Where have the flowers of spring gone?
Those were the days of our youth.
Spent in the hope of something better. Only to be wasted by those who did not understand their value.
The Garden of Our Youth
Tag: trail
Along the Garden Path
The Garden Path Collage
The Prince’s First Muster
A Morning Walk
A Beautiful Day
I wander down forgotten trails
Searching out forgotten tales
Weary feet carry on
Beyond each bend and twisting turn
In every moment
I retrace
The memory of this magic place
Broken Lament
Those peaceful walks through autumn woods lost in guiltless silence
A frigid heart in solitude remorseful of their passing
Thoughts of you wander free tracing tear stained lines from pallid eyes
Displaced in time I watch you fade even as the last of the oak leaves fall
Last to find deaths release
lost love I linger on
I remember the days before
I remember the days before pouring through the breach from Saudi Arabia into Iraq.
Months sitting idle standing guard, repairing equipment, training over the same lessons.
The season changed but the looming doubt and fear never did. Each day built upon itself like the ever growing dunes that piled up at the tent flaps.
On occasion some other units would become fully activated and ready. The dynamics of our purpose would change. Tents would be pulled down, moved a few hundred miles, then once again assembled. Each time the burm would not be built up so high or as wide. Each trench dug a little shallower and shorter.
We knew. Soon those protections against the world would only be a hindrance in the final day before the breach.
Live or die, most were ready for what outcome there was to be.
You see, those enlightened few had already experienced death, that blissful adrenaline rush over the edge of reality, and now only moved by muscle memory. We knew what we were to do.
Kill and die, live or die, stand up, move again, rinse, repeat. Everyday was the same day. The only difference was the sand and dirt that piled up at the door.
Soon it will be time for those that don’t know to shake back your own tent flaps. Step out into the reality of an endless day, and fight a war you did not prepare for. Those people will believe in Hell that day…
And us devils who know will be there to show you the way.
Sediment, The Book of Pat
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.
A Quiet Walk
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.
False Promises Nouveau 