Friday, May 3, 2013

Radiant Dawn .

The feeble and vulnerable night, in its vast darkness, 
begins to descend and dismount itself.

A cold and pale dark moon is at odds and wrestling with a warm and radiant sun.
A tug of war that shows signs of absolution and mercy in the beautiful jeweled sky above me.

Dark versus light.
Cold versus warmth.

I lay and experience this tumultuous intimacy from the distance of my bedroom window.
I close my eyes and breathe in a faint aroma of rain.
It is impermeable to any hidden wounds or secluded thoughts. 

A paralyzing scent that clears my vision and fills my heart the deeper that I breathe.
My mind fills with alleviation and becomes my own utopia.

I look up and see fragments of sunbeams upon the horizon and can feel the new hope this this radiance brings me.

It conquers the rain,
the dark moon,
 and envelopes me in its warm rays.

I arise and step into the dawn. 
A lucent and brilliant hope emerges from my inner soul.  
 The healing warmth breaks my cold barriers and brings a new symbolized peace.

I turn against the moon.

I bask in the light.

It is a new day.

A radiant dawn.





Thursday, May 2, 2013

Spilled Ink .

My words are more than phrases set into a perfected sequence.
They tell the tale of a heart.
Feelings and thoughts that I am hopelessly constrained and bound to.

All represented in ink.

Ink that is not only spilled onto vacant slates of paper, but onto people as well.
Words that are kept from the view of others, and shared with few.

I spill my words unto people.
The ink of my tongue bleeds the feelings set in my soul,
and sometimes watch them be brushed away.
They dissipate and drain into an abyss that is greater than my own understanding.

So I grasp my pen, and begin write.
It spills its black ink onto these vacant pieces of paper, and the struggles of my heart tears off the page.

As my pen scripts, the ink bleeds and seeps dry.
I feel my heart pump, and the blood begin to empty.

Why does my ink spill onto pages that are to be unread,
 and scripted onto people who can not read them?

I do not wish to engrave myself and words onto these vacant pages any longer,
 where they are inevitably torn and ripped away.

There is a beauty that lies in the confines of my eclipsed heart.

They are
my words.
My ink.

Kept in a place that lies below my apparent exterior.
No longer wanting to be spilled.

But kept.