6 November '16
Have you dreamed of a world without enmity? Then look into your own heart and accept the challenge to overcome bitterness with transcendence. Only then will it become possible for the lamb to lie down with the lion.
To be of substance, of relative value, concerted as reliable fortune in matters of concern to those whos pretenses follow shallow rivers to murky coves, I relinquish my sword, my valor prevails in my dusty heels, only the flapping linen of my shirttail answers the mad herd. I cannot be overtaken. My stride is resourceful, calculated in millenniums of sonnets never penned. The word of the world is not my concern, but rather, my compass. I am aware of the fatal direction dictated by drunken sailors of sinking vessels, Valhallo their journey’s destination. Ill follow the Tempest, and never sway my course, for it is justified, to believe. Doubt recoils from me. I am The Statue.
In this prison of time, the executioner waits, the grim peril looms on the killing field, the grass amber red. I think as a short pigeon, and act as a hawk, fidgeting with numbers in the dark hall, peeking in the shadows of senseless motions that dim in sight, only to flash thru my dilemma of sardonic agony, and free the rafters of the spider’s soul sucking riptide undercurrent that pulls me down. Escape the fenced tradgedy I have as my deliverance? No, to that end I do not struggle. I laugh at the occult forbearing etchers, and carve my path with a glance. I know. I watch. I never stand still. I see that which is not.
Sinz revels in the moss grass thickness of the orchard glen’s sublime antiquity, the cackling of sergeants amuses the generals restless insight for the time of a firefly’s flicker.
The fortunate, swaggering daggers in ten fold cusps of lesser reason than God’s guiet intention, eschew the Shakespearean cult that engages the twisted columbine, resourceful as the serpents tongue, to taste the fleck of dust and see, and hear, without remonstrance, seething in transverse beauty, the now and then of forever, far from reach of hand or pen.
Transient peace, of a quality of mercy, pervades my prevalence of duty, or requiem, commits my subtle being of self naivety to underscored tumult in exacting a true spirit, a “gamblers luck dogma”, that collides with my ration that “I alone” make the high road a veneered stratomaster to heavens gate. The farmer of sticks for kindling is my resolve to be heir to. The fires are furious with knowledge of vanity,’s loquacious dilemma, the truth serum of gargoyles, piercing glances from hindsight, trembling sanctimonious hallucinations. Obliquity of finality is rust, and that is my saving grace. Farewell my canon, take to the northern lights, the skies of requiem never bled so true.