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| Spiritual Journeys #2 |
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Mindful |
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MexicoCityBlues Junior Member
since 2004-01-04
Posts 48The Point of Know Return |
Wind hurtles around spires, gold plated statues. Zigzag. Ground coughs up dirt in the crash of quiet, hissing feet in a humming uproar of deteriorating whispers. Fragile wind, downtrodden in cool spring-laden skies, whirls through the door and abruptly drops dead. He sits in between walls, lost in his own harmonious song, spilling glasses of meaningless dream around him. Dead wind looks at the ground and sees: quality over quantity over society, war in peril, stratocasters out to lunch? lone tree in a meadow, fluttering, flattering, pitter pattering. Vivid. Images and magazine letters, misconstrued in sharpening visions of meticulous notion popping up, yet still poised, obscuring the blooming garden path to Nirvana. Shimmering ocean. Sunlight caressing the tips of its liquid diamonds under an orange sky reflecting pink on its surface. Gold lines the sun with eraser smudges, smearing blues with the concept of falling stars, drowning silently in the vast, densely vacated ocean to the west. Lonely, yet free, waves pull themselves to nowhere. Ocean fades . . . And the First Thought is jettisoned. Vivid. Images and magazine letters, misconstrued in sharpening visions of meticulous notion popping up, yet still poised, obscuring the blooming garden path to Nirvana. Soldier. Gun in hand, uniform loose on a body aching with fatigue, helmet hanging from his fingertips. Mud soaks his face. White eyes, tired, sodden, foaming fear from the mouth. Duty contradicting position, spitting on the feet of the innocent, firing back. Back home, back home, back home, people cry. Back home he could see the sun. Gun shot. Soldier fades . . . And the Second Thought is jettisoned. Vivid. Images and magazine letters, misconstrued in sharpening visions of meticulous notion popping up, yet still poised, obscuring the blooming garden path to Nirvana. Street poems with high stakes on the top of the stairs. Pen glides, beautifully with a secret passion misunderstood by the majority of modern youth—“Hear me.” Pen glides on this river of ink, passion, splintered on top of one-cent paper under candlelit darkness. In perfect rhythm with song, pen glides, leaving drying dead in its wake, exposing inner beauty of a black-winged ghost. Pen slows, and poem finishes itself. Ink fades . . . Poem is placed in a bottle and thrown with dead soldier into the ocean, under Neapolitan skies for another sacred sun to unravel. And the Third Thought is jettisoned. Empty . . . He sits in between walls, unaware of a completely lucid mind, swimming in nothingness. Snap—surprise. Sitting up, “Is not lucidity just a blank thought itself?” The wind rattles. Zigzag. "Do you realize this world is totally fugazi?" --Marillion |
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aujussy wolf
since 2003-08-09
Posts 1215Michigan |
Street poems with high stakes on the top of the stairs. Pen glides, beautifully with a secret passion misunderstood by the majority of modern youth—“Hear me.” Pen glides on this river of ink, ...,,,, woww is the quote at the bottom from the band Marillion ? |
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MexicoCityBlues Junior Member
since 2004-01-04
Posts 48The Point of Know Return |
Thanks...and yes actually, it is from the band Marillion--probably the best thing to come out of the 80s. "Do you realize this world is totally fugazi?" --Marillion |
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