lmnopoeia

Words wasted on willingness to sacrifice. Wise wisdom versus wicked wretchedness. And the wretchedness dominates. And the vileness vilifies the wilderness within. To change or to remain. To clamour or to come apart. To pull or ponder or pounce or purify the thoughts. Besiege or be besieged. Devastated. Devastating. Devoured and devolved.

The sky the distance. The ground the cold. The fire the fire within. The flower the frailty without.

These things just pour out of me. Bleeding from my blood. Colorless though radiating auras of oral origins and soundless particles the length of which is none. Null. Nil. Nullified. Nullable. Void.

Make like a tree and sap the life from me. Make like a bulb and burn. Made to be bound to the earth and supressed by a sky of possibilities. And constantly weighing in on the tyranny of gravity. Until even the last situation is grave. This is me.

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The percentile diminishes but the power to buy remains. And is coupled with the desire. The fight continues on multiple fronts. But the tide still rolls softly. The sun still sets and summons. Forever waiting. Busy forgetting. Bothered but not brought about. This is where I found it. This is where it will lie. I run a spell checker over all my truths. I run around in circles too. I write down only the things that can’t be drawn – but drawn from memory. Drawn to the forefront. Pre-frontal. And post-fixed. Arithmetized into place. And desensitized. Belief is repetition. I repeat the words as they’re written. And the truth seems not to surge. Surrounded by the weather but bored by its fair-weather.

This is going so wrong.

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The horizon flattens the distance but the distance prevails. The hollow body of insignificance presses on the will and demeanour of even the wealthiest of solitudes. And their dichotomy stresses the fractures and pulls apart the tediousness of the heavenly mundane; weighing heavily upon the opinions held in check by none but the strongest of the feeble and the wisely disenfranchised. This is our revolution. This is our time. These are our hours. These are our homes. This is our land.

Green growing. Freshness fueled by the fruit of the earth. Flowing upriver. Falling from the leaves falling to the heavens. Faltering full of feather touch and tender columns of blending bleeding colours. Territorial train wrecks and political prowess. Backlash of bereavement to the dam. And the damned. Yearning for desires, desiring one last thing. Wanting not want. On windowless huts. Of lost kingdoms on the baked cracked mud of ancient ponds.

Flow. The feeling and the movement. Flow. The desire for pure desire. Flow. The never-ending energy that energizes entanglements particularly those quantifiable. Shall we? Let’s. Where shall we? Let’s see.

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And just like that it’s over.  Dead.  The dreams the hopes.

With things said and words spoken the times are here; are changing; are clear; and when the dust softly settles on the ground – like the snowflakes on this quiet mild winter day – the secrets uncovered will speak volumes.  Murmers will whisper their solitude; silence will speak of the tyranny over it; like a shroud; or a cloud; or a dark soft fog that rolls in too slowly to cause alarm.  But alarm!  Everyone must be notified.  Note that this is just as they had said.  And said!  Thus this is where it’s at.  This is how it’s gonna be.  The clouds thunder; the thunder clouds.  The silence is threatened; the tyrants regret. And this is the beginning.  Merely the beginning.  Because all that once came before is gone, so an end it is not.  Born anew this time so much better.  Born to be broken though shinny and polished.  Here it is now the sun a cometh.  Here the dawn of a dawnless day; nor sets the sun under shroud of cold clouds; just grey through the sky and in the minds and in the hearts.

The tide rises.

The shallow water deepens; the sound widens.  As the straight narrows; beyond the next turn turns straight.  And on the heights the hawks glide and during the lows the population crumbles.  This is how it is, how it was, and how it will be.  Twenty thousand years a way of life undisturbed – thence the great upheaval; redundant radicalization during radical redundancy.  All the while, those who waited were left out in the stillness of the night.  Too much time had passed; unabbreviated lengths of sands and rivers running on and on.

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