For the words lost and slaughtered.
Dear beloved reader.
Dear beloved reader,
I could chase my tail to the finite solar edges and audaciously back again before the timid crepuscule might dare brush my time on this earth. There are places I would wander the likes of which might freeze your thoughts in their apathetic reasoning and fully corrupt the twitching elegance of your imagination. From every America to every Angleterre that pleads dormant in the mind and mirror of perfect artistry.
However, in this rare cosmos of conflict, concord and cheap souvenirs, the solar edges are infinite and my tail reaches only one way. So it may come to pass that the whimsical world in which I reside is crumbling slowly at the edges, and somewhere along my inner wrist death is sprawling patiently. The twilight is all around me and soon it will be a world not mine at all.
Peculiar is it a man whose character is shaped by only his time-ashened hands, but my life remains devoted to paper and pen as your hearts linger dedicated to this dying spirit.
Take it as you will or won’t; the answer is flitting clear.
My friends, there are three things beautiful past unseen hearts and unstable minds: fantasized light, romanticized dark, and the words never spoken at all.
They lie in the abyssal cavern between existent and carefully misplaced, waiting, perhaps, for a hand age-weathered and weary to pick them up and caress the syllables a truer story dared not love.
My children are not flesh, nor blood, mind, or body. They have not laughed or cried alone in the circus-freak stages of their breathless life.
My daughters, my sons, I string you together like popcorn on the evergreens, and your faerie-tales weave all the magic I could not create.
O thousand beating hearts, my million whispering souls, I write for you.
I write with the care you have bestowed upon me, and I scream to the world who cannot understand. I shriek and I cry but I shan’t hear an echo.
Precious Earth, do you listen so? Do you hear me clutch at my beautiful love?
They are soaring and tumbling and singing such trials- they remain what I’ve hoped for this half-hearted planet.
They are the everything.
And they are the Nothing.
The kind of nothing that takes up space. That looks you in the eye and lets you wither like sun until the Something returns to take its place.
And call them liars if you so wish, but no utterance by our mortal accuracy may trip such beauty as the stubborn victims of disbelief.
I am, dear readers, the teller of every legend that could not work its way into human arms. I am the keeper of every sentence that could not be accepted in the brutal realities we walk among. My tail brushes the edge of infinity and the pen has yet to grow slack in my hand.
So stand with me, you who are mortal or god. Remember for an aging man that his words will live true ‘til the flaws in our dawn.
He is at your mercy.
So as death creeps closer, as black grows stronger, I grieve for day. I weep for night. But I will fight every dusk for the children lost and slaughtered.
I could chase my tail to the finite solar edges and audaciously back again before the timid crepuscule might dare brush my time on this earth. There are places I would wander the likes of which might freeze your thoughts in their apathetic reasoning and fully corrupt the twitching elegance of your imagination. From every America to every Angleterre that pleads dormant in the mind and mirror of perfect artistry.
However, in this rare cosmos of conflict, concord and cheap souvenirs, the solar edges are infinite and my tail reaches only one way. So it may come to pass that the whimsical world in which I reside is crumbling slowly at the edges, and somewhere along my inner wrist death is sprawling patiently. The twilight is all around me and soon it will be a world not mine at all.
Peculiar is it a man whose character is shaped by only his time-ashened hands, but my life remains devoted to paper and pen as your hearts linger dedicated to this dying spirit.
Take it as you will or won’t; the answer is flitting clear.
My friends, there are three things beautiful past unseen hearts and unstable minds: fantasized light, romanticized dark, and the words never spoken at all.
They lie in the abyssal cavern between existent and carefully misplaced, waiting, perhaps, for a hand age-weathered and weary to pick them up and caress the syllables a truer story dared not love.
My children are not flesh, nor blood, mind, or body. They have not laughed or cried alone in the circus-freak stages of their breathless life.
My daughters, my sons, I string you together like popcorn on the evergreens, and your faerie-tales weave all the magic I could not create.
O thousand beating hearts, my million whispering souls, I write for you.
I write with the care you have bestowed upon me, and I scream to the world who cannot understand. I shriek and I cry but I shan’t hear an echo.
Precious Earth, do you listen so? Do you hear me clutch at my beautiful love?
They are soaring and tumbling and singing such trials- they remain what I’ve hoped for this half-hearted planet.
They are the everything.
And they are the Nothing.
The kind of nothing that takes up space. That looks you in the eye and lets you wither like sun until the Something returns to take its place.
And call them liars if you so wish, but no utterance by our mortal accuracy may trip such beauty as the stubborn victims of disbelief.
I am, dear readers, the teller of every legend that could not work its way into human arms. I am the keeper of every sentence that could not be accepted in the brutal realities we walk among. My tail brushes the edge of infinity and the pen has yet to grow slack in my hand.
So stand with me, you who are mortal or god. Remember for an aging man that his words will live true ‘til the flaws in our dawn.
He is at your mercy.
So as death creeps closer, as black grows stronger, I grieve for day. I weep for night. But I will fight every dusk for the children lost and slaughtered.