The Creative Act

In the heat of the sun I was pacing around, searching for something to dullen the sound of the one who had kept me the one who I am and who I’ll always call on when patience runs thin in the dark, dwindling hours of the grass where I stand with an outlook of karma to fall on the land; and though I am the keeper of that which I hide, there’s little to come of these words that I write.

The divisions and pressence of spirt and flesh are at ease in the comfort of my shallowness as espoused by the way that I hollowly stare through the faces around me surrounded by fair and wholehearted dimples to warm one’s cold stone of a heart in the body of one who has died, so often, so often upon this long ride; and the key to the way that he’s come to survive is his willing acceptance of all of the lies bestowed upon him when he longed to undo the injustice around him, escaped by so few of the strong and resilient who still soldier on in pursuit of the gods whom they call their own.

And the challenge of finding the way to return to the truths, now forgotten, by one who has earned so little of that which he’s stumbled upon, is the premise that he has become so far gone that the altar upon which he longed to be placed has risen above the constraints of his taste; and the timing of running from where he once lay is but only a function of his will to say that the things that he said were not born out of harm, but of pain he was feeling within his slim arm; and the virtues of seeing the fog in the air are the answers inside his dispasionate stare.

The Fix is in.
I’ve not a chance.
I’ll rot away before I dance.
The Sphinx, she’s there
Upon the hill,
On top of which resides my Will.

I’ll make my way
Much further on,
Until I fail
To greet the gun.

And then I’ll know
That what I said
Was what I’d meant
When all was Bent.

And Bent I am,
Though straight she goes—
Depart from me,
Thy troubled woes.

And speaking now, inside myself
I’ve stifled what had held my wealth
Within the tongs
Upon the hearth,
Where Burning was
My frail Earth.

The talking walls—
snicker friendly faces
behind the talking walls.

The moonlight ball;
liquor in the basement:
come hither one and all.

A desert squall.
Blind to where we run to
from where the answers fall.

A distant call:
Mind the words of those who
remind the talking walls.

I’m rolling through the winding streets
Where all I’ve come to know has died.
The powers of your poignant touch
Have ruined what I’ve tried to do.
And nothing matters to the one
Who came to be the one I was
When I was what I longed to be—
When I was all I’d ever sought.

The rapture of the breaking wind
Is bearing down upon my chest.
The one I’ve been through all these years
Has come to know the truths that he
Forgot before he fell upon
His broken knees and battered face,
Then rose to find the howling wind
Upon him in a whirl of waste.

I’m learning of the things I’ve done.
I’m finding ways to rise again.
I’m searching for the lore of old
That keeps me bound to all I know.
And what becomes of one who is
The keeper of the gates beyond
The realm of which we only dream
When all is lost and all is wrong?

It could be said, he’d rise again
And find himself upon the tide,
At peace within his realm of frost—
Forever strong as oak or ash—
Forever at your calling for
The taking and the giving of
The bits of life that once he lost—
The trials of his sinking pride.

Climbing hills of molten metal;
The fragrance of a rose petal;
The way I hold you late at night:
These things are on my mind tonight.

The quiet of your beating heart
Is breaking all my fears apart.
I’m set to wake upon the morn’
When all my hopes will be reborn.

The cracking of their wanton whips
Cannot outdo your crimson lips.
The look upon your seemly face
Becomes your ever comely grace.

The day I part from you will come
When all I’ll ever sing is sung;
When all I’ve ever known is dead;
When nothing’s left inside this head.

But never do I dare to fear
That dreadful day when doom is near—
For all I know right now, tonight,
Is that our future’s burning bright.

The years are rolling onward to the cadence of my love.
You drag my heart behind you as you roll down from above.
The songs we’d come to sing together played out in the end.
My troubled worries were the things that to you I did lend.

The clasp that held us bound together now has come undone.
I’m walking through the desert ‘neath the burning, rising sun,
While bearing on my shoulders all the burden of our past;
And finally I’ve come to find a river here, at last.

I fall upon my knees; the water mends my cracking throat.
I see you there above me, in the distance with a note.
I’d read it if I thought that it would lend me greater will,
But little would it aid me in my quest to climb this hill.
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I’ll sing to you a song of all I’ve come to know so far.
These things have kept me honest when my honesty is lost.
I’ll sing to you a song that speaks to those who live without
The will to fight the numbing cold and grip of winter’s frost.

There was a time when all I knew was drowned in liquid tar
That covered me in vagrant filth as I was crawling out
To meet the painful winter chill with hope that I could find
The answers to the questions that were hidden in my mind.

I was frozen on the the lifeless, empty, unforgiving streets
With little peace of mind to aid me in my coming quest;
But then a soldier righted me and set me on my way
To grasp a means to put the tremors in me to a rest.
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My softly spoken words are cast upon the lonely ground.
Wavering from what I thought, I’m rising bound to you.
I look into your eyes and cast a hurtful, piercing frown
That resonates throughout this place where we have both come to.

The rising pillars of these halls are binding back my breath,
And all I’ve come to know of you is lost on me for now.
Tarnished on the walls, the mighty gods have promised death
To those who wear the worried look of solace on their brow.

These sentences are bringing me to times where I once lay
In search of all the darkest tremors trapped inside my mind,
Which haunted me throughout my journey on this path of clay
That shapes itself beneath my feet as I march on through time.
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the binding grip
of innocence
is driving me through paths
of clay
in search of one who could become
the one who I
have sought throughout
these endless days
of sleeplessness—
these endless days
of lifelessness—
these days
where what I say cannot
be understood by those without
the keys to this
forsaken vault
of hardened stone
and frozen mud
that long ago I came to lock
before your countenance could bear
the understanding of my will.
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My back is to the biting wind—
Awake, I drift about
These streets where widows dwell on sin,
At odds with what they’ve lost.

The memory of life without
The chill of winter’s frost
Has placed me on this pathway where
I stumble through the cold.
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