Now, Born Scared

Children enter this realm,

Without fear—

Everything is glorious,

Each sensation is an unknown birthright,

Terror comes not into view

Until a blackened soul pries loose

The fiery chasms of decay—

It is from this point forward—

That blissfulness is purged from vocabulary,

Where delight is overwrought by newfound

Vestibules endlessly overflowing with distraught and unnatural echoes of betrayal—

Never again are we able to willingly return to the serenity found within the baptismal pond—Where those early ripples become only the faintest of fleeting memories, an endless array of moistened kisses—ever eagerly willing affection upon the lost innocence welled inside—where tender passions dotingly caress the rapturous currents of a deeply sentimental stream—

A revolution spins obtuse in orbit, unto a forgiveness we never learned to forget, a belief swimming freely, beneath the layers of a skewed reality, where possibility’s yet to abandon us—

The deeper one goes, the light fails to show, darkening and darkening…

It is here, where sharks circle our intensely personal and primitive of dreams.

A Cold Numbness Embraces a Sojourner in Mourning (Some Days Feel Like:)

Dreams castrate the young of ambition,

whisking troubled thoughts away, implanting

euphoria in the place of realized contrition—

Doom is the only premise left unexplored,

when traction disengages the neurology

abandoned within those predestined to starve upon their own needfulness

Feral qualities sliver thin the mirrored gaze,

leaving the only interpretation the imagined

predisposition that reincarnates the deformations of the brain

Catatonia is preferable to the self-imposed restraints

that fit snugly beneath the seam-lines of our favorite

Clothes, leaving only the scents of wherewithal and apathy to fragrance one's ephemerality. 

Shredding the fetters of the past is the only absolution we can deliver truthfully.  Tiny renderings are the adipose reflections we blindly flee from, layering the tornado with a future sconce illuminated by the abandoned renderings of debris.

And then, other days, feel like nothing at all…

Retracing The Steps Once Taken

Lengthening the horizon, debris commences astronomically, like painted dodecahedrons magnetically induced through immediate moments of hypocritical delusions otherwise mentioned as lingering afterthoughts.

Solidification of the earth and sky, blending blue skies with the blackening flirtation smitten by the acupuncture points of the densest night. Pilfering septets from kings uncrowned. Dangling hippodromes, stretching as far as the dilated pupils can comprehend, vigilantly cling to the forgotten expressions, otherwise known as the finalization of the askance void.

Drinking from the enigmatic cup of lavender while paying closest attention to all the future steins congregating upon the smallest ledge of real estate; these soldiers are filled with the most brilliant confidence, the most exploratory brilliance of purpose even as their insides vibrantly coagulate their plasmatic contents—coloring the panorama with a unique combination of artistic flamboyancy.  Here revolve the vivid portraitures—reds, as they ascend most pleasantly from having merged and swirled so decadently with the deepest triangulations of what would otherwise be predestined to be known as plagiaristic murals of obsidian sunsets and decentralized feelings of overture; spinning, and spinning, the sensation of tingling numbness enters as would any self-respecting party crasher, even after being labeled as the man who self-loathing was first named after. Enter the roll call, the soft and ever-echoic resemblance of slow-motion verbal typography—the lasting impression, a salted wound hidden conveniently by the cloaked marauders first hailing from the frozen lands most north of where the contemporary maps fail to define. Had there ever before been a more contrived notion of perfect balance, then that pristine moment, the one located immediately before the compounding principles of exhaustion sound their toll unto the hallowed morn, light would know nothing of where the scars first appeared.  The days of the calendar streamline across the foreheads of the silent.  All thoughts careen.  All dreams and fluctuations multiply.  Every hereafter is after here, an alienated mutation, one where the tongue is far too ashamed to attempt any retracing of root causes, any semblance of recounting what perhaps transpired while the present shell we call our physical limitation lay dusted over by that most subliminal of curtain calls, is internally known only as an altered fragmentation of a fragment still-birthed once before.  We then conjugate our assumptions; each non-verbally aware of the others desires for gelid anonymity, all the while remaining reverently comatose, both in spirit and of stature. But still, we smile, for we continued to breath rhythmically.  Ignorant of the finite details and the navigational circumference connecting the exterior and interior, deeply from within a euphoric treasure trove of experience coddles us through devotional retrospection, fore the tender flesh is unable to object at the present podium when not prepared.  Therefore, only one true conclusion can be claimed:  Calamity, too, was once a blessed child, born as the sons and daughters both, of some other landscape upon some variant precipice of strophe.   

Over at D'Verse, Karin Gustafson(aka Manic Daily), is hosting this week's Poetics.  She opened up the floor for delving into the many meanings once can take into account when working with the word Trip.  I, of course, went with a more abstract prose style here, which is only one of the many, many avenues one could have taken.  Be sure to stop by the pub and see just how many different directions the poets of D'Verse venture down.

The Eighth Stone

I.              The Eight Stones

Stones of harvest,

Lost in the well of tears

Stones of forbearance,

Weathered by the dunes of time

Stones of integrity,

Betrayed by the tree of hope

Stones of love,

Empowered by crystals divine

Stones of promise,

Hindered by a fog of fear

Stones of truth,

Dishonored by the winds of levity

Stones of forgiveness,

Awakened by memories of tides long past

Stones of tomorrow,

Hidden within the disillusionment of today

II.           Reflections

Through seven comes delivery,

Bearing the gifts awakened by the eighth

Swaddled reflections to comfort thee,

In times of tryst, defiance and hypocrisy

Open wounds salted, still

There remains a life fulfilled

From the soil comes the sky,

In the fire, flow the waves of life

Earth, Wind, Flame and rain,

Beyond the clouds you’ll find refrain

In the eighth, smoothed and pored upon,

The seven breathes a newfound wisdom’s enlightened plan.

Weedy Growths

Weeds grow in cracks.

Some, mere distractions, aesthetically depraved and alone,

Others…well others are blights, barren of redemption

Upon reputation and perception…we flee from what we never took the time to understand

We are the easy victims,

We are the uncomfortable prey,

Hunter’s battle over our pelts,

Quantity is often considered more desirable

Than pedigrees and wealth…

They, the crowd of horizons, scream unmercifully,

Thumbs up provides little reaction…

The Hero pauses, wrinkles his grin in turn,

     Thumbs down…the sky erupts…bloodthirsty and alone

Weeds devour our sidewalks,

Inhabit our terrain, leaving

Nothing left worth saving,

To mire in near and distant pains...Justice?