River’s Choice

The river used to flow for me.

Tired and worn down, lips cracked with the merciless blood leaks of ambition… the dry riverbed would flow for me. Would grace me with the refreshing honor of parching my thirst and revitalizing my skin.

My invitation was open ended like the fat man’s appetite, never rescinded like glory in the afterlife, I would often make my way there after night. Hidden in shadow but spied by the discretion governed pale eye of the moon. Under cover of light and darkness I would whisper the gray of my heart out and the river would flow for me. Into my mouth, over my brain, through my eyes, across my back…

I was never ashamed to be broken because I knew the river’s affection for me began in eternity and continued on into forever.

Very often it was the weight of identity in my mind which drove me to my knees in defeat… needing the coolness of the river, but forcing myself to endure the heat. Desert sand began to define me like a dictionary written in braille with seashells in hand. I couldn’t see well enough to stand. Burden bigger than the sea whale Hancock threw off the land.

I collapsed at the river for healing again…

But that day my awareness of my neediness and spoiled gain played against me…

The river doesn’t flow for me anymore.

Almost Made It

It’s like someone played the wrong chord on a vital organ… now I can hear the rising score morphin and taking over. Taking over the senses it connects to, it connects four because the clouded eyes behind these glasses are pourin.

Somewhere, in a garden hidden inside a forest, a flower falls…

A hitch in the step of sunrise, not strong enough to break into dawn, the darkness of the void is granted more time. Unintended benevolence, ignorant of what’s ahead of us, fishin for love with negligence, forfeiting our inheritance, trying to attain a better trust. Empty handed in the end, facial expression incredulous.

Like a roll of thunder, the flower crashes powerfully to the ground…

The bees lose passion for their honey… Badgers crawl from the cracks and crevices to lie dejectedly on the sand… the deer come down from the hills… Butterflies self identify with the cocoon… there are tear drops on the leaf tips. The dew of a morning that will either never come, or never cease. It’s only Tuesday, but the pews are already filled again. Completely unsure of what to pray, just aware that there’s a fresh crack inside and they don’t know how to fix it.

The broken flower rolls, idly, across the ground… slowly losing life yet captured in the twilight of ineffable beauty… there is no redemption in this- and even if there was, it’d be unnecessary.

Every petal isn’t meant to be saved.

Monarch

monarchThere are some amazing truths at work in this world.

Take the butterfly for example.  Bypass, if you can, the smooth glint and grin of tilted wings harmonizing with the wind.  Look beyond how it floats through gravity’s realm, deftly impervious to its clutches.  See deeper than its origin story of predestined transformation.  Know all of that, and see none of it.  Look at the butterfly… and see- a butterfly.

The butterfly is an amazing truth.

Why?

Because it is a butterfly.

It is a self contained, blossoming bastion of unique beauty.  Its very not-contingent-upon-your-approval existence is, itself, bold attitude defining it outside of its attributes.  Look from afar through a telescope; look up close with a microscope.

Same miracle.  Same butterfly.  Same created existence wrapped up in something that both you and I lack.

The closest we’ll ever get to being what the butterfly is is through idiomatic literary extravagance.  Metaphors, similes, and poetical analysis analogous to dimensional paralysis- we must freeze the moment we enter the butterfly’s world, and create a memorable memory to cling to when time catches us back up again.

There are some amazing truths at work in this world.

More than there is time to tell of them.

But the butterfly is one, and your neighbor is two.

Just a couple, out of a long line, of synchronous, disparate truths… and amazing to boot.

Lying Smiles

Seductive curvature of appeal…

Smiles neither reveal what is true nor what is real- they merely strengthen us to trust in the optimistic beliefs held by our imagination. A good smile is like the armored doors to the king’s chambers- even if you manage to break through you’ll only wind up with a fight on your hands. And even if you win your only evidence will be the mocking trails of blood spilled on your hands winding down and curving into a…

Smile.

A glint of the eyes. A flash of teeth. You think you’ve found your lover, but that could just as easily be your worst encountered enemy. A smile doesn’t mean anything. Sorrow, evil intent, heartache, deception, surprise, irritation…

They all wear smiles.

Trust is completely reliable and almost never readily identifiable because the period to persuasion’s every sentence is a smile. My dear friend died last year from cancer- ask me about her and I will lie to you with my teeth. Deep down there is a joy she brings, but the rest of me is locked in endless grieving.

I have seen the ripples of deception from people who think they’re hiding something from you… basked in the sunrays of brilliant beams from those who think their flaky nature is undetectable. It’s all beautiful really. The artistic ways that Lie has made itself poetically known.

A smile of all things…

Twisting the natural essence of joy itself into a weapon against its bearer… cuz that’s the real kicker. The lying smile is a steady drip of intravenous poison.

But you can be different. I believe in you. Do not fall prey to the snares of society. Do not succumb to the way of these curved beauties…

All these beautiful- lying smiles…

🙂

Sweet Mystery

 

Sweet.

You’re beautiful. Angelic. Inspiring. Living, breathing poetry beyond all of my writing…

Mystery.

Thoughts out, but heart hidden. Conversational, but with your own mission.

Sweet mystery.

That’s exactly what you are to me.  I’ve become a student of those pupils peeking out from behind the veil that separates the two of us.  There’s a truth in us- true beauty no lust.  But I swore off the romance til I could live the book of Romans… waiting on Heavenly timing, but the clock hands seem paralyzed.  Pair of lives.  All good things come in twos.  The best friend I ever did have, but should I say so it is you I might lose…

My sweet mystery.

Well, not mine per se, but I associate all tasteful things with soulful gravity placing them neatly around me.  But listen… this is night fall, and I don’t wanna see your knight fall- I don’t know if it’s my banner, take a gander, cuz just possibly… it’s me that you were looking for.  But night falls bring sun rise, and lucky me, I’m a son of God. This letter is for you- not for everybody.  But close your eyes when you read it, lest you tell somebody…

People listen,

I’m enticed- by her mystery, an addict like doin mathematics on caffeinated energy.  My vision is prismatic- I see multi-dimensional things.  An asthmatic for ordinary tactics, the mundane is toxic gas and it just stops up my breathing.  I’m willing, to believe that you’re not the only mystery.  That deep inside this home is a Holmes for soul deciphering.  To bring hearts out to the light to breathe.  She’s clinging to that word she got, but I’m her whole vocabulary…

Not braggin. Not boastin. Just sayin and hopin. That maybe the picture of God’s promises are painted in slow motion, and His brush of choice is patience just to get you where you’re going… The word can stay the same, while manifestation embraces change.

Penny for your thoughts…

Nevertheless, you’re ever the best, and with this last letter I put it to rest… No need to freeze, or panic, or stress- what has been decreed needs no further digress… Lest go further I press, and share what is left… This bundled package of “hm” perched here on my chest…

But no- you’re not the only enigma around town.

In this vibrant, exciting land of you and me, sweet mysteries abound.