.  Be that as it may, the beckoning call that lands the birds in trouble is simply this – do not tell a soul.

In the weeping distance is a secret. When we are at our worst, and things have closed upon us, there arises a special power.  It is the power to change.  It comes with honesty, and an inkling of self belief.  When the sun comes slanting in through the window, this power is evident.

Transposing ancient manuscripts, this we will tell of.  The monks who do the work are all of what the dawn has wanted.  They have no desire for the world, but this is what makes them great.  I am all for the world, and its many encompassing similitudes.

 Gasping for air, I continue.  I have never found what is right, only that which makes me great.  I have spent untold hours listening for the breeze.  Its sound is a song that uplifts as it takes down.  How can something so dangerous be so beautiful. This much I know.

When the deepest well is full, here Whitsunday weddings branch over into nothingness. I can feel your lack, as I feel your presence.  Be calm, that is all I ask of you.  Be calm, and be happy.  But do not be me.  It is a shame I have felt, that a treasure has been lost, and a new need to harness the butterflies is here.

Camaraderie is a spring board to neverness.  I am faithful to the wind, as I have mentioned.  But I am not at liberty to tell you what I have found in your absence. I believe it is something only for myself, and in saying that, I have said too much.

What is the path of resolution? I have only known one endeavour, and that is to be a party to fate. When there is stillness in action, there will be a plateau to rest upon. I am here now.

Why am I happy? Is this the end of bellows that speak no name?  What I really believe is that the tempest has sent me packing. I feel like never before.  Where am I going? I have never felt the digging that forages in night think is best.

Coming back again is an inevitable swing that accompanies a first sung mistress. But when the density of twilight beckons the foreground, there can be nothing more than joy.  Why do I sing with the tuneless? Because it is my right, and my most ardent passion.

Conditions are right for the harvest.  I am not one to settle on fires that have no brightness. There is a damp that is like the sails in open air.  What more do you want from me, of fate? I have given every fibre of my being to this mighty undertaking.

I can only be sure of one thing.  And that is, that distances are a cross between the light, and the clouds that travel through them.  Most species depend upon something. But I wish to never again be mis-comprehended.

Why does the sun never come up? Because when we sleep, we miss that which is most precious. I want more than is possible.  Because when I rise, I see the shapes that are night’s harvest.  This is my own, so I wish never to set foot with the dragons of night.

Coming and going, that is how I see things.  I am remiss to ever let the dance fold.  I know what release it brings, but I can only scurry for more.  I have set things up, so that the daylight will tell me the time, and treasures of winter will not be here to let me go.

I am through with this game.  The night cannot hold me, as the day has only its own devices. Unbelieving, I spread my wings, and have enough time to sleep. But sleep comes with dreams that bind.  Do not believe me. I will show you.

Why is it in the midst of battle that things seem aright.  I beckon to wonder.  This flight is all that I can call wonderment.  What can we say?  I have stars where my eyes used to be.  I come prepared, but too late.

The next thing I will do, is send my ships to foreign shores.  Here, where the mist is not in the air, but along the ground, there are chances at things.  I am a nuance that believes things can just be, and that we must only be ourselves, and only then, when we can be.

 I will address our most ardent need. And that is the here and the now.  Without holding onto the tapestry that guides us, I will flow like the sentence that never was.

A kind of calm beseeches the starling as she nestles up to the rock face. A healthier style of remorse sinks into the streets.  I took something which should not be taken, so I am here, and have a feather in my hat.

Creeks that run through eternity are the ones that never bring us back.  They stampede our lights out, and commence a shooting battle with considerable opponents.

What is there to do, but bring down time?  This is my one thought.  But there is much more to do than this. It is like my life has been sucked into the bleeding mass of ingratitude, and left to be on its own.

Conquer me if you will.  There will be times for laying waste, but there  will also be a time for harvest.  This is my time, as I seek again for the recognisance that is the treading on fake waters.

Be the thing which binds.  It has a way that I know to be true (only too well). Bleeding is part of my exposure, and it will come to us all, before it is too late.

What will become of the dawn? It is like me in many respects.  It brings incision, as it brings dire consequence.  These consequences are not mine, but all that is.  Believe when I say I will return.  It is because I always do.

Cheaper now than ever before our souls. I forage in night to find mine, but it simply lays waste the tendrils of what is dearest to us.

Clapping and cheering, the mass of foreclosure haunts the weary.  But considering the latitude I find myself in, I despise what is to come.

A sneak peek at the windows that look out to the sea. They are clasped is mighty union, and are what we most want.

Good, I am gone.  That is my lot.  It could not come sooner, than when the spikes of the night bring down their doom.  But I know this – I will survive.

Grating and clawing.  There are things I see that are not for the faint hearted.  All I need to do is write, and fate will bend for me.  This is a truth that the swallow calls the now, but I call the here.  There is nothing left to do but wait.

There is something out of the blue.  It is me, as I come, sword in hand, and ready to placate all that comes to pass. Be assured, I will not wait. Not for any man, of any woman. I come to renounce.

When the bees in the hive sense pollen, they come in roaring laughter.  That is what I wish. To be still, and calm, and even quiet.  But this is not my lot.  It is the lot of angels, whose force is of steel, and whose touch is of love.

Be quiet, oh simplicity.  Your reach is not my reach.  Your soul is not mine.  I have come further than ever before, but I miss the sweetness of your touch.

There is a luck in things. But this luck is a hard fought accomplice.  It is hard won, and easy lost.  But do not despise me, for I am the bear, and you are the unicorn.

Castles rise up from the mist.  They say to me, do not be afraid.  I have understanding if such things.  And I am very careful what I say.

The night, through which I forage, is a dancing need.  I come to be sure of one important thing.  Night-time is the gladiator, and the sun is the shield.  I will force myself to be all that I want, but this might not be enough.

Your candour speaks, as I speak the rose filled deliverance.  I waiver, I waiver.  But when the count comes, I will arise again. Through new seeds, and excellent resolve.

Something comes across me.  It is the tent, a device which shields, but which lets go of its inhabitants when the wind gets too strong. But I have the solution. Write the right.

Forever missing, I cannot tell where.  This is my importance, and my will to be.  I will seek, I will find, I will blow your house down. But one thing I will never do is cease.  And when I do, there will come guardian angels to guide to that place of peace.

I have ground to a halt.  But this was always meant to be.  The stars foretold of it, but did not reckon of the cost.  Be true to me, oh sailors of the night.  You are my companions, as I am your guest.

When the semblance of achievement is near at hand, something clicks. It is neither in us, nor away from us.  It is the fight, it is the might, it is the tethering of times past to the present.

Come now and be a part of this. It is a rallying point, a cry, and furthering, and a departing.

I have made choices in my life, and I stick by everyone of them. To truly believe is to set the ball rolling on the tide of misused understandings.  Follow me, and I will make the mountain seem a trollop.  Be that as it may, there are seeds here that choose no yearning.

I am flat, but my bounce is like compassion in the night.  Follow this, why don’t you.  Don’t confuse the lisp for the chin, nor the lips.  It is time to rise, and time to do things that are right (even the wrong will suffice, in measure).

Littered here are the bugs of metamorphosis. They ping, as we all ping.  But now, when a cough will suffice for pneumonia, I am cast adrift.  I have no fear, but so do you.

I am thinking of something else now. I am thinking of the moonlight, adrift in motionless wonder.  The moon does not move for me, it only lingers.  But despite the night, I have two things to do.  That is right this ship, and secondly, sail to that beyond place which is forever.

When the snakes that bind are here, I will let them in on a little secret.  One must  never utter these words, but I will – be yourself at your own expense! You must always be that which you create.  These are the words of the mighty.  Society is built on these things.

I do not give advice, because the sand will not take it, as it swallows you up. Be this as it may, I have found something more.  It is married to the sea, and must remain nameless.

Heaven knows, there is no heaven.  I couldn’t resist the playfulness of that.  But I bring with great gravity is a sense that the horizon is here only for a short while. This means that when the gates are open, there can be only one closure.  And that is the closure if the soul.

Where is the leitmotif I crave? It is everywhere here, as you see.  It is in the bones of ancient soldiers.  It is in the marrow of which we speak.  I feel your deception, but I have my own. What is given, will be taken.  What is here will be there. etc...

Come now, do not be so placid.  I come for you, as I have known you.  What I do not know, intrigues me. How is it, that sense in the senseless carries with it the weight of the world?  I know not what to say.  Should I be more prone to laughter, I do not know.

 Passion, and inclination.  There is never enough of either.  I forgive all things, if these vestiges of hope come together.  I have been the victim of them, as I have been the perpetrator.  I forgive, just as those must forgive me. I give way to passion as a passenger gives way to the steer.

Be wary of me, I seek avoidance.  I care not for exchange, but only what poetry will give.  The clouds are an almost unattainable joy, as are the coastlines of the world.  But I must continue.

Happening now, is all that is.  This is all that is, in the here and now.  Be with me, despite myself, and I will show you a great thing.  I have never felt more alive.  Just as the night is my accomplice, and my foraging a temptation.

What crime have I committed? I have done many things, but what I know is that winds will have their blasts, and time will have its fill. Whatever I do, I do for writing.  This much is known of me.  But be assured, the tanks that are filled with harmonies will not bite.

What is it that keeps us ticking? Rise up! This is the only way to know.  I embrace cliché to overcome it.  I love it, in fact, just as the lyre bird loves the ground upon which it leaves its litter.  But am I a liar.  I will ask you, who knows me well.

There is a tension in the air.  It breathes as I breathe once again to save my life.  There is a wanting that displays the show of a native courtship between two flecked reptiles. Come, I need you now. Come.

There is what we call in the profession a ‘vestige of normalcy’. I have not accrued the demerit to offer myself as normal. Or maybe I have, given circumstances.

What have we here? I think it is a ghost, the same that almost destroyed me.  What the storm yearns for, is direction.  Universal humanity will have its tidings, but we must go beyond, and there curl up life a new being, and know home.

The forest must do its work.  I am secret, and hard to find.  There are things you will never know about me, but I will know them, and have a closer look at god.

What is surprising is that temperance is a thing best understood with a blade of grass tucked into your pocket. You can see better that way, as your balance is true to the stone.

A glance is all I need to settle things. You are me, and I am you.  This sings itself to fruition.  I will have none of it though.  It is more than I need.

What do you want from life? I will give you a hint – the sea only knows itself.  This is true, but also false.  It is false because the currents are only able to move in their own motion.  There is a combination that has seen its last grasp.

Come, come, come.  Flippancy is all we have.  There are things in this world that bite.  But there are more things that only harp, and so are inoperable – like a cancer that travels in blackest night.

There are wanderings that know no destination.  There are uplifting travels, and then there are ones that combine heart with soul with a pleasantly dressed aplomb. Which one are you on?

There is belief in the steadfastness of things.  But I beg to differ.  I see things as they are, and that is through prisms of night.  There are stairways that lead nowhere, as there are lights which lead everywhere.  Give me the former, and you can use the later at your pleasure.

What now? What is it that travails you? I have one solution, and that is to give up everything, and believe once again that the night is all we have, and the sounds of motion are our own.

Why must we continue? Because in the deepest well there is a treasure.  It knows itself to be great, and knows that wantings can be cast aside at any moment.

Verily there exists a firm ground.  It does not slide, it only transfixes us.  So far away. But for those with a goal in mind, there comes new ways to be.

Great is the night.  My foraging is not that which gains, but that which takes.  I have been here before, where the night trains its lens, and takes aim.  I am not surprised I am in range. But I will fight again, and be content that adventure will only have her way with me when time and chance are right.

I am in the middle of things.  I went to a place where there was no light, only scary sound.  I now have light, just enough to see the beasts which assail me.

Why have I not the courage to do what may come.  It is because the further I travel, the more likely it is that the sun will stop burning, and the dew on the ground with hold concourse with the grass.  Be as it may, I am still here, and I cannot be diluted in my progress.

Work. We all work – even me.  I see things clearly now. That which binds us, is that which saps our need to be indifferent to the sky.  I have a semblance of assurity.  I will win – in the end.  But this end is long, and never before has there been so much at stake.

A writer has only one invective.  And that is to ruffle.  Be not a good man who enters here.  The good is for Plato. The in between is for the writer of note.

There is no stopping. Things bend, as they must, but when time is in its plenitude.  What is that I hear you say? Is it enough? It is never enough.

Fighting through the mist, I come to new insights about the soul.  We must only hang on when the desire to do so is at its strongest. Considering what lies ahead, I have one thing to say. Nay!

A SUNLIT MIST

Darkness, but something more. Winnowing, but in between. I have the wind as my guide, and the forest as my companion.  I stand at the gates of hell, but know that to enter is too fade. I believe in happiness, but don’t know if I will find it.

Be with me, and I will be yours. But, so that change will not carry us, I will ask you one thing – ‘where are you going?’

It is in me, this landslide. It enters through the sunlit mist, and does not know when to stop. I write for you still, but you have gone.  There is nothing left to tell of, only what is most like the dawn.

Can I work through this, these pieces of regret?  It strengthens me for my task.  I have forever felt the barbs of the rose, but I know her beauty.

Why does sand enter here? I thought I was alone.

Is there a mouse, scurrying, that sees the morning light pass through the abbey’s stained glass?

I have found happiness – here?

Whatever passes for suffering, I have found it.

Bliss, and then the pass.

What is right, and wrong.  Mostly in-between.

A galloping, but should we be quiet? A reverence.

Passing clouds – I see them!

Happening to quick – this life.

What is found is lost again (in time).

A cost that breathes (I will have it)

A belief that the slopes of this hill are too steep.

I have found a way (it is not easy – persistence)!

Catching the leaves as they fall (forever)

Saving a fly from an enclosed room

Living forever (I once thought it possible – delusion of grandeur).

I have run the risk – will I pay the price?

Down, down, and then up again – I have lied.

When the dawn is all we have, and lo, behold, the sunset.

Catching all we do in a leaky container.

What can there but more.  What can there be but less.  I have found both in this life, and known both to be a truth.  When runaways move, there is something to catch hold of. I will have the future, so she will not trap me.  This much I fear.

Have things gone so sour?

I am the wetness on the ground after rainfall.

The ground yearns for this touch.

There are passengers on trains that do not track the distance – they are the blessed.

When arms come to curtail liberty, I know there will be more.

I write, and am placated.

What is the test – it is the sound of light on glass.

How many things do we see? Forever.

Coming to that central place – will it last?

I have touched you, but no more.

I am the simplicity, but where is the difficult? It is here.

Grabbing, and scratching, I have a sense that we must do right. But how can this be quantified? I have more of inkling that the difficult will lead to something more.

There are thieves that know when to pounce.

A tender look on a dark night.

Thinking of the end, but knowing we must continue.

There is an applause for a mighty act.

I can think of no other thing than to sink.

A sunlit mist.  It holds us.

Walking through hallowed halls.

A bit of remembrance when times get difficult.

What is said, and then regretted.

Falling, so that we might learn to fly.

There are things we do that lead to difficulty.  But what we must remember, is that the branch that carries us is enough to hold more weight.  It seems an impossibility, but is not.  Come gather around, and know the journey to be a fearsome one.

 What is this? It is loss.

A feather that does not know which way to blow in the wind – forwards, or backwards.

A liberty that has nothing left to say.

I am with you now, I will come. And when we are done – pleasure!

Music spills as I write.  This much I know.

Being content, and then wandering.

I am like a near miss – gone, but not forgotten.

There are times we should stay – the sea tells us this – and times we should go – our own hearts tell us so.

Can we be any more upright? I think there is more to come.

When I am finished, that will be a time.

I sense a new perspective, it is me as I hold mirrors to my life.

What am I to say – I can say only this – continue!

A fledgling ambles past. I recognise it.  It is the same young bird who walked passed at my birth.   It hasn’t aged.  But neither have I. And that is the secret of things.  To be born, and die, without knowing the slightest change.

Raging, I know your sea.

Be complacent, I have come for you.

A traveller who looks onto the morrow.

What is left but sand?

What holds us, but life (be kind!)?

I am like the bridge we travel over.  Never going anywhere, so that others might.

I am frightened.  What will become of me (of us)?

A kind of new way of seeing.  It is in me, as it is in you.

What we thought would never return.

A closing, and an opening.

An evensong that thinks too much.

Dancing, where normally, there is stillness.

Something lives, we should not touch it!

I have a new sense of what it takes to bind the daylight to its own devices.  It takes all – courage, temperance, insight, and even more than this.  It takes every fibre, every ounce, and even then, luck must intervene.

A driver that is fatigued.

New songs which guard us from the old.

I am here, like never before.

I will smother your pain, so that it dissipates.

Why can’t the horizon reach the stars (but it does!)

A likeness that is not like anything in this heaven or earth (or hell).

I say, come to me, and you come.

I say withhold your love, to save you.

Be with me muses, I am lacking.

Gaining in momentum, the last vestiges of a worn out soul begins once again to knock towards eternity.  Nothing will stop it.  It has travelled to far, gone through too much, and when it reaches the end, it will cycle back, and begin again.

I have caught a cold – I am raised up!

I listen intently, it is nothing more.

Come, you purveyors of fine silk, I am yours.

Be content and the night will be yours.

What am I to do? Just keep going.

Belief, it is wonderful.

How many suns does it take to wind back time – more than you can imagine.

A coastline that winks from a distance – I see it!

What we like to do when are resting – don’t let on!

A heaven, that has the tell-tale signs of hell.

What am I thinking? What are you thinking?

Having a guess at what the darkness will hold.

One hour left! It is not enough.

I sense what you see, but I cannot tell.

A clatter of rose-petals comes in through the door.  Their will is strong, as for all those who have sought refuge for more time than destiny allows.  I respect them, and plan to think of them as my last mortal thought.

Answers, answers, they come unbidden.

But then there is the journey.

I have taken all, who will give it back.

I am slow here, I don’t know why.

Choices – they are the domain of gods.

Do not hesitate here, they are likely to pounce.

I do all for the word.

I am counting.  Not of sheep, but of the noises in the night.

The atmosphere is laden.

Why do we keep going? Because we can.

This is perfect, I could ask for no more.

Be pleased with me, I give up much for this.

It is not my breath I hold, but your hand.

And then, when the sunlit mist finally arises, it will know itself to be something of beauty. And we will kneel, and know ourselves to be something exquisite.  But only because, there are other beauty’s to behold.

A STILL SEA

What have we left? I would say, more than enough.  When I sing, I create. When I let go, I know how to do away with the sand.  Things bite, this much is true.  But we must steel ourselves for more of the great adventure.

I love half of this.  The first half is a gap that has no solace.  The second half is a minstrel in the making.  There can be more than we can know here. But that is what we must content ourselves with. I come for the reaching, and not for the gathering.

Be placated, I am the centre, as you are the right.  I am the in between, as you count the days.  There are stretchings that have more of a kindness to them.  They are the ones for me.

Which ones do we take with us? Do we believe in straight lines, or do we come again for the splendour. I would say both, there is no choice.  But does this mean we are still, and the ocean in by our side?

What I promised myself was something more, and also something less.  I get the rain as she falls.  I gather her like a newborn, and whisk her away.

This is my new sense.  That our plays must be performed.  And when they are, the sea will be still, and we will know it to be mighty.

This is something we should not say. There is passion here, as there is mirror.  The mirror looks out onto forever.  But this is not enough to keep us.

All I have to do, is one thing.  And that is stand straight when the wind has me.  This means, that the silence will be born again, and travelling will not bring the night.

What have I to do? Must I be in the mill, and feel its pain? There are two ways of looking at this.  One is to forget, the other is to renounce.  I will do both, and have happiness as my goal.

What have you wondered? It is something magical, as it is sincere.  There are classes of things which defy all taxonomy. They do not seek the outer reaches, but they do stand in the midst of time.

There are changes that are never enough.  But we do what we will with them.  They are the hills, as we are the travellers that walk them. The sky is not my saving grace, as the sun is my accomplice.  We will win, you and I, we will win.

I seek the difficult, for in the nest is a fledgling. I seek the ground, because it meets with the horizon.  I seek all that is, because one day, when this sediment is an ocean, there will come enjoyment.

Be a little careful where you put your footfall. There are living things here, that hide from the daylight, but have life nevertheless. I am wanting to show you my way, but we each have our own means towards life.  But I will show you a few tricks.

Because there can never be sense in the distance, I will have you sing to me.  I will hear you through a gate of déjà vu. And now there is a difference – a difference between the this and the that.  There can be nothing more that I can teach you – we must hold firm.

What to go with – what we know, or what we have lost.  There is a symmetry here that belies the canker, and gives seed to the swollen.

Gone is the wishing, as comes willing.  There are new wantings, that slide down the slopes of magnanimity.  I have a feeling that will show us the way, but it is just a hope.

What you want from me, I cannot give.  What I have is not for the faint-hearted.  What I have is for you and me in times of grace, but who knows if they will ever come.

Bleeding is a part of this fire.  It scorches the sea, and lets the wind be more of itself. What I find of you is in your guessing.  You guess the answers to my questions, and that is what I had hoped for.

Have the distances enclosed us? They have for the time being. I love you anyway, despite what time has taken.  I will not know another, because I have made some solemn oaths.

Be placated, we are still here.  People my look, but they will not see.  I have had the sea by my side, and she tells truth.  Much like the truth I tell, when time is right.

Half way there.  It is never enough.  It is only enough when we seek it.  I have fallen. I know the truth.  Wishing and sliding.  Wishing and knowing.

What is it that keeps us back?  Is it the pleasure in things? Is it all we thought we had? I know windfall.  It scythes. It buckles. It knows when to quit.  I have never had so much fun.  And here where I lay, I will conquer.  I have been through many things, but when this is over, I will shine.

Be the devil in me.  See how I swing.  It is almost too much. I will come for you.  I can see the sea.  It is still.

A bending has me.  I can see the light.  It comes for me.  It comes for us all.  I see the way forward. It is easier than the past.  And when I am through, I will dissolve.  I will see things anew, and know them to be great.

What is it that we have lost? It is something more than we could have hoped.  I settle down, and have my fill of sensibility. When the arrows have us, I will know what to do.  Do not become scared.  There will be a little sleep, and we are there!

Moisture rises in the air.  It must be spring.  The spring feels things like never before.  I am hoping it will be my last – but wait! Something happens, and I will embrace all. This much I have known since my birth.  To continue – despite it all.

There comes a sentence.  It is for me, and all who have travelled the path of the word. Bifurcation. That is the sense amongst the trees. It comes for me, as for you.  I love it, this journey.

What is there left? Only heart, and soul, and passion, and love.  All this I have known.  But now I simply seek the night, and the sleep that will come.  In this sleep are the dreams of the chosen.  I seek this rest so I might wake, and know the adventure to rise anew.

This stance I must take.  It is the wind which blows me there. But I must to be afraid.  I must fight to put truth on the pedestal.  And there I will be happy, and have nothing left to say.

Hear me now. I am in the middle of a dark but still sea. I can’t see the greeny-blue, but I can feel it.

I am looking at myself in the mirror.  I change as I look.  I have a sense that my face will be a type of beacon. A window, but a place to rest.

When time has had its reward, I will pay the beggar. He will hear my words of support, and the disappear into the night.

There is a climbing I must do.  It is to reach the summit, and know my guides to be the equinox. I do not start lightly, but do start. And when I am finished, I will start again and again.  There will be nothing left to conquer, but the moon.

Gone are my days of wonder. I have listened to it all, and have a sense that the weight we carry will not be enough.  Saddle up, and ride the horse into the unknown.  This is all I ask of you. Is it too much? I hope not. I hope to make it to wherever it is you are going.

There are myths to dispel.  They come in long fathoms, and have simple pleasures as there basis. I am aware, that when time rears, there can only be one shot.  And that is through, and out, and back again – round-a-bout, and then into the twilight.

There are things I can’t do, and I must respect them.  I must be something new, and old, and worthy, and be content that the stars will never cease their motion, just as we.

What bridges the gap? Is it you, and me, and our children? Children must only choose their fate.  They can hurry, but must, in the end, take their time. Life will envelope them, in its own sweet time.

Choosing is hard.  It has the stark reminder, that error will always suffice.  A dancing comes now.  I didn’t see it coming.  But here it is.  What can we make of it? A day of zero tolerance.

I have been to places that are not for the worthy.  I have not stopped as a result.  The sky is my companion in this ceaseless struggle.  It raises me, until tranquillity has me. I must not be so glib.  To write is to find water.  This much I am sure of.

Be the shards, oh fate, and I will be yours.  It is not the time to be circumspect. I will continue on, and this, be a lesson.  I can only find one thing to do, and that is faint.

A new type of hue colours the sea.  It has not been seen before, but I have seen it from my vantage in the stars. I was watching an electrical storm come in towards the coast.  The spitfire warmed me, and I knew what to do.

Messing about with strangers.  Their colour is that of the new sea.  I have glimpsed their like on distant salt planes, and know them to be friends.

I will catch anyone who complains.  I will do away with my mask, and shave my head.  Here the snow storm cannot vex me. I am with all, so that I might be.

What kind of vista does not allow the wind? This honourable foe, who laments what is said in dark places. I will come for you sand. I will keep your company, so that the jot is only momentary.

What will I find in the dark? Is it something that will harry me? My dreams are made of silk, and I will have no recourse to regret, despite my journey.

Why listen to others, when their taste is of the plains, and there sentience of the morrow? It is simple. Don’t.

A classic enters my hands.  Immediately I dispel it from my grasp, and feather down the slopes of eternity. There is no guide book that can show these steps where to tread. There are only signal fires that burn at great distances apart.  I have found a new way, and it is the way of the heart.

Vestiges of what I want. They come, and are gone.  I would love to hold onto them, but the sea (my brother) needs them for he wants.  I come again and again to see them, but I have compassion.

A finger rises from a still lake.  It is the pointer to what forsakes us. We desperately drive on, and then are no more.

Gathering the dust of a thousand years, I find more than I can possibly imagine.  I offer to the sea, but it isn’t worthy.

A gale rings through my ears.  Have I had enough? No. More, and more.  And then I will tell you something special.  My words are like ice, and they have bare bones as their companion. Be with me muses, do not leave.

 What is it we have here? I believe in things, but there are things I shouldn’t believe in.  They are of the night, and the many faceted jewel I have at my disposal. This sounds strange, but is not.  For when the sea is still, it shows its light. I come for you, oh night.

And when tendrils drag themselves free, there will be new freedoms for us all.  This much I know, but what can I tell of? Nothing more than this.  The wind is a tailor, and has silk as its apprentice.  There are games within games.  And I play them all.

Be with me stillness.  I am a barber, that having shaven the world, knows where to look. What am I looking for – the desert, and the trepidation it brings. As soon as calm descends, I write, and feel like a new born sailor – a sailor on a sea that has known many names.

Look after me fate. I feel something I can’t explain.  It comes from somewhere deep inside me, and does not let go.

Shocking, and then smothering. I live no other way.  But when there is bliss, I take care to do the right thing.

Being in the moment.  What a flag to the whispers of eternity.  But no one can do it. I will try.

A butterfly weaves its magic.  I take care to look, and not touch.  This heralds in a new day, and has wings of its own.

Why can’t I feel the windswept heart-beats of tomorrow. Because at the word I belong, and it makes me breathe a long sigh of relief.

There are things that never should be, and I have found them.  I cannot fathom their grace, but what I do know is that template of fawning bliss is within my grasp.  Do you believe me?

What I will promise is that simple pleasures are enough to fold back time, and have it nestle into our arms. I am trained in this, and I will have no other force.

Locked away in a barrel that only the salty breeze has seen, is the remnants of all the forests of all the world. This residual is known as the banker.  It takes and gives, and is sometimes compassionate.  We will see.

What is time like? I have seen it once, when I was unwell.  It was like a flash from a gun that is incapable of killing anyone.  It was so quick, that I couldn’t keep count of its pulses.

Why is this sea still? Because it has seen a thousand marriages, a thousand mortal thoughts, a thousand children playing, a thousand love affairs, and more. What is its meaning, this still sea? We must find out – now read!

Be a part of this grand adventure, and I will placate you. I always do. There is danger here, as there always is. I have always written, since my in-utero beginnings.  There really is nothing more to be said, but we will say them.

Locked away in a cupboard made of ice, I see the victims of time, and I know their voice. There can be nothing greater than to let them free, and let them see the vast tundra, and all the animals that graze there.  They are of you and me, and we will see them for what they are worth.

Confusion, it comes.  It is not a fairy-tale this ride, it is of great importance.  Let me say again, we will not find our true loves until we have solved a riddle. And that riddle is – how do we live?

There is something more I must tell you.  I have given up hiding, I have done all for this.  But I am at a loss to really be in the midst.  I come to be on the outer, and be worthy to sink the boat to which I am tethered.

Happiness comes in many guises. But it is not ours to conquer. We must wait, until the night sways us.  In this inky blankness it comes.  On its foot, chainmail, on its head a noble and dark visor.  On its arm, the cuff of plenitude.

What is this pain? It is the pain of all of us who have sailed the sea.  The sea here is not still, but angry. It bites and whimpers, and only lets go, when time is right.

I have something more to say, but it cannot be said.

FAVOURING THE BROKEN GLASS

Yelling, I hear nothing.  When we are through, I will come for the glass that is not yet broken.  I hear things, but they are not my own.  I have weight in these sides, but they are for the traveling we do after the all which is our life.

Come and be a placard.  It will be all we want, and all that will come to pass.  Who needs motion? I have only one thought, and that is through the night, and into the morrow.

A class of strangers confronts me.  They are myself as I fragment away into the depths of the never ending game. I have soles on my feet that need rest.  I am like the weather – I come and I go.

What is more painful than the first.  The last. Am I mad, yes I am.  But I come with wisdom, and a sense that the compassion of forever is enough to placate the story we will tell our children. A story that has no end.

Now the glass is broken.  Which do we favour? The solids of the faraway, or the milk of the near at hand.  Do not rush me, I am not yours.  One day, when the silence is a bigot, I will believe once again.

Which way to go?  There are many paths through this life, and in the end only one is chosen. I have faith that the beads of sweat are near at hand, and I will covet them like a echo that sees itself in the wind.

I must do all I can.  For the weather will not guide me.  I am alone, but I fear not.  I have all the time in the world, but I sense there is something more coming.  What is this? It is us under the blue sky.  This much is true.

What have I gathered, but all, what have I made famous, but all that is. I am like a racing that shoots into the mangroves and hears itself in its reflection.  Watch me, I am like a knife.  I am sharp, but in need of companionship.

What will the nighttime bring? It will bring solace, and hard work, and all that will be in the basket of love.  There are truly many things I would like to say, but this is not one of them.

I need the glass that is broken, it is what I prefer. Then I can create and be in the moment. And of course be the same as us all.  There is truth here I will uncover. But it won’t be my truth, it will be the truth of the multiple.

Send me a new wish. I will grant it like a wave in the summer air.  And here, where the dust has not settled, I will be further involved with myself, and no other.

GLISTENING IN DARKNESS

Having settled on a new way to be, I have found a larger part of myself. Coming from the deepest recess, I am surprised at the resonance these feelings have.  They resonate with art, history, poetry and literatures of all kind.

I pass no judgment on the tears shed by strangers. I have seen my fill of the worthy falling to make a mockery of good words.  Do not be shy, I am the one who does not run.

There are things that glisten, even when the pitch of darkness is in the centre. I look to these things, and know that the ghosts that surround me will have to wait before I join their company.

What is it that we all seek? Some seek a smothering, the substance of which could be any number of things.  Some seek to extinguish the blindfolds that harbour their deepest regret.  I am in a third category.  I wish the wind would blow me to the highest peak, so that I might die there, and know peace.

Having rendered myself every chance at the withholding of love, I carry on, and know that I must not sleep.  I have found a way, but it is not what you expect. There is much time that I must seek, in order to once again be the person I wish to be.

Nothing can contain me now.  I am like a wraith, that having served his sentence in the underworld, knows that the things that are now, are forever in the now.  There is no remittance from this fact. But we still must learn.

I have sensed in the darkness those glistening things.  But I want to touch them, just so I can prove to myself they are real.  I will do this with heart, and soul, and all that will be given to me as a gift for my journey.

Happenstance, it is in the marrow.  It is on the vine, and cannot be picked.  What is this fact? It is like something that a school child had been taught, but in later years had forgotten. We will remember (now).

I thought that all great deeds were only written about in history books, but I have seen one today.  It was a hoary old man, feeding the doves.  He cave a biscuit to the smallest, the runt.  And so history is written.

Always there are chances at what the world will give.  I have seen my fair share, but know now that time is the real stranger. He comes in bags of gold, and when touched, the gold turns to silver, and then bronze, and then iron, and finally the colour of rock.  But we must continue.

To see the things that glisten in the dark – this is where I live.

WITHHOLDING THE WIND

Catching what it is that makes us believe. I have dreams, but they are solid.  I hear their echo in gruesome night.  Do not be one to worry.  I will find what it is that keeps us ticking, and I will ride it to the hills.

Be calm, there is nothing more to say.  I am content that I have done all, and that the food we were promised will arrive.  The trees agree, and I know, that in time, the density of this forest will diminish.

Lounging, supine, where the devil comes for things. I am here, but I do not laugh.  I found refuse around the edges of things, but that is not enough to stop me. I hear beautiful things that are not of this earth.

I have found something special – it is in you and me, and all that is. I will keep a keepsake, and know it to be of infinite value.  This priceless charm is a testament to our efforts.  I will not let go.

Having the chance to be what is most at the heart, I give up life, and head for the underworld.  Here I find people who are truly the denizens.  I rush back home, and find my solace.

What is great, and not to be contended with, is a small piece of what the daylight will encounter.  Love, and all that it will bring.  I make up no stories, but tell the truth.  This much I am made for.

There is a trick to immortality, and that is to withhold the wind. How does one do this? With luck, and bravery, and unparalleled courage. You grasp it, and tell the driver to go as slow as he can. And then…

I am in need of wanting the furthest thing from my reach. I want it, but there is no one who comes.  I search again, and there is silence.  We each have our unions, but in the trekking the sun does there is only one way.  And that is up, and beyond, and through.

Come and watch what it is that keeps your eyes seeing.  It is a mythical acceptance, that has the stars as a guide, and a new found longing as a companion.  I am like the snake that does not pass. I am hiding.

There are sounds that keep us awake. But I am not this sound.  I am the lack that lets us sleep, and the guidance that is the weeping we do.  I have done much for this.

Come, be a part of this great adventure.  I will show you many things, and many things will happen.  What am I doing? I am coming for the sand, but have a bracket in my hand.  It catches all that is left, and knows the sky to be a watchmaker.

STATIC

When the rain is like a solemn traveller, here the nuances of lungs in the dead of night say their acceptances.  I am with the seed, as it nestles into slumber.

I think that lullabies will always right themselves. They are what binds us, and what soothes us.

There is a new need to dance with conviction. I have been told a great truth.  And that is that the sky will always follow us.

Can there be only one thing to say.  And that is, I will find you, before acceptances are taken.  And when we are free, I will have more of a need to succeed.

Foraging, I find the light.  This is a pleasure, one I have never known before.  I love the way this plays out.  It is something that I can adore.

What is most at stake, is not something we can understand.  It breathes, and has life, but is not something we can see.

Come and be amongst it.  I will show you a prize.  It is for the weddings of our children, and the sort of life we thought we would lead.

I come to say goodbye. It is not in my static to be pleased. I find you, I find you.  Be what may I have found you.

There are tests which we must be passed in life. I have failed most of them.  But when I come for the sand between the sky and the horizon, I will know water.

Having said too much, I will close my eyes, and have a new sense, that static is not for wanderers, and time is not of the essence.

I am like nothing else.  I have senses that cannot be, but when I bend them, I see something else.  It is the way of things, and all that will pass.

I catch you, but you haven’t fallen.  What am I writing?  I am ashamed.  But we must continue.  In this is everything. I do not know what will happen.

I love the fight.  Here is my resolve. I will win, or be blown over.  I will discover.

Be content, there are things which should not be overcome.  I will write in a new way, and conquer.  The test is in the sun.  That much is sure.

I am like you in many ways.  But there is more too it.  It will come as a surprise, that the last man standing will be a blessing rather than a curse.

Happiness is in the wind. I will find it, before my day is through.  The goal is the same for all, but only some find it, and some lose it, but we all quest.

There will be time to say goodbye.  But then there is time to launch into new things.  They are what the morning kettle sings of.  Release, and another chance at the static of the dark.

A CLIMBING INTO THE UNKNOWN

A gift has been given.  It is something that surest hands cannot hold.  I have faith that the summer heat will not melt it.  I have found a new path.  It is by the sea.  It comes in gold, and feels like the distance between us.

Having never been in tune with myself, I stretch away the chains.  It is not that I am hungry, it is as if I am at the treasure, which is the night.  Being stranded is not my lot anymore.  I am free, but where will it take me?

There are new ways to be. They are in freedom, and the joy that is in the marrow of things.  Who is welcomed here? We are all welcomed, we just must find the strength to rise up, and be that thing which may.

I sense there is a future battle to be joined, and what will be left will be a casting that has belief, and winnowing that has the short of things.  I trust myself, but where will it lead me? I have one option, and that is up.

I climb into the unknown, and as a soldier of the spirit, I come again in guises that are not for the sharp, but for the base.  Please believe me, I have a sense for these things.  What is wrong with these places? They are in me, but I do not feel them.

A seeking is what I find.  I seek the plateau that divides, and the salient backyard step that unhinges.  By dodging a bullet, I am aware of the greatness of life. I come to be a part of it.  I come to be alone, and through, and without.

There is a feeling that few have had. I do not feel, so can only read about it.  It comes when the sunlight shards of the rooftops, when a last breathe is about to be exhaled.  It comes, and it is beauty itself.  There is nothing that can be compared.

Difficulty slews on the rocks.  It is something we can never be without.  But when, in the darkest hour, we call out, there is something which hears us – it is the twinkling starlight.  Those bodies which are so far away, they hear our call.

Be with me, fate.  Do not discard my needs. I will have full recompense, and an even fuller belief in the rightness of desire.  We come to slay, but only when things are quiet. Be the travesty, and I will be yours.

I have your thoughts in my mind.  They are stranger than I had imagined. I know the tethers that bind you are the tethers of us all.  Where do we go for help, when the help is so far off? It is a matter of semantics, that bend and harbour the lofty, and have new sentences to dance everyday.

A sort of pleasure I have is to list on my side, and feel the wind on my face.  This is no cheap regret.  It is the regret of angels as they whirl around in abandon. I have further insistences that will break the game.  I am coming.

I climb, and it is the unknown that catches me. I write for what? To be set in motion and never stop.  There will be consequences, but I will find them.

WHAT WE ALL MISS

There are wantings that have in their desire a feeling that transcends the base, and has the staying power to survive.  I have missed much in my life, but I won’t miss this.  It is too important, and too full of stain.

I like what you are doing with yourself. You are the warden who keeps jezebels in tune with the sun.  I have often thought I would walk a long way.  But there is never enough time just to be.  There is in this, the shame that we all miss.

Be a guard, and I will follow you.  Be a traveller, and I must let you go.  Life has its stresses, but when they are through, I will come for the placard, and throw it into the air.  Am I right to do what I do? I will ask you this – are we through?

The jump is not so high.  It is in the meantime that I will think of flying. I will be able to guide myself along lonely paths, and be the one that wins, as I am now the one who loses.  I can think of nothing else to do.  That is my lot.

Who will come with me on this journey? Is it enough to say I will walk alone.  But the seraphim wax is not something I can hold.  Be a listener, I will give you my hand.  Be a wanderer, and I will give you all.

The sense I have that things will be as they are is enough to send foreign objects back to their distant lands, and send me, once again hurtling into the mist, and back out the other side. I have luck, which you need on this journey.  I have luck.

I have lost sight of the important things.  I am free to do what I like, but this resonates with me.  I am forever changing, and I believe that the niceties of forever are what the angels sings about.  I prefer this world, and all its comings and goings.

There is never enough to give me the solstice.  I have felt many things on this earth, and the catch is that I will feel many more.  But never again will I be without luck. It is my suite, and my taboo.  I will come for you time, and I will have you.

I am one who has found feathers in winter wanderings.  They are my friend, and my accomplice, and my new need to be what is found in simple things. I type, and feel pleasure.  It is not the pleasure of the gods, but a human pleasure.  This much I must feel safety in.

When dreaming, I cast myself into the fray, and find my wounds healed.  I have never dreamt like this before.  It is my sleeping that awakes me – my dreams, and my many adventures.  I have taken great risks, and they pay of with the sun.

What have I gained by being here? It is a question that leaves no answers, and a wanting that leaves no mark.  There can only be one direction, and that is towards the sun.  Be what may, I will find solace in the well – there will be water to drink there.

I have found you – this thing we all miss.  I have found you buried.  I will never lose you, from this point. This is a promise I keep to myself, as I am scared of its power.

TETHERED

When the rain no longer falls, I will be a willow-the-wisp, and find what it is that keeps it from falling.  I have done many things, but none so onerous as this.  There are catchings that have has their handle the moon, and I will find them.

Nothing stops me here, I am like a conductor of unknown electricities, that having had a place to stay, are now in retreat. I love this, as we all know I can, but I despise the cipher, and go on without words.  This much is true.

I find new footholds, and make my way up.  It is an up which can no longer be asleep.  I have companions here, but I do not carry a weapon.  It is as if I am tethered, but my rope holds on to nothing.

What am I hoping to achieve.  I am hoping that the sun will guide me, and the treasures I seek are not too far away.  I have a plan, but it is not something I wait to hear from.  There are new sounds that I hear.  They are not of this world.

Be content, I am the loner.  I send my wishes into deepest rock, but I sense no response.  I come again, and still only the lark knows my passing. I have a new way to be, and it is in us, and our forebears. I look to the future, but the past is all I see.

Why is this not the sensible thing to do?  I am more alive now that ever before. I seek difficult situations, so that my mind is at its peak when I write.  But this should not be a concern. I am only concerned by the clouds, that do not move.

A great disaster is upon us, one greater than ever before.  It comes as a soldier, and has fellowship as its base.  But this not the thing which will stop us.  Nothing stops us, as everything stops us. I feel the call, and take arms.  There will be nothing left.

What is the thing that binds us?  Is it the wall that builds around us as we live.  Is it the semblance of normalcy that pretends as if it were madness? I know no other way, and so will sing like there is nothing left to sing for.

A gambit of listening quarrels sends its wisdom over the top of mountains.  And here, where the sentience knows no relief, I will come for the shards and fragments of our lives, and scatter them over the sea.

The tether that has me, has me in its own style.  I may never escape its grasp, but when I try, I will be a father of the night, and an accomplice of forever.  There are no rules to obey here. Only one.  And that is too keep going, no matter what.

I will have a light-hearted reminiscence with the dawn.  And we will both know that the things which are our enemies are the same things which are our friends. This truth is like a night-shade that belittles itself  for knowledge, and has wanderings made of steel.

Forgotten on the switchback, there are new ways to feel alive. I have them in my back pocket, and will show you if we dare.  There are hands which play here, and they are not the same things as fate.  There is a corner to hide behind, I will show you.

When the dancing is though, I will hold your hand, and we will be friends again, as if we weren’t tethered at all.   

A WISHING THAT FORETELLS

Having said goodbye to all that, I come in wandering glances to that place that is for the chosen. I believe that all I can do is sit and wait for the tendrils of deliverance, as they swing so far away.  Be my muse, and I will be yours.

A happiness is something we should not expect from the rice paper bowl that carries our desires.  It is like I am free, but I do not know the markings of the place.  Be still, this won’t hurt.  I believe otherwise, and tell the being so.

Closing in on the temperance that slays, I will be the knight in shinning armour that tells us what to do.  I come between this clash, and the next, and feel as a vagabond that has lost the light.  When will I be free.  It is a chosen question.

I say to myself, be with me, Strindbergean powers. I know you have the night, but I wish the day.  Where am I headed? I have only faith in one thing, and that is me.  But there is something else, but I cannot see it.

A little droplet of ice comes out of the summer.  It is as if we never were.  I plan for the template to be fixed, but the words just don’t come out.  This is so much fun, that I hardly know my own mind.  Be truthful, and I will be yours.

There are senses in the mist.  They roll down the back of forever like an avalanche, and tell wild stories of semi-cooked half truths that have life in the living.  Be a wandering soul, and you will find much.  Be a stationary buoy, and you will live in a grand style.

I am musing on a different fate.  It is like I have never been, and all my deeds have been erased by time.  I can only feel myself gathering dust.  But what is more, I have enjoyment of things.  And that will be enough to see me through.

What is this sense I have, that casts no shadows.  It is as if my footprints have been displayed to the world, and then left to be what they might.  I am a hermit, but I have the word to let me be.  I will find new song, and a further chance at redemption.

I only dream now when I have to.  It is a salve I find in the medicine cabinet, that transposes the great scores of the great composers.  There is music here, but I do not know which direction it is coming from.

Read me, and I will not be forgiven.  I find new ways to be, no matter what the vector.  I am languishing, but I hear fate, and know that the tempest will not have me.  Come and be a part of this grand adventure.  It will be as if we never were, and all that will come to pass.

There is a wishing that foretells, but we must not seek it.  For when the tendrils of our lives bend, there is a secret message that comes in spades, and knows only that repetition is for the gods, and silence is for the stranger.

What more do we have to say?  I can feel many things, but what I don‘t feel is the listening of strangers in the night.  There will come a reckoning, and I will vanish under my own steam.  It is not a steam we can see through.  It is of ourselves.

UNDER COVER

There are never enough glitchings to while away the hours.  I am here out of hope, and nothing too still will complicate me.  I have a course of action, and I will stick to it.  It is one of unknown bliss.  But can this be right? I have a feeling it is.

Caught in the middle of this fight and the next, I saddle up my mount, and head west.  It is a journey that is too tired to dream of, but has the salt of next acceptances in its milk.  I will play hard, until neverness is in range.

There is a minus to this plus.  It is a rambling station that draws me near.  I have retreated, and know not how this will end.  Or maybe I do, and am just not showing.  Belief is a wonderful thing, and it must be cherished before the daylight ends.

A complication arises. It is something that the tremor in your eyes cannot comprehend.  There are things in the mean-time that bite.  They will not be with us long, for we seek sisterhood in the broken chasm.  This will be enough to keep us.

I am going now to that misty climb, that resonates with bells and pretty things.  I have fought great battles, and now know the stillness of calm.  Come now, we must not be afraid.  We must find our way to the shelter, and let be what will be.

I will die doing what I love.  But this is not to say it will be enough to smash our bones into a thousand pieces.  This course of action will be our last.  It will go on forever, and have salt to bury the wind.  I am through with the games. I will find where to sit.

Catching on, the fire that burns brightest will be the same fire that extinguishes my soul. I have a request before hand, and that is to leave my body untouched and unwashed, just as I lived.  This will take all your courage, but I trust you.

A menagerie calls to me. It is not the senseless I seek, but the well-worn travesty that raises me up, and has all the pluckiness of a sun-rise.  This can be our sport, and our way to be. It means we must, at all times, be under cover.  I will win.

There are beings who account for nothing. In truth, they have it all.  And we, who have it all, really have nothing.  What is a cold night, when infinite freedom is yours?  I am like the gatherer, who holds up vast sheets of wisdom, and lets them fall.

I have seen a great many things, but what I have seen the most is your eyes in my eyes.  I know the reality of things, but I am the dog barking at the moon.  Nothing but instinct and the cavalier. My course is set. I have the plan, and now will do.

What is more poignant than a starling in winter mass.  It can not be what we want, for in the mass of desires there is truth, and it is a truth that has as its focus the travails of deliverance.  I will not find God here, but there are many ways to seek the adventure.

What is undercover, but our souls.  We cannot keep them, for they are not ours.  I know I have made my decisions, but that is not enough to keep me.  I will not look back.  I will always look back, and know the daylight to be a home.

TRAVELLING TO THE BEYOND

I have felt that the skies are not near enough.  If we reach for them, we spy a greater need to reach further, and further, until….

What is buried in this chamber is hope, and the substances of all-or-nothing adventure.  We lick our wounds, and have a sense that the crying we do is not enough.  I will come for you, or have my back quartered.

Is this happiness? I must be that palm that picks up the harvest, and allows itself to nestle into fate.  I can see clearly, as I know the chime of  the swallow to be in the midst of the few.

Hope, this is it. I have gathered a sepulchre, and have fenced off my heart. No one will find me.  I am like the faith in new times.

A catching carries me away.  It is like I am full, but have eaten no sustenance.  What is this meandering.  It is fate, and all that I have ever known?

A blister on the wound that is healed, will see me through the good times and the bad.  There is a never ending wait now, but I chose not to go.

Being humble is not the key.  It is as if I have wandered too far, and the key I have been given, is like a fortitude in the sun.

Gaining momentum, I am with you.  I see the past, and know it will be no other way.  The sea is my companion through all this.  I will ride, I will ride.

A common complaint is that we are never left to die when we want. But I say life is the simulacrum that is heady as it is sour.

I am new at this, so hear me out.  I have been given a direction that is for the warning and not for the saving.  There are cancers that jolt, and then there are those that have a modicum of restraint.  This much is true.

What does all this mean? I will travel to the beyond to pick rich truths, and let them hang from my branch as a fruit for the needy.

In the longest hour there is a tempest.  It has passed me by now, but the tendrils remain.  I have gathered my reward, and that is all I can do.  I have served my purpose.

Far away, there is a sound.  It is the sound of our child as he plays his way through the mist.  It is a mist we have all encountered, and have moved through.  Now it is his turn, and I am proud.

DREAMING TO FORGET

There is nothing left to weep for.  It is in us, this dream, but we forget what it is that keeps us going.  I soldier on knowing that this might be my last dawn.  Fingers creep, but it is not those we are worried about.

A reckoning we all have is the thing which smothers us is the same that lifts us higher.  Maybe I don’t wish to carry anymore the weight that quickly overbalances us.  It is more to do with the sound of drums that carry us away.

A simple thing I could do is publish all I have written, and sit on the sidelines of fate, and have the disasters we all meet fathom up to us in secret silence.  There is more than enough food for the scavengers, why leave more?

The compassion the sunset feels is not what we should adore.  It is our own inner compulsion to do the best we can.  I am ill, but this does not mean I can forget the dregs of life as a carrier of unknown misfortune.  I will wait.

There are dreams that begin, and some that never start.  I have a plan, and it is to write until I can write no more.  I have always felt that the whistling of tears in night would be enough to carry me to that chosen place, and fill the void that is the wet stone of existence.

There are misses, and there are hits.  I have felt that the sun would never let go of the dawn, and that the travelling of ancient footsteps would be more than enough to sell the crows a new steak.  This is my wish, as it is my vantage.

Going further than ever before, I wish to sound out the modicum of life which is my husk, and break free once again, and tell my child that having enough is never enough.  I have gone through the mill for this, and I will not back down.

Time is the key.  It runs as a passing water, but has no fixed point from which to throw a life buoy. This is the meaning and the end of all. If we could conquer time, that would be enough to settle us, and send up the smoke that consumes all.

Coming from the position of strength, I look at my life, and know it to be a grand adventure.  I have often simply let things be, and this has worked.  Something tends to happen in this state, and all calm is assured.

Gaining momentum, I seek that which is not of this world. I come to send flowers, but ice is all that is left.  The cold sends us higher, but not high enough to let the flames extinguish themselves on the moors of togetherness.

Being one to never complain, I have a wish that may or may not be granted.  It is something that is special to me, and something that brings in the temperance of things, and cordons them of for easy inspection.

I dream to forget. It is easy, and we all must try it.  But the dreams that come are not always the ones you expect.

FAST BECOMING

I am here to do something which might not be what the sands in sand dunes are apt to encounter.  I am here to relinquish all that has been, and feel the wind on my ground, and hear the sound of whistling as I pass into night.

Be the keeper, and I will come undone.  There is a smothering of homecomings that have dread as their silk, and sentience as their re-enactment.

Be sure, there is nothing left.

I am like the sense the stars have, and need only my own compulsion to be that which the disasters of times past encountered (and still do).

I am going into the wilderness for you.  I have lost all, but what does that matter.

I come for the sun, and leave for the moon.  Distance is not a sorry thing.  I have chosen a course, and I will stick to it.  What is more, I will be that testing that hears nothing, and senses all.

There are things we must not do.  And that is be in time with life, and have our heart carry us forward. What am I to do?

I am fast becoming a runaway.  For that I am thankful, come what may.

SONATA IN D

Huysmans was a child in the heart, but knew when the time had come. Rimbaud said his piece, and then staggered off stage.  We are left with the sense that time will come to those who wait.  I have had much to say, and I will say more.

Sartre was the temporal, just as Heidegger was the base.  I am more in tune now with what makes a snake tick.  To those of you who think I am done, stand back, and I will show you more.

I feel Mallarme could easily tick past the countenance, and be that wing that lifts us to higher heights.  Do not be discouraged, I will come for you.

There are sentences which Proust could not let go of.  They are in the wings of desire, as they chase the newness of fathoming bliss. I will never let go.  This much is true.

Dostoyevsky is a hat, that being worn, is like the sun on our foreheads.  He wishes and wines and knows that the tempest will get us in the end. There are cases that lead to the undoing.  But this is not one of them.

Moliere has to be seen to be believed.  It is like the gravestone has struck up a chorus with the dead, and sent fiery embers back down the tube that gives us life.

I have been in touch with the spirit of Shakespeare, and know that when he sang his final song, there wasn’t a soul left to see him.  Much is made of this, but when the sails of gainly ships are strung tight, there can be no other victor.

Coleridge sung the bees away, and had the chance to be victor.  His drugs were a curse and a blessing.  I will not be saddled with the likeminded accomplice, who lets vipers lose in the recesses of the dark.  We will find you.

Schoenberg was the mistress who made dark the movements of modernism. We still haven’t overcome his milk, and we drink it as a newborn who yearns for something more.

A good portion of the sight we need to see the setting sun, is buried in the lap of Artaud, who campaigns for the sufferers, and lets the night reign in shards.  I am with you Artaud, as sand is with the sea.

Dante is a dripping on the floor of an ancient citadel.  It hides and plays, and has heart and soul, and all that we wish we could possess ourselves.  Be what may, this sonata is coming to a close.