Log in

No account? Create an account
03 June 2010 @ 02:19 pm
Sitting in the veiled anonymity of the wood,
where the backdrop is, like a
dark sky contains light of every
cosmic fire in the universe that,
have yet to reach our eyes,
an infinite abyss of wooded trenches;
an enigmatic hedge maze built of untrodden paths.
I can't help but wonder: what
rough beast, slinks between the trees
unseen, unheard; protected by the
woods he calls home.
Does he look at me with hunger?
A tasty meal built not for
nutrition but, like any good double-cheeseburger,
for instantaneous superficial splendor.
Does he look at me with anger?
A loathing unique to the
corrupted soul; the eater of
homes and nature;
a distinct and justified hatred of man.
Or perhaps, this is more than likely,
does he look at me with pity?
Dejectedly he looks down, and
with the softest of head shakes thinks,
'all you do is take from the world,
to satisfy the impractical;
the pragmatism of causality
to form a timeline innately
inferred with a flawed foundation.
Why not take the love each
man possesses, guided by
the zenith of pure humanity?'
A tear would then run down his cheek,
as he turned his back on the man,
who lost God in numbers,
bidding the forest do the same.
03 June 2010 @ 02:10 pm
The Time-Traveler knows the future is moot,
and that the instantaneous and immediate
is the subject of influence on that
which is meant to be.
It is the past changed, the present
becomes, folding into and of itself.
But the time-traveler knows the reality
he alludes; willingly changes;
he has lived its minutes and
pursued its act5ions.
And while time repeats itself,
he continues to perceive a line
of thought, only broken to those
who cannot live temporal displacement,
for to him, the world changes.
and not he; the device
remains the only reason;
exclusive right to know
the broken timeline can be rational.
The man must know and
believe his only power to
bend the rules of other man's rationality; sanity.
The time-traveler lives longer
than a lifetime, so that
he may fix what his mind
deems Universally erroneous.
03 June 2010 @ 02:00 pm
To truly appreciate the unacknowledged,
loss is the only means.
Then what is to be said of the valued;
the treasured when it is lost?
The fortuitous deprivation of that
which is most important?
Does it sink in the pit of man's fears
deeper than a lifetime of esteem,
inevitably fated to its own eventuality
with reference to he who possessed
the object of impertinence?
Consider that loss is inevitable,
despite a man's reference to
his immediate surroundings;
irrelevant is his opinion to
an object of loss,
or to those who relate similarly.
The only idea is the personal
ideal; without allusion or insinuation.
Timely measure is the only truth in recognition;
the only formidable means to know,
that which is most important.
Current Mood: hothot
03 June 2010 @ 01:56 pm
Cinder blocks line the walls
of human enigmaticism,
black as jet and the eyes of death.
Men paint words in thousands of languages;
the dead, the archaic, the arithmetic,
yet none translate; concede
to understand the next,
requiring an exponentially redundant
amount of languages of reference
to translate,
one refers to another,
and another to the next,
and the next to the third,
destined to infinite repetition.
Under the resultant chaotic commotion,
a single melody is played
on a mandolin and a mandocello
beneath the tumultuous roar.
24 May 2010 @ 04:18 am
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forebear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills,
There daily I wander as noon rises high
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft as mild Ev'ning weeps over the lea
The sweet scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides,
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays,
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
24 May 2010 @ 04:15 am
The dogs are sleeping on their master's beds,
dreaminf sweetly of running
marathons, not to prove their worth
to all of the other dogs with the same dreams.
They feel the scraping sensation
under paw as they run without pause,
rippling tendrils of fibrous tissue
willingly straining so that they
may feel the whipping wind against their faces;
forget the race, forget finishing,
love the moment, and the praise
from those who watch from the
sidelines, cheering those who do
what they cannot.
Pavement, turn to grass,
skyscrapers to wilderness,
coolness and warmth interspersed
sensations as they pass in and out
of shadow; sweet blossoms and oils,
heightened to the point of synesthesia,
rushing past; olfactory sensations
living and dying momentarily,
each living as a means of perpetuating
the constancy of free-flowing euphoria.
The dogs are sleeping on their master's beds,
and their paws are twitching;
they're dreaming of something unique.
Current Mood: listlesslistless
24 May 2010 @ 04:08 am
In the heart of man exists
a predisposition to love;
he yearns for it at all times,
the connection between connections,
and in this hope there are
countless questions need be answered.
The questions are unique to the individual
as bark to a tree or a bend to the stream;
these questions seek not the object of love;
not the medium into which one pours his soul,
---for this is what the object is:
a storage of man's overabundance of faith
in his ability to love,
and by which, mankind's reliance on Love:
an outlet to explore and sing
his willingness to harmonize
with the prodigal music
of the Universe---
no, these questions seek
the greatest means,
the first stone in the foundation
of man's evermore,
and the key to his eternity;
Love remains a puzzle incomplete,
with no piece to fill the final gaps.
We smash the pieces into the
holes, forcing ourselves to
believe our own completion
to finish is to see the divine;
to understand, finally,
the Nature of Man.
The tragedy is that our
missteps are, by nature, a hindrance;
the search itself forces our hands,
and envelopes us in the
norm, which dictates the
lives of men, rendering us
social beasts,
lost in the endless sea of teeming hearts.
A sacrifice; a portion of
ourselves for a fraction of
the answer, we can never
know completely;
just as the search is the
Nature of Man, so it be
the tragedy of man.
O what a piece of work
is man's plight,
to love and be loved.
Current Mood: pensivepensive
She let him be and took his heart,
Unbeknownst to her, just a shard
of that which had been broke,
a million times before.

While he sits and ponders why
His love can't stand the test of time
He looks down at his hands,
from which his blood drips slowly down
to the floor, straight from his chest,
and the gap he'll never fill.

His arduous quest for love
remains in constant opposition
to the will he wished he had,
but cannot comprehend.

A lack of faith and self-reliance,
the bane of his existence,
the truth of which he knows for sure:
his heart must be impure,
for how could anyone love he,
One as beautiful as she,
A man without a shred of hope
and nothing good to seem.

Within his honest heart he begs
that nature might permit,
his guarded to soul to out and sing
the song his heart hath writ.

Instead he sits alone and thinks
about his wasted worth.
The great potential of his heart:
the Loneliest Man on Earth.
Current Mood: distresseddistressed
24 May 2010 @ 03:52 am
The nostrils flair and catch a scent
across a vast expanse of wilderness.
Ripe is the scent; olfactorely euphoric.
In the air there is no insecurity,
there is no stratagem need be made;
self-doubt is irrelevant;
inadequacies, nonexistent.
All that is, is the synaptic system,
that we might know as instinct.
The prowl has its purpose.

Imagine the instinct without awareness,
the knowing, without deduction
that finality exists as a permanence;
no tease; no deductive foreplay,
no caressing of the fingers to
warm, to prepare the sensation;
no sensation at all to anticipate.
There is no preparation, no
awareness of pace or rhythm,
time or partner awareness,
not even the definitive means;
the act itself.
The act is only a means to a very important end;
the only importance the...
only assurance of perpetuation;
to live as a means of garunteeing life itself.
Instinctual. Indefinite.

Amoebas sit next to a deep-sea vent,
at the beginning of life as we know it,
and fight with each other for
sustenance and survival.
No mind to process,
no nerves to feel,
no "soul" to interpret,
Yet still in competition to evolve,
into us; human beings.
Survival may have to do with cunning now,
but is truly a victim of circumstance.
And circumstance is what some
might call the Nature of All Things,
for it is the spawn of the Universe
as we know it to be.
Circumstance is beautiful,
but circumstance is a bitch,
for as it is nature's will
that evolution would progress
to permit these written words,
circumstance also broke infinite other means
of conveyance, of thought, of living.
Is that not a natural will?
God's will, in the nature of all things.
Cause and effect,
causality will remain a secret kept by itself;
a question destined to infinite repetition.
Current Mood: coldcold
18 February 2010 @ 02:36 pm
I am  
My body is where I reside
when the sun shines from both sides.
My eyes see the world as
my reality permits them to see.
My neurons pass electrical signals
from synapse to synapse so that
my mind may understand
the world I have created.
And I live in my soul,
in all that is beyond my capability to convey
to you and you mind, body, and soul.
"I" is a commercial enterprise;
all collection of things possessed.
But, if
these things are mine,
belong to "I"
then what is "I"?
Who is "I"?
Not my mind, body, or soul,
for "I" possess them.
Who possesses my being
that I am so convinced that
I have? I have?
i own?