Hope is held by the thinnest of threads
here within my head.
A yarn made of trust, fragile-
susceptible to the slightest of winds.
Reinforced by love and by courage,
taken in stride, once upon a time.
Now known for what it is-
a picture of beauty, of
what could one day mean happiness.
Happiness...: that ill-imagined fable;
a million lives and hours spent chasing it:
and we only end up chasing our tails.
Hope is held by the thinnest of strings
here inside my heart.
A yarn made of trust, fragile-
a breath of air may cause it to bust.
Now known for what it is-
a picture of harmony,
not always in that state.
I pray to God that one day,
some day,
it will strengthen;
that it will flourish;
and that it will find a way...
to stay in that state.
A yarn made of trust.
I know now: that it must
never become skewed.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Never the Same.
He knows all too well, that the dissolution of his fears is merely temporary...or so speaks the voice that resides further down, below the surface of his skin: a red king wearing a false crown. Coincision between what once was and what will be keeps his spirits from reeling.
Shortly after a brief resurgance of fear, his heart grows cold and his intentions are clear: what if the enemy only lies before the mirror?
Honing a blade to cut out, once and for all, every ounce of nuisance; every memory of every downfall. He sharpens said blade, and feels the pressure thicken with each second that the clock's hands tick.
The heart grows restless, beating hard within its cage of bone and flesh- like some long-endentured slave. His eyes close, as the blade is aimed- he strikes once, and the blood falls like rain.
The pain...it is merely consequence for relief. The brief moment in his mind when all the babbling begins to cease. His thoughts are clear, his mind no longer numb; he wishes each moment were as clear as this one.
He opens his eyes to see that the blade is merely a thought- a crushing blow to the barricade in which he had placed before his heart. There is no blood, no wound, just a menacing hole where the fears had once stood; and what to replace them with? Love? Hope? "If not those, then what?" he asks the empty room in which he resides...falling ever-onward towards unconsciousness.
Sleep beckons, but he cannot turn his back on this goodbye- a long-due farewell to the fears and the lies that he's held within his own child-like mind...his eyes close once more, and the blade is in his hand again.
He says, "I can do this," but he knows: there is no way in Hell he can do it on his own. So he fills the hole with all that he truly knows; and stitches the mental wound with his heart-strings- tying them up in bows..."This is my gift," he tells the room, "a gift to myself, to ward off my self-made gloom," and he opens his eyes once more, and sees only the light from the window upon the wall.
"Surely," he thinks, "this gift, this chance, this opportunity cannot be in vain- I've given to the best of my abilities, so far, and made it to this point without shame." The blood that he'd envisioned on his hands, and on the bed, before him, flowed backwards, into his veins.
He closed his eyes once more, and finally answered the beckoning call from sleep he'd been warding off with visions of what may have been, and what still may yet to be. His heart slowed, his mind wandered, as it does when it dreams its dreams.
He did not wake up the same. He was never the same.
Shortly after a brief resurgance of fear, his heart grows cold and his intentions are clear: what if the enemy only lies before the mirror?
Honing a blade to cut out, once and for all, every ounce of nuisance; every memory of every downfall. He sharpens said blade, and feels the pressure thicken with each second that the clock's hands tick.
The heart grows restless, beating hard within its cage of bone and flesh- like some long-endentured slave. His eyes close, as the blade is aimed- he strikes once, and the blood falls like rain.
The pain...it is merely consequence for relief. The brief moment in his mind when all the babbling begins to cease. His thoughts are clear, his mind no longer numb; he wishes each moment were as clear as this one.
He opens his eyes to see that the blade is merely a thought- a crushing blow to the barricade in which he had placed before his heart. There is no blood, no wound, just a menacing hole where the fears had once stood; and what to replace them with? Love? Hope? "If not those, then what?" he asks the empty room in which he resides...falling ever-onward towards unconsciousness.
Sleep beckons, but he cannot turn his back on this goodbye- a long-due farewell to the fears and the lies that he's held within his own child-like mind...his eyes close once more, and the blade is in his hand again.
He says, "I can do this," but he knows: there is no way in Hell he can do it on his own. So he fills the hole with all that he truly knows; and stitches the mental wound with his heart-strings- tying them up in bows..."This is my gift," he tells the room, "a gift to myself, to ward off my self-made gloom," and he opens his eyes once more, and sees only the light from the window upon the wall.
"Surely," he thinks, "this gift, this chance, this opportunity cannot be in vain- I've given to the best of my abilities, so far, and made it to this point without shame." The blood that he'd envisioned on his hands, and on the bed, before him, flowed backwards, into his veins.
He closed his eyes once more, and finally answered the beckoning call from sleep he'd been warding off with visions of what may have been, and what still may yet to be. His heart slowed, his mind wandered, as it does when it dreams its dreams.
He did not wake up the same. He was never the same.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Product of Heart and Shadow.
The stones are piling upon the surface, collapsing lungs and crushing limbs. Who would have known that the body buried here was vulnerable to stone? To weight? Susceptable... to all...that the heart holds dear.
Panic set in, like a rat escaped from its cage. The forces of beauty and nature, and of storms could not contain the fate that befell him; the addiction was crying constantly, just wanting more. He fed the mouthes he made, the vice, like a child, latched on and would not let him go.
The stones are piling. Faster, as the Hand of God makes Its prescence known. The weight is daunting, crushing, squeezing the life out of his soul. The memories of before flash before his eyes, he cannot stop; his heart commands him- "Watch, for every smile you have planted upon your face, to coast by; every moment in content silence you had shared with her; every time you have ignored your duty; every wasted second spent on nothing. Watch for the choices that led you down this road. Watch for the broken glass from the dreams that you've shattered. Watch for the empty graves around the ground in which you tread. It seems like a lost cause, I know, but you are not yet dead."
The weight builds upon his chest, to the breaking point, his ribs bend inward. The bone begins to creak, but the stones begin to fall away.
Around his body lies a circle of Earth's oldest treasures, long cast up from the depths. His brow is slick and shining, his entire body drenched in sweat. What had once held him, like a child, barely visible through the lies, now lay in shambles, squeezed like juice, from the fruit of his soul. He stands upon the ground, barely breathing the cold night's air. The presence of the Hand is far away, beyond the place in which he stands.
The light of the moon escapes cover, and for one wretched moment he sees his reflection in a puddle of his tears. Broken, bleeding, sick, and in needing...of sutures...for the wounds are far too deep. His heart is pumping blood: seemingly enough to fill the seas.
He stumbles out of the cirlce that the stones have formed around this place...this place that is now hallowed ground in his mind. A place where impurity and shame was squashed from his heart. He stomped upon the flood of sin that had once been dormant in his soul; he kicked it, and beat it, because, even while his tears were mixed with it: he still saw his reflection- a freeze frame of his Shadow pixelated upon the ground.
The pool took shape: standing on two legs that perfectly resembled is own. And, even as he backed away in horror, he knew that this sickness before his eyes was merely a product of Heart and Shadow, a picture of fear and weakness...and it had his face...and that fact...made it that much easier to turn away.
Panic set in, like a rat escaped from its cage. The forces of beauty and nature, and of storms could not contain the fate that befell him; the addiction was crying constantly, just wanting more. He fed the mouthes he made, the vice, like a child, latched on and would not let him go.
The stones are piling. Faster, as the Hand of God makes Its prescence known. The weight is daunting, crushing, squeezing the life out of his soul. The memories of before flash before his eyes, he cannot stop; his heart commands him- "Watch, for every smile you have planted upon your face, to coast by; every moment in content silence you had shared with her; every time you have ignored your duty; every wasted second spent on nothing. Watch for the choices that led you down this road. Watch for the broken glass from the dreams that you've shattered. Watch for the empty graves around the ground in which you tread. It seems like a lost cause, I know, but you are not yet dead."
The weight builds upon his chest, to the breaking point, his ribs bend inward. The bone begins to creak, but the stones begin to fall away.
Around his body lies a circle of Earth's oldest treasures, long cast up from the depths. His brow is slick and shining, his entire body drenched in sweat. What had once held him, like a child, barely visible through the lies, now lay in shambles, squeezed like juice, from the fruit of his soul. He stands upon the ground, barely breathing the cold night's air. The presence of the Hand is far away, beyond the place in which he stands.
The light of the moon escapes cover, and for one wretched moment he sees his reflection in a puddle of his tears. Broken, bleeding, sick, and in needing...of sutures...for the wounds are far too deep. His heart is pumping blood: seemingly enough to fill the seas.
He stumbles out of the cirlce that the stones have formed around this place...this place that is now hallowed ground in his mind. A place where impurity and shame was squashed from his heart. He stomped upon the flood of sin that had once been dormant in his soul; he kicked it, and beat it, because, even while his tears were mixed with it: he still saw his reflection- a freeze frame of his Shadow pixelated upon the ground.
The pool took shape: standing on two legs that perfectly resembled is own. And, even as he backed away in horror, he knew that this sickness before his eyes was merely a product of Heart and Shadow, a picture of fear and weakness...and it had his face...and that fact...made it that much easier to turn away.
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