They Paint Their Eyes Into Dreams

her pale skin and coarse hair

forces moments to pass by in pieces

stone melts before the caressing touch of rain

while leaves are conquered by the fluttering of gravity

striation upon silken skin maps her thinking at will

easy spoken doors open into a drunken state

leaving the stiff face of time to shutter

courteous clouds grace the unwanting face of moon

Catalyst for Transcending

Without essential items, nothing can or could be. A thought cannot become reality, silica cannot become a window, and a seed cannot flourish into a plant. This seed, under the correct conditions, has the ability to remain in a suspended state for years, possibly decades if it’s not allowed to reap the benefits of the earth and its abundance of variant life sustaining matters. Without the presence of these essential items the seed remains nothing but a seed. It cannot grow; it has not the possibility of harvesting sunlight for the creation of its food. It shall never be forced to fight through hard times of the dry season’s drought. It has no chance, no opportunity to say “goodbye” to something that was not there to begin with.

One seed may germinate into something beautiful but it takes a handful of seeds to create a flowing cohesive junction. A singular tree has the ability to bring positive attention to home’s curb appeal, but it takes an entire forest to ensure the wealth of this planet. Something as simple as a seed has the potential, if given the chance, to give and create wealth in such harmony; priceless for the outcomes may be never ending.

This image of a lonely seed begins to bloom into a whole new picture. An image, a story, a piece of art that takes on a new meaning before the viewer’s eyes as if shown in a different spectrum of light, yet remains physically unaltered. It starts with a shift in direction, a change in point of view. Unearthed within its hues, its dynamic, its whole composition is a story, a journey of what can, of what could, of what has not yet come to pass. With time a whole, finished picture may come into view.

The Sound of Someone Walking

“You should not say never for it takes away the characteristics of the house at hand,” said the Hatter to the Hare as the matter of the issue was overlooked.

I take music in pill form and swallow it dry. It leaves the most peculiar taste as it rolls down my throat. After the music hits me I drown the outside noises with a perspiring glass of emotional writing. It soothes the scratching the pill left and calms the war mongering cells within. Yet this combination leads to fly bys in radio controlled balloons. So ill listen to your brother Jake as I fall to my pillow remembering the days that I have been told came to pass. “Are you well?” She asked as she gazed into his catatonic eyes with a smirk on her face and a forced tear running down her nose. “...I’m fine...,” he claimed as he closed his eyes, “...I’m just anticipating the sight of you leaving,” and fell asleep.

“Fear not my dear for I am fine, and safe at that. I sit among a table of angles,” he said while the small child at his feet began to weep.

Air Filled Bottles

peering out the window will not be as it was the day before. each gaze becomes anew. a different thought. a varying memory. a new memory. a different time. under different circumstances. different reason. a different you. me. he. she. them. they. a whole new experience. the only variant that has but to change is the window itself. an object that allows and creates such variance, yet it itself has none.

Archaic

i lie sleepless in my bed. at a time when sleep should have come hours ago. my mind circling around a single thought, a single person that i wish to remember.

with slight hesitating i get up and re-awaken my computer from its own slumber. as if jealous that i cannot sleep so easily. i sit as it wipes the crust out of its eyes and i think.

motionless as a thought process begins to unravel. can i bring myself to accomplish what it is i set out to do; write about a missed one, someone who i wish to see once more? spiraling, twisting, turning, falling.

there it is. the answer. awaiting me. and i can breathe yet again. i don't miss him anymore.

Choking on Thrown Stones

I lay awake at night

pondering aimlessly in my bed

as I allow the music fill my ears

and await for a nightly visitation

from the man who keeps the sand

time passes and I lay awake

holding restless aches within

venturing as to where I may find

a glass of water to soothe my mind

returning to my scene of slumber

upon my bed an imp sits in wait

staring through me before upon me

it smirks and nods as to giving a gesture

one that shall suggest my bed lay empty

as to follow its benign nature

it preforms in an act of vanishment

the hour upon this night in which I wake

seems to have become too late

closing of eyes to ponder once more

for the coming of nightly tomorrow

it may lay in wait yet again

grief stricken

Tapping upon translucent glass as if none had seen it. Vibrations disturb the hands that hold so much responsibility yet cannot hold anything at all. Moments flickering, stopping, starting, then jumping to as where they do not belong, creating a sensation of dismay.

Tapping on the glass and moments pause, skip ahead and become lost, rewriting history as if never to have happened upon Earthly ground. Shattered thoughts, robbed from those who once dreamed of such delights.

Tapping on the glass and the memories fade, become lost and never to have happened.