I dream of birth, the disconnection of the life giver, the disembowelment of a distorted reality. I dream of a new beginning, the removal of a corrupted eternity, cleansed of a fluidic chaotessy. I dream of jovial exhilaration, exalted far above the material world, below the eternal. My journey rambles me through a world gone supernova, exploding into brilliant shimmering lights of renewal, rebirth, a cataclysmic kaleidoscope of endless flash points in the night sky. To the distant horizon, I wander, I trot, I enter into a world filled with color and light, chaotic light, flash points in the night.

I dream of birth anew. A silly dream of tender, glorious happiness that takes me from point to point, never feeling the coldness of space or denial, or rejection. Ultimately, there is a world where color persists against a colorless void in the night sky. I dissipate with the coming of the warmth, the coming of the light. I ponder the new beginning only for a short period of time just before the parole from the garden, sent on my way to oblivion, on my way to annihilation, on my way to the dark world.

I am born into destruction, into war, into light. I am born into a bright horizon so distant, yet ushered to it as if I will ever reach the zenith of my destiny. Passion bars me, love hinders me, and obedience paves the road in the woods as it rains upon the lonely ones. And still, I dream these lonely dreams of kaleidoscopic births and beginnings, and in the rain, the tears long sense dissipated, are mimicked on the cheeks.

Tumultuous turmoil within the confines of the soul. It searches for the cracks that destiny has left behind in its wake. It reeks havoc on the entrails of the mind, vanquishing all that remains of a spirited being. I languish here, in the corner, in the dark, waiting, watching out for the life long lived to end in a blast of thunder and lightning. No avail. No peace. I yearn for the days where my fate could not find me.

I am not a disobidient creature. Virtue is not my forte. I strive to live out the remainder of my sentence in some isolated corner of the mind. I disappear with every passing eion, only unaware that I exist. I embrace the elements where I reside. I envelop the essence that makes my vassal glee. Only, there is no warmth, no tenderness, no sweet carress, only damnation on the morning dew. I grasp at that which has not gone before me, but what has been lain after me. I am the latter, not the former.

I strive, I push, I cower...I...I...I cower, here, now, then, always. Cowering in the dark, waiting and watching for the isolation to end, to be destroyed by the chaotic elements that encircle me. I wait for the thunderous applause of the end. I want to be free of my muse, my destiny, my immortality. I want to look into the eyes of solidarity and know that they are there to carress my pain away, returned to that cold oblivion, and I, I left in the warmth of ecstasy.

Pain...Pain is a reminder of the fate lain before me. Or have I laid it at my own feet? I struggle with the imminent destruction of a worthless life. All before me, was lain by me, but not by my hands. To sunder I go, to the abyss I follow the trail left by my fathers. The trails that were hacked away and paved with blood. My hands are soft, my spirit weak, my soul dieing, my mind in turmoil. I scream with no sound, I cry with no tears. It has ended, only to have it begin again.

The only freedom is a free spirit. Mine was shot down by the vangaurds of the destructors. I kneel. Forced into bondage and left with no escape. I wait for the end of pain and the end of my fate.

(I'm such a glory-hole!)

There is lightning in the distance. The darkness has risen from the depths of the horizon. Emptiness has seeped through the cracks of oblivion and brought the cold with it. I shutter, I whimper at the thought of an endless abyss as I stare into the eyes of a ravaged spirit. It hungers for souls, hungers for eternities. It hungers for life that it was not given. It yearns to take from me that which was kept from it. Plunged into the night, left in the cold, without remorse, in solitude. I beg for the night to end, only to have it remain around me like some prison that will never parole me.

The lightning comes closer. The darkness persists. I'm cast away like some old dingy doll from a life so long removed that its name is no longer present. The shore that once was within sight of my location has expanded and the abyss has consumed the landscape before me. I yearn for a time where my soul rallied at fear, rallied at danger. Now, it cowers at my side, no longer of me, but by me. The presense of oblivion has left my senses distorted from reality. I no longer feel what I've felt, nor feel what I feel. I am an empty shell, a broken pot sherd from an ancient world. I am catergorized as some example, remininsce, proof that life was present in this reality.

The lightning is among me, surrounding me in claps of thunder and flashing light. It reminds me of my life. It was a blur to be, a longing to be free, a yearning for flesh and bone, a desire for the carress of the light. In my dreams, I searched for the night, to have the quiet of nothingness, but in the end, it was a means to an end. In finding the night, the abyss, I found the light, the conciliation of a world without emptiness.

I live a life that is not my own. i love a heart that is not my own.
I hate a fate that bears down on my soul, telling it to be wry of its existence. It cares not for the illusions of my world. It lusts after itself. Its lust strives for destruction, disloyalties, annihilation of the spirit that crowns our consciousness. The Being that defends, faulters at every whim as if it obeys Fate. How else will we persist? Will there come a champion to carry the day?

I live a life that is not my own. I love a heart that is not my own.
The days grow longer still. The night, short and sweet, no rest, no avail. I slumber in burnt sedentary elements, carressed by stars, enveloped by the clouds, surrounded by the sweet sounds of nothingness. It is there where Fate waits. It is there where it hides, waiting, concealed by the darkness that envelops it...and me.

I live a life that is not my own. I love a heart that is not my own.
Betrayed by the stars. Betrayed by the whispers on the softly flowing winds. The breeze that called out, calls out to it. Disobedient as it is, it obeys IT. I whither behind the stockade, behind the walls that never perish, never disappear. I fumble in solitude, I fumble in disunion. I fumble where the heart resides because the love for a heart that is not my own, leads the life that is not my own.

Fatigued and tired am I. I lay down, but can't rest. I dream dreams that never come true.
I stand on the shores of a burnt river that once flowed strong. The trotted land I stand on, once was lush and green but now, erroded by storm they are.

The life that used to flow through rushing waters, now is destitute. The water was cool to the touch and refreshing to the lips. Now, the vulnerable waters are unconsumable, poisioned by the dark elements from the streams that bind.

Quenching, refreshing, delectable life. Sweet, hypnotizing, exotic waters of an enduring life.

What has transpired. What has happened to the soul that lived in this woods, in this water.

I fall to my knees, surrender to the dark elements that live further up stream and affect my part of the world. The Sun faulters at noon as the darkness invades me. The days grow longer as the moon inches its way to me. There is no end, there is no beginning. I yearn for that which is gone, but strives to complete its destiny. It wants to live but finds all against it. I strive to protect, only to have it not hasten my involvement.

A river yearns to flow, a Sun yearns to rise, A dew yearns to fall. I...I...I yearn to be free. Released from my prison, from my servitude. My quixotic existence has been shattered. Fatigued and tired am I. I lay down, but can't rest. I dream dreams that never come true. I stand on the shores of a burnt river that once flowed strong. The trotted land I stand on, once was lush and green but now, erroded by storm they are.

Master of illusion.
A poets betrayal.
The words of conscious exclamations.
The love blinded by words as sweet as honey, fresh from the claws of a predator.

Master of illusion.
A Realists interpretation of the pain.
It builds in the foundation of the spirit.
It lasts longer than the words exclaimed from the tops of the mountains.

Master of illusion.
An imagination gone awry.
Living life as if blinded by the power and the glory.
To have it crumble at your hands into dust and bone, never to feel the omniscience.

Master of illusion.
Arms encircling the body that once was carressed by the eyes.
Living a life of solitude and solidarity.
Only to have that solidarity and solitude vanish at the single breath of a new morning dew.

The Sun rises, the Moon falls. The world turns and the people laugh. They continue along a path that seems destined never to end. I watch...I watch...I wait...I wait for the destiny to reveal to me that path that they enjoy. How is it that it has completely negated my existence? How is it that the jovial, emphatic being is theirs and not my own? The illusion remains a symbol of sleepless nights and ponderances that overwhelm my senses.

I wait for the illusion to end. I watch for the signs of dawn to come. I wait for the first song bird to call out to my soul. I watch for the emotion to whisk me away in a whirlwind of light and happiness.

(I used to be better at these)

Tres Malade!

How long has it been!?! Too long!

Life is such a confusing little predicament, a debacle of sorts. I've been consumed with the understanding that I've been traveling the right road, only to have the road slap me down several times, disrespected at every turn, burnt asunder at every possible open field. My forests, once lush and green, are now void of life. I've been beaten down and thrown away so often that I'm unsure if my stance is that of warrior or coward. Are my hands turned out in defense, pleading or are they rolled into fists, ready to give it one last struggle?

So much has transpired since last I decided to do this that I'm really not sure where to begin. I thought my life was going in one direction only to have it turned around. Do I really want to continue my road? Do I really want to continue this trail wrot with disaster and emotional turmoil? In the end, I will suffer. In the end, I will be the one left with nothing. I have what I want except what I want. Does that even make sense? Will they ever come? Will they ever read their birthright? I guess not.

Betrayed, belittled and turned out!

Tres Malade!