These wishes and these dreams
grow brighter every day -
to hold the future in mine eyes
and block the lies I face -
this is my curse -
my past -
and my future.
To see you from afar -
not able to touch you
how I want to -
the way I know I should.
You are my destiny,
yet covered neath the clouds
sheltered from this sun of civilization.
If only we could gather this strength to be together -
the moon our house of life for all eternity.
Each time I write I swear within myself that it shall be the last.
And I always find that it is -
for every time a portion of me dies -
a new is reborne of the ashes within the candle flame.
The phoenix brings a new life and a new blessing to this adventure -
this calling of the darkness within.
Yet why are some afraid?
These demons would not be so placid if angels shall not seek the same haven.
And dreams - what shall be made of these?
Was ever a more glorious cause than the achievement of such desires?
What shall we know in the end,
all has happened already.
The oranges, pinks, and purples melt away any leftover desires -
for a new day has begun.
This morn shall be just the first in a series, a life, of sweet dreams
and beauty yet undiscovered.
To touch the stars, or heaven herself, shall be yet one more past time,
just another beckoning call,
already answered.
These dreams which we hold on to in an attempt to prevent change -
They will effect it -
They are the moon's desire to outshine the sun -
outdo the competition of her own split apart.
For where else could she turn to, if not the glories of humanity?
The core of spirituality?
The renewal of a lost religion?
The adding of one more sacrifice?
Would you volunteer?
I have yet to feel her here lately.
She seems to have temporarily dissipated
from within my mind.
But then, don't we all sometimes?
I still hear her voice echo
somewhere
in the back of my mind
occasionally,
but it's all things she's said before -
or nothing which manages to secure a concrete form.
I hold onto hopes on one level that she may be gone.
Yet I know that, were she, it would be very lonely here in hell tonight -
same as every night.
I believe that she lives, in part, within me,
yet how could she be so hard to find?
My dreams lately turned to a black sort of nothingness
where I know not what happened come morn.
And I desire more.
I wish to recall those eras
when a spirit was sought after with praise,
perhaps reverence, but in a decent manner.
Those times that her voice within my mind would be but a blessing -
now likened to a sweet curse - no dream lest a nightmare.
And this circle brings the full spectrum back to the light,
pulled from the shade.
Tell me, sweet seraphim, where are you today?
Where do your dreams end?
When may mine start to begin?
I cease to understand
this feeling within my body -
for who could create such a force
of sheer hatred and pure hollowness?
I allow the thoughts within my head
to wander
but for a minute,
for how else could I recreate
this emptiness -
the touch of your warmth
against my pale skin?
And laying next to you -
the blood-stained flesh,
who could have guessed
it was me who was dead?
My soul rotted through
from the taint of tomorrow -
My hatred the only emotions
I am left to know.
The presence of this anger
left within the world,
yet without my self
- my being -
my hollowed shell
of chaotic discoveries.
I release these tensions upon you -
I hold the binders,
bound to none.
And the only prison I see
is the one I tried so hard to erase,
the same as I create.
Your world is black and white,
pure with hatred and fright.
To be scared of the unknown,
the unwanted,
the uncalled for moments in life
when those things least expected earn respect
by occurring strictly within this echo of paradise.
These dreams are of peace within the pain -
ice in the volcanic ashes of hell's mighty lavas.
These dreams echo forth the insanities
on which humanity flourishes.
The blackness of this world places her cold hand upon my shoulder,
the blood seeping between us as the veins chill even more.
The ice cold dreams grip my reality
as I see the future all too pale and glazen with frost.
The deserted pains once abandoned become a new collage of excitement.
Close your eyes, my child,
and slumber of these better days.
For soon the moon shall return
and - soon - the clouds will play.
The clouds wept tears from the heavens the night the sorrows bore our fruit.
I laboured through the hours, forgotten of my own accord.
The self-exile I complacently placed myself within the walls of echoed the trials of a generation's pain.
The pain of all I lost in the end being the only justice upon which I could bare to foresee the past.
The only triumphs we have yet to face being the chaos of this world -
this century lost within the cries of battle; the echoes of war in this fantasy.
My eyes held onto the blood of all my sorrows,
the tears of my hatred pulsating beneath this rotten hide.
And who am I to judge ye?
For how else could one escape the past -
the echoes of insecurities and displeased murmurs.
The senses wild with the sounds of desertion and devastation -
the pure meaningless insensibilities.
Do you realize the pains suffered within your name?
The volumes of pain with your hatred, your heart, your core of being.
Yet the love overthrows all else -
If only the love were known.
What is the justice of a world which does not elicit change?
What past desecrations must be caused to surface yet again?
The days of remembrance lest we forget,
yet here we start fresh, begin anew -
Same grievances -
louder voice -
Sometimes -
Others a faint whisper -
Why shall all be condemned in the name of one?
For who judges that evil which destroys this civilization?
The civilized manner of destruction we pursue?
The continuance of a million years isolation -
various societies -
religions -
races -
are we not all but the same?
The pain placed upon our past
and the tortures facing our future.
We destroy the only possible forgiveness sought
by moving forth into the echoes of this weak insanity.
Green envious dreams cloud the skies of fortune.
The forestation of the desert just begging to be planted.
The ruins of the future, yet to be built.
And the pain of forgiveness - the fires it would melt.
This weakness is but bodily for how could a soul be so flawed?
But beneath these stars we see our fortune
- our past - our future -
our only path leading within a circle.
This oval of impurities - this triangle of quests.
Why choose a path - just let go
and the dreams shall decide their own simple fate.
I used to wonder about the dreams within me
and about the nitemares that held on so tight.
How many trials must a soul be borne into
before their sorrows may find a light?
The surface fading further into the void above me
as my thoughts pull me deeper in this spiral -
the whirlpool of insanity in life's precious waters.
To hold onto something as our own, we must claim all right to it.
Yet who has such an assuming power to consume all in her presence?
The only rights we refuse to acknowledge are those same few who truly exist.
For what external values may any soul keep
beyond the selfish nourishment of their own ego and physicality?
The branch of such desires being the dream yet chaotic nitemare we hold within a sacred realm -
to judge not but to see beyond -
The spirituality of a lost race -
the forgotten key to the kingdom -
the third eye.
And it sees the truth in everything.
The darkness, the emptiness.
The self isolation, despair, and exile.
And how long will it be until they realize there is no contest?
The war is over, the debate is finished.
Both sides have their moments of victory
and those times are now gone.
The pitch black night tearing into our lands of restful slumber and warmth.
And it's a cold cold world out here,
without the moon giving off her heat.
The isolated pulsations of the stars mourning their mother's shallow death.
The prophesized predicament inherent with our hatred.
And why should we, the human's mortal flesh,
thrive upon the sheer destruction we exonerate.
The only gem in a wasteland deserted at its core chance of survival.
And she lights the path for us,
choosing the sadness we seek to feed off of.
The only pleasure derived from this vile place of refuge,
the victory still smells sweeter
from underneath the blade.
The desert sands flourish beneath your ripening vines.
The glow of the sun diminishing into the cool breeze of evening.
The dunes ripple in brite swelling masses below your pristine presence.
The ripe edges of the horizon marking the cascading effects of the rippling beauty.
And so your domes are pure, perfect in this evening light -
and what more could we wish for in a world of nite?
My dreams echo thoughts of despair, violence, and prolonged suffering.
The abandoned feeling of lost hopes pulsating through a world of loneliness.
And those dreams are simply lost desires forgotten by the true masters,
but remembered in the darkest hours of nights.
And so how many worlds are lost due to the deepest wonders being the only mysteries left -
the chaos of the human mind -
a spirit unknown within the soul.
And of course those nightmares became the only dreams we will remember.
It is time to sleep and yet your image is all I can focus on.
The free floating shapes of my future
cascading through the resilient waterfalls within my mind.
And the music plays on within my head,
louder now and longer tunes -
melodies repeating by threes.
The only silence is found between the echoing pulsations of my heartbeats -
those becoming faster and more pronounced themselves
echoing my feelings towards you -
my desires.
And do I trust those age old lessons of which I have been taught?
Do I believe you to be of the devil's hand -
your soul too pure to be true -
too white to be pure?
Am I to think you are the devil's handmaiden
laden with his special tools of wisdom?
I do not believe as such -
for who am I to judge -
I follow no thoughts beyond my own -
I worship no gods beyond those in which I believe -
and I see only the evil as acknowledged to be before me,
not the undetermined fate of a songstress
or a priestess -
For as I lay here -
awake undreaming -
I think less of those dreams I have yet to know
and I wonder how many times I must let go of the same past
before it will be free from me -
let me go itself.
Maybe never -
but it's worth a try -
for what else am I going to be wishing for
if not the survival of dreams?
The castles are burning behind her -
The charred smoke of a lost maiden's desire.
And she tries to free us -
her lost children -
her blood swollen womb.
The devastation burning, echoing from this dark rage.
The chaotic impulses wrongfully accused get punished without a trial -
The first child of god -
Jesus' sister and of her own blood.
She heals the hearts of her enemies who sacrifice in her pain the blood of another's love.
The fields overflow with the creatures who sought her to heal them -
those who speak of angels in their rightful nature.
And the comfort of her touch -
was equal to her brother's, to her son's.
For the red flames absorbed her blood -
the dye on the cross of life -
the first crucifixion true to its name.
Her powers dying all but in spirit, returning to the earth where they came.
She came to me again last night,
the dark maiden of yesteryear.
She said it is time for us to join sides,
that our petty wars are no longer to be waged.
And there is something more important now anyway.
She tells me the devil is borne and his strength is growing evermore -
Her shroud of unassuming darkness shifts to a pale sort of gray.
The black purity in her eyes whispers of the last time the two joined sides.
She was on ours, one of us who died
merely in the attempt to tell others
to acknowledge this truth.
And now she explains to me
that this alone is why she haunts us
and our children are all hers.
They called her Lilith,
back in her own time -
and the creatures seeking refuge
found it within her arms.
She whispers secrets
laden with combined memories and lies
penetrating the isolation
of our individualistic society.
And this is why I write.
Her voice echoes in my mind
as she tells me of her quest
for these children borne of pure blood
lurking in the shadows -
and you are there as well -
for your grandchildren and great-grandchildren
echo from this void.
Even in death they are the light.
Even as death looms
it is up to us to fight.
It's not fair to parents -
the way their children grow so old so fast.
And she's so innocent.
The unknowing, naive eyes that search the room
for any sign of recognition or love.
And that is all she wants -
to be loved by somebody,
anybody who sees her for who she truly is.
But then again,
isn't that all anybody ever really wants
- unconditional acceptance -
to see someone and acknowledge them
and accept them as who and what they are.
We as a society need to realize
that to withhold this acceptance is only truly hurting ourselves -
not the person we attempt to isolate ourselves from.
This cycle of self-exile being the largest cause
of anger and hatred and unnecessary suffering.
For we require others not to judge
yet place ourselves within that decisionary throne.
We distribute our own judgments and findings
freely among others that they may agree with us
- or not -
if not we just isolate our powers away from them as well.
For how else do we explain to our children why Mickey Mouse is bad
and why Daddy is allowed to be mean
and mommy can't leave because divorce is wrong -
besides god must be punishing her for some reason or another.
Thus the cycle continues meaninglessly
as well as endlessly
until the end.
The dark blue sky dreams clouds of cotton onto the shimmering fields found below.
And the peaceful resistance found there -
the nitemare craved in conjunction with the seeping chaos of a lover's battlefield.
The dreams I once had when I was there,
so very long ago -
and I knew then that they were only dreams
so how could I let them affect me so much?
The painful landscape called love,
scoped out as just another chaotic nitemare -
dream of something else altogether -
the only way we'll ever see the darkness absorbing the sun -
yet how does global warming survive as thus?
The dreams hold onto the power -
the strength of the stars echoing into this still void.
As I remember who you used to be,
the sleepful memories flood my being.
There never was a way to seek out your spirit
without encountering the soul called your own.
You held your arms out to embrace the darkness,
the chaos bled from death's destructive door.
And that darkness is how we met -
The same isolation and exile I feasted on for so many years.
You were the darkness as I embraced your light.
He lies in the field, lying to you,
telling you what you want to know, or at least hear.
Demanding you tell your secrets in turn -
your darkest fears and deepest yearns.
Who else could forsake a world without a second thought?
He forms the chaos within your mind -
but it's all just an illusion.
Dissolving into the fantasy your reality could never be
or has it been?
The future reckons it shall be better,
at least for him or someone.
The dark circles under your eyes only grow larger
as you remember those dreams he whispered to you -
there in those fields -
the truth - the reality -
the essence that only he could feel.
And he tells you of his cousin -
the great Aslan -
and the short power he holds -
but his brother -
the stranger's -
he is of a worthy toll -
if you bargain with your soul.
I have so many things I want to say to you.
And yet what would I say, were you here?
The days go by and with each passing moment
the thoughts of you become more blurred.
And what I should really know is what to say to her.
What do I tell her when she asks me who you are
or if you care -
I don't know and I probably never will.
You spread your wings, golden in the sunlight.
The most beautiful things come as such a little surprise.
I look into your face, the wisdom you hold in your mind.
And your eyes reflect me.
The peace of mind you must see within yourself,
to be unafraid to look into others,
unsure of what you'll find.
Your feet carry you when your wings do fail -
yet they remain lifted well beneath your golden tail.
The mournful black skies are surrounding us more every day -
Slowly replacing the pale blue we once saw to be so typical.
And the political isolation we, as a society, have placed upon ourselves.
For eho better to kill us off one by one than those same men who swore to protect us?
And our country's so much better than them because we know the true value of gasoline -
And how many people dies just so your tank could be full?
The armored metal, black and cold, against the sun's bright beams.
And we always were the winning side, so long as we ignored the others.
They may consider themselves better - but we have true values - morals - ethics -
for how else are you able to explain the devastation to mother earth?
We know enough to rightfully punish her for allowing us to exist to begin with.
The shadows in the corner fall upon you -
creeping toward your sleeping soul.
And I wonder how you can slumber so.
For how long can you dream in this sweet bliss,
unaware of the pain this world is in -
How do you face this turmoil each day -
not knowing why you should turn away?
The universe is so small -
in your beautiful eyes,
but the precious disturbance is all you can bare -
or even more.
Your world is awake as the rest of us sleep
for surely your dreams are better than this -
sweet bliss of destruction.
I sat alone, waiting for the phone to ring.
And I knew I could not answer it, for you are too dangerous -
too bad of news for me to receive.
I held my breath, waiting to exhale until after the police arrived.
And they pronounced your death.
For how was I to know how long the sky had been dark on your dreams,
how long since the sun had set in your fields.
Yet the moon refuses to rise.
She's determined - figures there's a reason -
and I hesitate to look as they pull back the sheets -
for whose soul could reflect their presence after their loss
except those who determined their own demise -
And the blood still haunts me.
The glass drops line the windowsill,
obscuring the truths that lie behind them -
Just as the dreams within the river -
beneath the ripples or subtle waves -
and they glisten under the pale moon -
a distant echo from a forsaken land.
The lightning falls - echoes into our lives
penetrating the past and mozaicing the future,
turning it into a larger picture of self-discovery versus limitations.
And who shall set those standards -
society's equivalent of the standardized test -
a form to complete, mail in and get your results in 30 days -
maybe less if you're lucky.
And how long does it take us to decide which path to take -
which answer to choose?
Simply we want to choose - have a choice -
over our own life - our own right -
our destiny - our detailed order -
future destination as women -
and this is where we get in life -
wherever we choose to lead ourselves -
Presuming, of course, that we have the right to choose at all.
The moonlight beckons through my window in its glistening radiance.
It calls forth the blood pulsating within my shallow veins.
Echoing the beat of Earth's heart, molten lava within her core -
within my shell.
And my pain pierces the silence of the sleeping lilies -
for a new star is borne -
and she must greet her daughter -
the muse of her heavens.
How often do we imagine oppositions within a certain state?
The fierce competition made more real by the dark colours of black
shaded from the peacefulness of a pale white.
And yet does the moon not show both sides?
Full, pure with energy and pulsating desire -
transforming through phases, morphing into her own newness,
a single moment of prolonged disappearance
followed by that of a prophesized discovery?
And we consider ourselves to be so unsimilar -
our souls poured from the same cast, cast from the same mold.
And yet an angel became the devil -
but an angel still he is -
for who else could be an angel of darkness -
prince of lies and devastation?
And the opposing values, darkness claimed within our forlorn shells -
for christianity is its own opposition -
Separation.
Church vs. State.
Roe vs. Wade. -
And where does humanity come in?
I lay unmoving as your dreams slowly begin to materialize around my hollow body.
And I wonder how it came to be that your life may be more blessed than mine -
yet it matters not.
For whose world could exist if alone, isolated, and unmodified,
unaware of this existence just outside of their homes.
And I find it a worthless endeavor to try to explain this effect you have on me -
for your own world is already travelling too fast.
The metal rods penetrate into the sleeping energies around you.
For the moon's shadow is bright, especially on a night like this.
And you lay, asleep, the ease of steady breath slowly echoing
into and out of your body.
And yet you find yourself imprisoned at such a young age.
The cold ice feeling contrasting with the pure white energies
contained in the same molecules -
and this is what your world is summarized as.
The crib that holds you within the deadly cycles of humanity forevermore.
I know now how desperately the past must haunt those who can not remember.
For how else do we know the savage acts we once felt forced to commit,
except by realizing that which we once forced ourselves to forget?
I never did manage to comprehend
how society determines who to deem dangerous.
How can one's morals be judged so harshly
as incorrect against another's?
The false whispers of a forsaken madness
echoing back to the present reality.
For who are we, ourselves, to judge another,
lest we not have sinned ourselves?
I commonly find myself questioning
the ethics of any race
which can place its own existence as supreme
yet shun those within this cast
who place the same glorification upon themselves.
In this universe where all planets orbit the sun,
how can it be so easily forgotten that our lives do as well?
The passing of each second
granting us one moment closer to our own demise,
and yet it's the same story for every one -
just doing what you can with what you're given -
a chance at life.
The quest for love so we don't feel so alone,
insulting God by being too demanding -
always wanting more.
The fire within her wings settles,
blazen red against the summer sky.
The black aches of past days
staining her curved wings.
The restless air beneath her calls to her,
taunting her with whispers of dreams and aspirations come true.
And she is caught up in flight,
not noticing the wishes she sails past -
the dreams of her past now calling forth for recognition.
And she still holds so much beauty in such a simple quest -
to find the next pistil.
The earth breathes life into your sleeping body.
The cold stillness of the stars luminating heat overhead.
You slumber, the death-like trance,
draining life from your empty soul.
Energy replacing the particles of dust you exhale -
in an attempt to articulate the pain you create, you exist in.
The world quiets and stills to decipher the sound of a single heart beat -
and she wonders if it is yours.
The simple echoing shrills coming from within the hallowed earth.
And the dirt falls on to your open grave.
The searing fires burn apart my soul as I wonder who to turn to next.
The only times I can talk to you I can't seem to explain
the life you left behind, what you abandoned so long ago.
And the more the fires burn, the colder your past becomes,
the further away you drift, sinking back into the darkness,
helpless and alone, your soul left to die.
The trees in the jungle shade the light of the sun,
just the way the body shades the heart.
And the darker the night fall,
the more the world opens up to the mysteries inside.
The cypress and the palm together in the savannah -
the great cultures created and isolated by none other than our own.
The still images, portraits lying on my floor
remind me of who you once were.
And the sad pulsating winds of autumn
mount their plea against the winter's sun -
his beams lacking power in this fortress of cold isolation.
And I wander through the images,
pure with their likened hate,
identical to yours toward me or mine of the same name.
He once tried to overcome her cold abandoned spell,
pronounce winter to be no worse than spring -
an abundance of life.
She fought, icicles against his rays -
piercing his amber shell of organization
with the isolation and aloneness that only she could bring -
the splitting image of death's cold hand -
yet even the warmth of death cannot be seen through this frost.
And you return to me, sure of your own salvation,
your hate stronger than ever -
as I cast my cold shadow towards you just once more.
I always try to forget my past -
or at least the parts that ended like this.
I try so hard to move on from the silence -
but I can't help but to hear those voices still yelling at me -
the same petrifying words they used then -
so many years ago.
And I hear a voice, now here, in the present,
wanting to know exactly how many times
I can replay the same things in my head,
constantly uncovering a new answer, a new truth.
And I always lost track when it came to you.
A simple nightmare, a hate-declared dream -
yet I always feared my judgments true -
I always feared I would remember you.
And the blood-thirsty cries coming from across the room -
the emptiness within my shallow womb.
And how could I tell her the anger I felt?
How could I explain the new rage which was dealt?
I simply decided to let go, move on,
but I still hear your voice, the screams are strong.
I carried you nine months in my womb and nine more in my arms.
The thoughts of you replacing emptiness with long lost smiles and peace of mind.
Surrendering my past and starting again - a new world in your eyes.
I held you and I wondered why I ever thought I knew what happiness was - what joy meant -
I held you as I wondered how beautiful your smile would become as you aged.
I held you as I admitted my only love, last night - and I held you so tight.