Autumn Winds (I)

I always end up back here. I'm writing this half asleep thinking of the remnants of a dream where I'm alone and surrounded by the ghosts of pain. I've tried to remember the time I told you that I'd die by water and let the waves swallow me whole before I let death burn its way down my throat. We crushed leaves with every step and I thought of how every sunrise I was grateful and every sunset I was worried and in between I just focused on being. Our view showed the autumn winds crashing the waves and with it my soul. I knew I'd drown soon enough.

Where does the fault land when a soul has been damaged? I know I should blame myself for dreaming of loneliness. It was familiar and I was weak so I let it be my companion every night. There have been nights where I've felt disconnected from my own body and distant from my own mind. It was those nights that loneliness reached its peak. Being alone implies you have yourself but when you can't recognize what you've become you lose that inner comfort. It's clear that I've lost myself and as time goes on life starts to lose meaning. All I can think about it how nothing matters, nothing matters, nothing matters, when you feel this alone. 

Putting the Gods on Trial

We've cried to the sun, the moon and the fathers.
Looked down upon those not drenched in our waters
As we stripped our children of their innocence and our mothers of their wombs
And gave birth to a generation refined by doom.
Perhaps if they burn, their souls will turn to gold
And we can pave the streets of heaven for the Gods that we hold
On pedestals of bones of those dead and forgotten
For the one and only son--the one and only begotten.

But who will judge our Gods when worlds cease to exist?
When the last breath is taken from an air filled with sin?
When we find that all purity was buried with our youth,
Not hidden behind clouds that obstructed our view?
Who will persecute the Gods and sentence them to life
As mortals and force them to adjust to flesh and strife
And feel the pain of a wound deeper than skin,
One that was cast upon you by an unforgivable sin?

When the last days come, we'll find ourselves in prayer
Hoping that mythical tales held some truth of a savior,
As if one isn't enough, or maybe one was too much.
Who will take on the duty of being the Gods' judge?
Some imprisoned us in chains. Others watched freedom make us corrupt,
Yet we still gave them everything--a sort of sacrificial love.
Nothing will change on Earth or in the Gods' luxurious den
'Til tables turn and Gods are forced to walk the paths of men.

Flame Thrower

"And there stood Basta with his foot already on another dead body, smiling. Why not? He had hit his target, and it was the target he had been aiming for all along: Dustfinger's heart, his stupid heart. It broke in two as he held Farid in his arms, it simply broke in two, although he had taken such good care of it all these years." Cornelia Funke, Inkspell

I wrote a letter to a flame thrower detailing 

the way I've been playing with flames. 

They've overcome my thoughts with a deep, 

deep red shadow and they've left bite marks 

on my skin where old blemishes used to be.

I long for the warmth, but it's never long 

before I forget that fire can still scorch the

one who gave it life. In the desperation fueled 

by my fascination, I allow the flames to become

unconstrained, and that is when they burn deeper 

than skin, deeper than my threshold is for pain. 

Anticipation filled me as I waited for wise words 

from the one who knew flames all to well. 

Upon arrival, it was obvious the envelope had been 

licked with fire and as I opened it, I was greeted by 

one sentence written in ashes from the flame thrower:

"Many, in the midst of hopefulness, have a 
tendency to confuse sparks for flames."
Was it in the search for something to hope for
that I found the forbidden fire--a sort of flame
that refuses to die? Or have I only stumbled
on sparks using naivety to conceal its disguise?

The flame thrower seemed to handle the flames
with ease, never allowing one spark to fly out of
sync with the rest. Yet all I can do is spend
candle-lit evenings alone contemplating why I
can't contain the flames like the flame thrower.
Perhaps it's the echo of my mother's voice saying
she used to believe in love lingering in the back
of my mind with other lost hopes. In response to seeing
how her fire and many others were ill-met with the
breath of life, dear flame thrower, all I'm asking you
is to teach me how to keep mine alive.

Confessionals

They were raw and ready to be devoured, hidden in the skin, aching through the bones, pulsing through the soul,
Painfully throbbing at all hours of the day. It made us weak, so we never let it show.
The gap was too wide to bridge. If we had faith we could walk, no fly, across the seas,
But poker faces, drinks that are laced with, Lord knows what, stripped us of our beings.

I'd walk into the booth and tell my sins, if I thought it would have an impact on my end.
But instead I confess my regrets through the tear stained paper and black inked pen.
Father, Father you've made it too easy for us to hide behind a guise,
So we suppress and oppress out of fear. In return for false strength we're left unwise.

We drowned in emotions and gasped for air. How did we think we could stand against the waves?
Now we're left running through the numbing wind. It's funny to think we once thought we were brave.
I prefer beaches that are rocky, with waves that clash and fog that hides the horizon,
Where the sun doesn't shine, but the rain does fall because the darkness is much easier to hide in.

I'd walk into the booth and tell my sins, if I thought someone would listen to my pleas.
I'd wear my insecurities on my wrist if I wasn't afraid of what I'd see.
I think my soul would suffer if I let my bones turn to ash
Before I had the chance to reconcile with my inner self and with my past.

The art of confessing is best expressed through the art that one adores.
Between the lines you can find what a soul won't confess, and much more.
Raw emotions, hidden flaws, quiet thoughts, running free
Only when we devour what once pained us to believe.

How much longer can indifference conceal the inner wreck?
The ships clashed onto the rocks, when the fog and fear met.
And I swear, I'd walk into the booth and confess all my sins,
Only, and only if, I had any idea where to begin.

Mute

A meek voice like my own may be drowned out in the presence of roars, but that does not detract from its value.

The Meek Shall Inherit

A prophet was on the train today; he had a slight slouch in his stance and his hair seemed
Unkempt. I couldn't tell him apart from the old man I passed by on 42nd street
Yesterday. The only difference was a stack of papers replaced the infamous cardboard
Sign. "THE RICH ARE THE MAKINGS OF THE DEVIL." I remember him saying over and over
Again. No one on the train aknowledged the
Prophet. No one on the train
Cared. But that didn't stop the prophet from continuing his
Prophecy. "THE MEEK SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH." He claimed this familiar phrase as his
Own. "WE ARE NOT DIVIDED BY RACE. WE ARE DIVIDED BY CLASS. THE RICH ARE THE MAKINGS OF THE
DEVIL."

The papers held his full analysis of the current state of
Humankind. He tried to hand them out but no one on the train accepted
It. Just like no one gave the man begging for change on the train yesterday a
Dime. I guess they can neither give nor
Receive. "THE MEEK SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH." I think I remember seeing that written in black marker on a cardboard
Sign. An empty cup sat next to
It. Who needs the gravel of the Earth when heaven is paved with
Gold? I wanted to ask the prophet but I was ashamed because I rejected his
Paper--just like the
Others. Tomorrow, there will probably be a new age thinker telling us that freedom will not exist until we free ourselves from the grasp of
Materialism. More than likely, his clothes will be fresh and he'll have brochures labeled "THE THREE STEPS TO FREEING YOUR
MIND" but that won't be enough to make the people on the train aknowledge
Him.

It seems as though nothing will ever be
Enough. Not when me have no aknowledgement for a
Prophet, no mercy for a man, but just enough guilt to make us avert our
Eyes.

A Thousand Fears

I told you that I left my steady hands
back home again but all you had to
offer me were gloves to hide the
tremurs. I've never been too good at hiding.                     

My cheeks burn too brightly to be hidden.         
                                  
My eyes falter at hiding any feelings.

Forgive me for being so forgetful but
I can't keep track of everything it
takes to be acceptable
in your eyes. I try anyways and end
up falling because I lifted my eyes off
the ground.                         

I would never ask anything of you. My
hands may shake and my feet may
stumble, but I haven't forgotten how
to stand on my own. If you must
give me something, offer me your
patience every time I fall. Offer
an escape if nothing else.

Because I'm tired of ending up here,
surrounded by a thousand fears.

I'm tired of hands that shake too hard
to reach for anything of substance.