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.