Working to a Clear Plane

Inspiration can only come from accepting the natural order of the living. An order crucial to our walks; our core. Yet we see that the living are made to evolve. To grow. And it is in learning each stance that we start to dance through each move. Indeed, we may learn to manipulate the art of life itself.

Our dance is a ploy, for unaccustomed as we are to learn, there are times when it is in the grace of a timely pace that we move swiftly in the arms of change. But it is to the beat of the mind that we are bound. Bound to bend to the power of creation, of the rules and ties we have clasped, and the solitude in which we rose. To break is unnatural; an unknown path. And in stuttering strokes, twined tracks of fear lay camouflaged within this lighted trail of spring.

A trail of a rise. A trail we no longer bring. A change. The heart can however lie and defy what the mind already knows. And it is in defiance that the charcoal lined course signposts its way through the iron-laden fog of the diverse. The plane.

And upon this plane, in floating alongside and clearing the mist one woven strand at a time, we allow our wombs to breathe. To be accustomed to grow. And we let our hearts be nourished through the mind. A new bend. Our own.

We create and manipulate the forms that our art can take.

We decree.

Losing

At a loss.
To be lost.
To lose.

All of the above.

Another Year

Exactly six years to this date and time.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon.

My Write

There are times when it feels as though ghosted traffic screams through you as you stand on a deserted road, struck by a realisation so severe that neither awe nor fear can translate the design.

How different we are. How different.

Neither logic nor love works on those who have lost their fight, for they wish to no longer believe. A choice.

Time only works to strengthen their cause, their resolve; a victory of sorts. But such triumph can only bring grief to those that have already left. Disappearing footprints remain as a testament over the void that the darkness now fills. Already at a different plane.. A purer rise. To suffer is to return, and in return, to suffer is waived. And to move beyond is to bid all a disdainful farewell. A choice.

I cannot.

He(r)art

Desert Fairy

Gritty

Painting a green world

Art refers not only to the traditional forms of poetry, prose and paint, but it is the vision with which we adore and engross ourselves in the expressions that signify the discoveries to which we concede. It is in this, an ability that is almost intuition itself, that we forget, in fact, it is all an art.

I'z

One hundred billion million more times than you could ever imagine, did the garish light creepingly blind all that its touch consumed.

Corner by corner, the world illuminated to the grabbing hold of the new moons pull.

It was simply the beginning of this new ravaged land, a sight not seen before.

Darkness unveiled.

And barefoot and dishevelled, eyes awakened in newborn rapture to this world of unknown grace. Who would have thought their foetal form had matured to birth in the time that they had dreamt of their demise. It indeed became a noted date of cries. And indeed, it was but one gush away.

Lay still, and breathe.

.

Unfathomable.
Inert.

Let the dreams begin..

Altered

Each faltered step
Eats shadows into depths
Whilst starved intentions
Let cries run tracks
Into the burdened minds
Of the once elite
And thus once again
We hold our tongues
And hold each fright
As we leave our lies,
To mind.
To rest.
In dreams
We sleep.

Unbound

To live by time seems impossibe and each stretched moment a noble pursuit. Yet, when we record by the strokes of the line, it is in one that we can encompass, and belittled in all we'd forgot.

And though at a leisurely pace, trodden paths seem not to have progressed, as though stilled in voyage, an immortality bent in our failure to resign. And as each collapsing ride hails from a stunted rise, yet unmounted, each steed shall stand alone.

In portrayal of a mustered zeal, glazed and indistinct, a wish of the seer rises into the dust that she walks upon, a fellow amongst the wiles.

Strike.

O

That's all there is to say.

Lest I Should Forget..

Nostalgia always brings with it a deep remorse for lost appreciation. Yet, the beauty of imprinted signs leaves aside the fallen heights of desire, and emboldens us to embrace our blood's calling once again.

Renewal aside, we remain the same and only sheath each brilliant sword with but a cloth of farce. And farce forgot, we remain allied alongside our shield.

It is in our advance that we clasp from behind, so that our future shall not forget. That is a must to accept; my sword cannot be left behind.

I am.

Lessons Learned

Between one heart beat and the next, we seem unable to acknowledge the possibility that we may fail. That all we work towards may never bear the fruit of our efforts, of our dedication, and of our time that we spent, mastering and honing each skill that we use. The intensity of our pride in the lives that we build, blinds us to the truth of our mortality. A shock when it is realised, and amounted to dust when our soothing words of 'not yet' give rise to the ruins that we build for ourselves in that which lays beyond our sight, away from all we know.

We spend our time as hypocrites, languidly idolising the memories we created, having been made in the intensity we wished to gain. Drained and wrung dry, to hoard in the short space we perceive.

One would think that death would awaken us to the reality of life, to the dreams cut short. Again. Another life, another friend. Were they lucky enough to have planned for their now? Did they have the wisdom to prepare? That, I don't know. But tomorrow may not wait for our fruit and so it is the seeds in which we need to invest our lives. Another push. Another time to grow.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon.

Poised

Recoil. Recline. And Strike.

To accept the power that you wield can only mean a rented choice to covet all that is already yours. Sucked into the emptiness of a void world, each extension slowly drifting past, catching onto moments of meaning, a whispering line on the blank platter of instruments to communicate; we make that choice.

Raised in dug grounds, in an attempt to stain the latched, we work to familiarise, to recite; frozen in a grabbing hope towards the dawn.

First or third? You choose.

Precision Point

Resounding but ignored,
A right I create
Out of the laws that I hold
More than that which I learnt,
My pace a hidden rate.
And yet again,
Ignored.

And in the lines drawn to point
On either side of my own
In working for a loss
Of a point,
Of a line.
To include and to encompass
At once,
To be all mine.
A point.

Content

The Works of Charles Dickens
Two Volumes

Special Limited Edition of 4000 books individually numbered
RRP: Too much


Huge, beautiful and more than a thousand pages long for each volume. Plus, illustrated and gold-edged.

Now added to my collection :)

Ivy

From times that know not of our physical birth, there exists an ancient drive, an unknown entity discovered. A hidden arousal. Born.

From there, no path is paved for return.

Fuelled by resisitance, a rite of passage of some sorts, it is for the frenzy of vulnerability, a complete sustenance in closed eyes and a rhythmic tread for which we pray.

In Joining. To Compete. Complete.

--------------------------

That step. Walking on air. Leaving the ground from before. Arms out in an embrace to face the slowly rising sky as you fall. Smiling. Waiting for that miracle as you soar down, floating, spread in the breeze. Each gust past your face as the wind creased laugh escapes from within. Content.

Carnal Flight. Progressive Fight.

.
.

One

Each remains distinct. A roughened edge, alert to its own despite the steady rise and fall as the swells gather speed to drop down in fatigue. To rest after fight. To submit to gravitated will.

Muted in attempt to remain, no will is ones own, as sucked in and drawn through the narrowed lines, along with the rest it lays. In a mound. In a finely balanced illusion of golden triumph, until from the heights they jump, and roll, and land, slowly raked to the side. And out of the doubled and tethered glass, it is time to upturn once again, another round. Another attempt to breathe, until hurled down once more. In defiance to stand.

Two

Sat. Allowing the upturned to drown. So still, despite the ravaging beats, lapped around, sworn into a numbed dullness. Planted firm in order to recline in a wait. Devout. For a clarity. For the final seams from the inside to the falling that devours, to be drawn tight and inspired. Hidden. Merged compliance. Convenience. A fall to learn, into hand.

Three

Surrendered. Left to learn. Each hurled and fallen to mime. A clarity to stand in time.

Foreign

There was only silence where she sat as though intoxicated by her own life, her breathing and her sighs. She heard nothing else. Not the silent patter of footsteps across the ledge, nor the rapid knocking from far beyond her mind could see. There was only her in the here and now. In the I and in the We.

Rocking, shuddering, soundless in her cries, her eyes searched in hunger for all that she looked upon despite her empty gaze. Grounded. There was nothing left to yearn. Broken illusions and unkept words, she slowly drew the cloak tighter around that which she had revealed. It was no longer to be this way. Not if it would only result in the same.

Upon the floor she sat, unmoving and secure. Chained to the past, of the now-boxed emotions that could hold no truth, that could not bear the weight, the gravity of what could be seen if only one could see. If it could lie to her no more. Colour left her cheeks and she slowly withdrew to what she was before. Back to death and beyond. A state she knew so well, was so comfortable with that she could befriend it once again. No expectations, nothing held. She could simply just be..

No Farce to be

In echoed steps
Towards you I walk
As parted sighs
Combine to mine
As afraid to gaze
In locked embrace
We guard each start
Though still hurl time
To the troubled deep
Into the waking state
Of the softly laid
From the pieced innate
As I continue to walk
In your leaving print
Lasting; each fear
Of hardened beats,
Back, and in time.