A Fraudulent Decay

Inspirations

For an otherwise

Uninspired world.

Stagnation mates with ennui,

Trigger offends frame.

Desperation reeks of fear

Grinning in contempt

Decay

We all do

Some late, some soon,

Some in peace,

And then there are the others,

Those that will eventually find themselves

Prematurely exhumed

Or dispatched as they’ve lived,

A fraudulent canvass is a canvass nonetheless

A Hierarchy of Angels

Forgive me if I fail to see

The flattery in your Joie de vivre

Correct me if I’m insincere

In disregarding the context of your cheer

What’s left tomorrow is often the rejected

Frames of today

Distinguish yourself through honor

Open your heart to verite and

All the lies will fade away

Forgery of purpose is impossible

If dedication is one’s only vice

Destitution of promise is but

A reflection of internal strife

To calm such seas in tumult

Simply intuit the breath, exhaling

All denials and debilitating thrush

And such is the way

And such is the path

     To delve fully in such direction

     Is to submit to potent tracts

In truth there is forgiveness

In strength one finds the gravity of love

     In harmony there lives a peaceful serenade

     Serenity one could almost touch

As one walks the valleys of the parent

All allegories are revealed

When one accepts all that is as what is served

There will be a hierarchy of angels revealed

Debased Curricular

Knowledge lends stability to an ever-changing landscape,

Time is the agitator to the unprepared, the devolving attributor to the weak and for those without direction.

Life seems to do everything in its power to swallow the meanderers amongst us.  The lessons it offers are of a curriculum set out to debase.  From the smallest to the largest, minutia is simplistically inhabitable.

Ignorance suffers plague like the painted womb cringes when left alone with murals too bright. Intelligence slow-dances every inch of pier, prior to its descent, information bleeds out, ironically in patterned abbreviations otherwise known as the scars of a once tainted submarine.

Falter freely. Smile as widely as the jaw allows. Dream to fail, and then dream some more. Desire only truth that’s earned.

Do so before time wears thin. Stay patient; do not stray.

The bristles deliver the deepest caress. It scours impurity away from even the most ironbound of wired flesh. Breathe freely; fade away…but try your damnedest to reciprocate.

Imagination In A Time Of Denial

I’m not sure what I was thinking, as if what’s been static for thirty-eight years would change in the blink of an eye. No, thinking like that is what people keep to themselves, yet, I continuously slip open the side of the drapes, crinkle over the edge of the blinds, and peek, out into the world beyond these walls, where, lo and behold, the same image that’s been etched into these eyes for my entire life, was still as it had always been.

Then I closed my eyes, pondering deep within.  Here, I traveled to some other realm, a place where nothing seemed or felt the same.  The beauty was outrageous, the air so pure and fresh.  My eyes were then reawakened by the unfamiliar smile spawned upon my face.

Quickly I went to the window, pushed the drapes slightly to the side, crinkled over the edge of blind and peered outside.  It was here, at this time, that I realized, for the first time in my life, everything, everything I’d ever known, had changed, and the pinch felt as real as it ever had.

Times Turn into Times Turned Over in Future Times

Can you remember back to a time when you were only mere days removed from getting high praise for walking on two legs?

Can you recall, those early moments in the kitchen, when you’d stare up high at those marble countertops and dream of seeing what exists beyond its aerie reach?

Have you forgotten, how disappointed you were, when you found out it wasn’t all you’re imagination painted it to be?

Whatever happened to all the comparisons?

     “Oh, how talented you’re child is, he’ll be the next Hemmingway or Hawthorne for sure”

“Oh, what amazing athleticism you’re kid possesses.  When I look at him I see the next Jackie Robinson, Walter Payton.  He reminds me a lot of Ty Cobb, as if they themselves were around to have watched him play”

“ You’re little boy has such an imagination.  He’s so entertaining. I see a younger version of Bruce Lee, maybe Errol Flynn”

When was the last time your scribbly-scrawled blots of crayon were hung up on the fridge?  When was the last time you’re great aunt called you her little Picasso or Van Gogh, not even considering what their backstory’s were?  When was the last time your grandfather pulled a quarter from your ear, and you thought you were witnessing something bigger than the world itself?

Life gets in the way.  Doesn’t it?

And you close the door behind you.  Scuffing the snow off from your dirty boot soles, greeting those inside, warmly, yet complaining about the travails you endured to simply make it to their house.  And then, you see the little one, and you say, glowing from ear to ear, “How’s my little Marilyn today?” and she shyly shrugs her shoulders…. that’s when you pull a dollar from her hair, as if it had been hiding out in those blonde curls all the day.

Over at D'verse, for Meeting the Bar this past Thursday. Victoria offered up the discussion about exploring childhood and it's memories.  I've been really sick this week, just feeling a bit better upon waking up a few hours ago, so I'm hoping the meds are working.  In any case, I missed joining the party, yet thought I'd still take part in the prompt.  I actually had a piece that I had started a long time back that fit this theme rather well.  

The idea of how children's perspectives change and how their expectations alter upon finding some answers interests me.  I wrote the second question/stanza a while back and filled in the rest of this piece from there for this discussion.  If you haven't already, I urge you all to stop on by D'Verse, read Victoria's article and check out the poems shared, as you can do for the other linked discussions as well.