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Rainy Daze

11 Oct

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               A wildflower strewn meadow holds a dream entombed within. I would throw myself at the foot of your sacred altar. I would offer obeisance and demand that you take my heart or my life. For if my heart no longer beats for you well then it’s music is pointless. I would swallow my pride and enslave every monstrous demon within.

Experience the path of chaotic arraignment and miscellaneous judgements.
I’ve got an army behind me and a battlefield before, dreaming of a myth and praying for a dream. If I put my faith on the line would you let it fall slack? Would you pull it tight to your chest and hold for dear life? Would it truly matter at all in the end? A willow wisp in the wind caught in time and formatted for the blind.

               Drift with me into the vast ocean of time. Imagine a hero slaying a wicked King, and a princess finding true love. Follow along the gutter and picture an angel torn from heaven. Wings shredded beyond healing, blood collects in the corners of her mouth. Defiance rings of inner strength but is actually more often than not motivated by a core of absolute fear.

               Thread the needle and stitch the cuts. Collect with obsessive grace every last piece. Construct the image I dare never see. Fractured images lay askew. Four nightly recollections and it’s killing me. Weighing the pro’s and con’s of staying awake and sleeping serves to only pump my raging heart faster. So many wounds you beg for me to heal, yet everywhere I go… I’m already dragging a river of blood.

               Brother, I failed you. I have remained silent and still. The plan has proceeded and I am choking on the blood from biting my tongue. Sister, I’ve lied to you and so has the world. You are the sacred sacrament the world should respect, instead they have twisted your role and that of all man. Family, I have meant to embrace and lift, not to flounder and sink. Pooling at the edge of my vision the darkness begins to rise.

               I’ve been scraping away the inner layers of my mind. The story has already been told, written in enough ink to float a vessel. The painting is conceived in color we simply choose to see it in black and white. The dream is reality and the waking world is the lie. When I finally leave this world I pray I’m only remembered as four things. A dreamer, a brother, a lover and an artist. I would feel as if no time had been wasted, if that were the case.

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Posted by on October 11, 2013 in Paradise Drift

 

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