Fear of the Depths

Their lives are like that of the albatross;
Indefatigably fighting to stay in the air,
Fighting against nothing, for nothing,
Afraid of the wild, unpredictable waves below.

Preserving their lives, but from what? For what?
Is safety thus to be cherished above all?

Not Swept Away

Has felt that rain on her skin, penetrating her sense, drenching into her, washing her away into the hysterical rapids...she stops to collect herself in a pensive pool in the wood sunken with wind-wearied leaves, but how will the downpour not wash her away once again? I am nothing if I do not feel, but I must reserve a that within myself to be she who feels--this will not be swept away; it will never feel a thing, though it is all that feels, and feels all.

In Reflection of the Sun

Footsteps on moon-shafts
Teardrops in light-pools
Orbits of space crafts
Embrace on a moonlit stool

Walk in His reflect
Share in His sorrow
Follow the reject
There’s love in tomorrow

Prison of the Mind

"Move along, move along, dear!" They force, with stiff pretense on their cold-curled lips, as I stop to peer out of the slats which slice the light into sensibly debased slabs. "You're in your way," they offer ineffectively "and mine." they add in an under tone, finally stating their point. "Don't stop, never stop; your mind will follow," yes, on that dog-leash chain. "It's a perpetual machine," they say ironically, mechanically impinged, "No need for stop to think". My mind too must be unplugged from any source of energy but my own movement, and they thus reach for the shutters (there are no openers here) "Are you finished looking out at the sun?" they ask, as though my response mattered; what I did was pointless, and I must be cut off— "I have prepared myself for the blindness," breathing in the last of the filtered light for the long period of breathless dark. They cannot hear that. "Yes." I answer again, painfully betraying, but in a simple definite lie which is all they can ever grasp. That smirk of certainty returns to their inexpressive lips. The stripes of light then narrow into nothingness across my open lids. My eyes close.

The Medallion

Magnificent, and splendid He
Who casts his brilliant gold festoon
Down upon the raging waves

The Ocean, chasing, churning, free
A rebel, heeding only Moon
Dashes froth against the caves

A pitting sorrow smolders now
Within the molten core of light
Clouds of tears shroud gold ideal

A reverent sea to Master bows
Whence, suspended in a silken sky
Sun flows down; but 'tis not real

Thus raw relation’s tempest quelled
But mercy’s never quenched--
Light now tangible is sent

The insolence boasts on, tide-swelled
Though nonetheless with grace is drenched
Dancing, doleful Disk unpent

In thankless spite and wondrous pounding
The pendent for penchant’s forgot
Cavern-hid, it waits as dead

Though cast away, a thundrous sounding
Resounds, surrounds, as empty rought
Of that tyranny--naught said

Awaiting silently instead
In still resplendence golden
Matter-shaft--Medallion

An Account of Ambivalence

I am a model, doncha know? Yeah, I can't even take myself seriously. Especially at two in the morning...not true, that is when I unearth the deepest respect for who I am through my existential debates within myself...I loath that, for all its pretense. And you call it pretense for the mere fact that you understand it not at all, you bloody equivocator! Oh, and at that I should dash all I have, I expect? Because it is not encapsulated in philosophy? A philosophy, I might add, wraps only around itself. No, I should never have expected you to understand, for all you know is....

The battle rages on, but that has nothing and everything to do with this it. Elsie Fleetwood. Explode. No, implode. Just watch if you wish, I'm clearly giving you no type of description for which you are looking. Again, I am far too quick to assume. Be who you are.

A Crackling

Deep, no deeper, no less deep it should be. The throbbing and thrumming tugs at my every tendon--yet I move not. It should be nothing less--mark that, nothing more--than what it is? Deception is not desirable, yet then it is when through its eyes you seem to peer? And what if this is necessary to go deeper, to break the bark which we knew had use as it was, but has it no other, no better, use? The question on the counter now must be cut, or cut at: What is it to be better? I do not know anymore; I never knew; can I ever know? A threefold bandied crackling. The sound which cannot be ignored, though it is always on the back burner. It cries of something to be had, not anymore what should, but what should be should... I am here led into infinity. Tertiary, quaternary, and whatever other powers--to infinity--of the volition. Is the height of this, the utmost possible for the human race then most admirable? And what would, could, should, this be? Or is it rather an individual endeavor to reach a specific height? Is this then due the utmost admiration and therefore striving?