18 January '17
Everything is a miracle, but then when you constantly see them they become passe… or, on the flip side (everything has a flip side), you start making miracles into your own miracles, and then life becomes a collaborative adventure with the universe into the unknown. And perhaps the greatest miracle of all is consciousness, which allows us to perceive miracles everywhere and make of them what we will!
Solitude waits in depths of the shadow of thoughts, that vacuous realm of resolve, always sublime, yet tactfull and inquisite, precise, though dismal, an incognate respite for the soul traveled beggar of dooms disrepair. The knowledge seeks its level in anachronistic mercy for not forgotten septors of strife. All is not lost in the terror of times tresspass. To gain the unknown and lose the forgotten steps up the flow of creation and a gamble is thrown to the wolves of destiny. I must not take away the frivolity of near miss counter productive silence in forging through to mayhems tusk. Let the raffle begin! Bargain with the quiet eyes of solitude? Ill not. The winner takes all and all is of what? Take it straw master! And I recieve to my emptiness, the song is sung, the rafters are empty.
Tax the weary to feed the poor, but the cat still sleeps by the door, wanting more.
THE MARCH TO DESTINY never ends in defeat for the desperate souls that see through the haze a Lighthouse, sea washed and dreary stone in desolations darkness. It isnt the light that spurs the Trident to the call, but the darkness, the fear, the reach for the unknown. I dabble in known respect because I cant conjure up the truth. It plagues my hearts beating moments and ruptures my tendons in spurts of rampage bewiderment. Never underestimate the sparrow, the hawks beak is its teller of doom. But, to the destiny, was it not the intention, drawn as a picture, known, as a face, that appears in the mirror and swoops down on the escarpment to linger and relish that moment of spinning light?
The Sorceresses of Sildia cackle in mania, for the sun burns the flesh of evenings cold upheaval, the rank in file substitute for auster blankets , sheveled dogs of tongue tied maidens of misfortunes refuge. Can the mine shaft drop to the inner core of self treason? Fool the nieghbors cat from the tree. But know the hard grounds musty scent in downturn will only cushion the fall of the hopeless. Till it is needed, none will prevail. So, Im destitute in remorse for long trailers on paths in naked woods. See through the foragers crest fallen august. The abolshed flee but the honorable stay to find.
Wrestle the thoughts at the ages sea, tide weary among soldiers warfare struggles, the limp beggars swoon in the heat of relentless pleasure in acrimony. Sought after, the the Trildian Summer wreaks havok on blood folk. But The Unknown feels all forever in the vast. The Emporer Of Shilow is masked in sown cloths too. Ask for the foundation to weakness and crumble in the platitudes of foregone saturns. This twist is sure. Find the source and the guestion broadens in perspective. The answer is yes to the little bird, and no to the monster clawed behemouth.
I am the travelers footsteps only. The alchenist’s mystic hue. A purveyance seen in the window of ephemeral transition.
Lavished in the wealth of nations, the seeker finds no solace. The rinds of forgotten fruit decay and become the soil of the downtrodden, for the sake of redemption. I’m not the book of time. I tick though. And each second whisks away the eyes of prosperity’s weak hinge on the gilded door that closes out the truth. I can see for not, hear for envy, reach the sash to close the light. Tell me of which is my domain. The shepherd of seagulls, or the cyclone of vacuous offerings.
To be the precipice, that jumping off point in a communication of delima and hope, as if constructed by thin wire coiled to a magnet, energy that transposes thought or invention, instant reason, doubtless, is the intent of my being. Peripheral anecdotal guotes, gestures forthright to amuse or construe validation of proposed quandaries are of no value. Can I as Not God persuade the fortunes of Solomon’s children to rest the sword from antipathy, the deeper wounds of calamty chewed by senseless oversight, pierce the armor of the dark haven within, to restore the valley to the fine earth of antiquity? I must be always aware that I am the fotune of emperors and knaves, and can hug the wind, hand grace to straw, ford the river on the shepards raft, but I search only to be found.
If I could figure time spent versus time saved I would travail in an obtuse circumference relative to nosh grass clippings raked in the falls breakout bleakness. To gather the news in a system of errors, prevailing may be concluded as fortunate liberty. I will save this timely periodical of portends, and revisit my acrimony of gestures when I have more time to spend.
Nathan Bridlehorn, the begetter of synonymic prayers for animated rock crayon drawings, lost footing on a narrow canyon cliff, and falling screamed “Ill find that shoeho……”. Splat! Seems life is all about something, untill its done. And then its just about a lost shoehorn.
Vacuous conscious reality, the source of denied exportation of my creduluos concepts of mortality, continues to exact a measure of sustained triviality from my always skating rink delema, para flight jumpstart repore with that undertow current, that push pull riptide sasquatch that reasons to, at best, vague insight logic. So far from the truth is my realized consciousness. I unimagine the future and see clear. Sinz is shooting thru a perchance crystal cyclone. Fast is slow. Im not to dawdling. So, to see truly, I turn my head from the matters of motions, and know that, of received invites to illusion, I can accept only the arbitrary triflings of principles and pendants.
From the little known and buried in ancient antiquity philosopher Sinz (my brother):
“One thing that is absolute is faith. And having said this, faith does not mean entitlement. It is humility. I can easily give in to self doubt (lack of faith). Faith is not arrogance. Faith is not power. Faith is refractive introspection. Karma. It is a search to obtain peace within. I never fight. I have no enemy. I am beyond the reach of hate. There is an aura that surrounds my material being. I have nothing, yet I have all. I must dream beauty for it to be. Any evill is of my conception. I lay on a flat rock in the middle of a river, the hot sun, cicadas, whisper willows, all at my beckoning. The bad dreams are replaced with benevolence and virtue, but only with time and patience, which is absolute faith.”