#passion #poetry #art #my words #soapbox
Pat’s hand began to tremble and as if on que the familiar shaking of the rest of the body followed. Small seizures spread rapidly throughout his muscles taking with them the last bit of control.
The ground rushed up to stop his fall. There would be only a few cuts and bruises.
Into a dark and empty void his mind fell. Soundlessly…
I often wonder does she know of the writing of love letters and how they go?
Thoughts of you lay concealed hidden by secret doors and curtained rooms.
Stranger things and stranger lies gather dust just beyond what seems real.
Where wooden gavels mark the minutes, and the guilty sit in uneasy repose.
Waiting there for the call of our name.
Before us all is laid bare to answer for and be fairly judged.
May wisdom give favor to the words we use.
What is your middle name? Does it carry any special meaning/significance?
It is here, during these dark hours that my mind seeps out. Finding escape through the dark portals of the ears, eyes, nose, and mouth. Blown upon invisible traces it is drawn into the voids and recesses of the world.
I hear all. I see all. I taste all. I smell all. Yet I do not touch and so do not feel. Without knowledge of hot or cold, pleasure and pain, I do not know all.
I am just another lost spirit without understanding. Corrupt incorporeal. What is this thing that has value without meaning? Desire without purpose? In the darkness it loses all boundaries. Yet in its dimensions curls in upon itself.
Then in fear that which I would be returns back to what I am. Binding back to the flesh that we so often wish to flee.
I’ve been here before. I’ve sat half reclined, half slouching, vainly attempting to find some form of relaxation in this mildew eaten chair. I never find it.
Dust and cobwebs drift down from the dark shadows of an imagined ceiling. Imagined because in all these years not once have I taken the broom and searched out it’s existence. No, I will never attempted to discover it’s ghost like presence. It shall remain forever lost above the mass of entwined strands.
Life is easier if you sometimes ignore the less desirable aspects about ones person.
Here I shrug.
Somewhere a voice reads out the R value of a thick matting of cobweb and it’s insulation value; elsewhere a fire-marshal demonstrates the science of combustibility.
Outside, time moves on.
Random sound flickers past unseen doorways. Abstract chittering between salesman and stooge, crooning dove, obsessed parent, a life of lost hopes and dreams filtering in. The vibrations of sound disturbing the thick muffled air of the room.
More dust and cobwebs float down.
I do not care. I’ve been here before. I will be again.
Words float about filling space in the soft white. Pages press together from single lines. Slowly at first. Unable to gain foothold upon vacant.ground. Eventually enough sticks. Eventually enough binds together to form what can best be described as…
Dust bunnies blow about. Stirred up by the faster currents of air along the floor boards.
Warped wooden boards mismatched in grain bend. Between tongue and groove the air swirls around new tracks. Trails of rolling tumble weed bound. Piling into bands beneath stool and table they build layer upon layer. In some perfect reflection of the ceiling above this miniature world will conceal what lies below. Perhaps I too will then disappear. Never again seen or ever searched for. Lost beyond the reach of the mind.
Early morning light trickles in. It’s magic how the rays of light bend around the heavy curtains. They press their way in between hard plaster wall and the softer weave of cloth.
I watch the silence. Slow lines form into faded shapes. I wait. Eventually from the broken gray and dappled shades the day outside will find your picture set upon the shelf. Then your voice will call to me.
Past and future find me here. Lost alone with you, my love. A ghost upon the shelf.
This is a must watch! Big Pharma has enslaved our lives for to long!
https://frankspeech.com/tv/video/diamond-silk-chit-chat-live-joined-dr-bryan-ardis-0
Orange and yellow mix slow on the breeze. Red dappled woods laced with the faint memories of wandering trails. Highlights of green fern tufts mark the boundaries between fairy realm and memories of childhood. Rills and folds bend the land. My mind drifts out into this world. Each crisp breath forming thought balloons without captions in the air.
War wounds open up again. Flag draped coffins carried out as gently as a baker’s dozen for display.
Strong shoulders bend beneath the reality of their death.
Impudent, impotent old crow in a hurry to pick clean the bones of other kills ruffles his feathers and stares at the sun checking the time.
I would hurl a stone at his head in the hope to do harm but the gore crow smells a meal and wouldn’t let go no matter.
People seem to take pride of their choice. They praise the theft of life as the murder flocks to the feast.
I say string each croaking feather from tall white pillars and let wind and gravity bear witness to the crime.
False Promises Nouveau 