It is already six O’clock. The river flows along the winding path like a slithering serpent guarded on either sides by twin mountains. It’s ebbing waves splashes against rocks like a mathyr throwing himself at the mercy of his convictors. It then flows through the crevices and penetrates the ground layer of the earth. This is where the stillness of peace lies, this is where our source of vitality vacates.
The is the beginning of the journey to the ever flowing spring of life but it is also the end.
Buried under the ground layer are sediments of red clay clumped together in scrambled forms, yet fossils of decayed hope are just a layer below. That hope represented you and I, before we melted together into thick goo and formed a viscous path like magma scourging through naturally existing elements.
1…2…3…4….5…6. Did I say 6? it will be six more before the church-bell announces a minute past 6.
And how could we forget the volcano that cleared a thick forest so that it could conquer every breathing critter. It threatens to heave it’s rage and stir up an imbalanced velocity — a rotary malefic wave-form floating adrift. Nevertheless, the wind kissed its knots and soothed its ego, but a day came where she could pretend no more.
Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. The church-bell went off like peace was shredded in a time machine, traipsing in rebellion to uncertain extinction.
The volcano bellowed and shot magma as if to challenge the wind and curse the ground. She set the forest ablaze for she envied her raw thickness and beauty. She rained larva like dainty soft snow flakes free falling on the Alpine.
Who has the power to redeem balance? to rat out the volcano on the full moon for it’s incandesce nostalgic traps. Alas when the charade is over, the entropy of the Volcanic magma settles into an unorganised pile of pebbles, Glistening at the bottom of the sea like the snake’s eggs. they’ve become the fixed currency of our disrupted peace.
Five…Six. Everything is still again like a defiant witch that is condemned to the stakes to be disassembled into ashes and dispersed into the winding river. Gone like they never were.
if only I had enough time
to say goodbye to the rustling fig trees.
that coax the aching silence of the moon.
Wenn ich bloß nur genug Zeit hätte
um sich von den raschelnden Feigenbäumen zu verabschieden.
dass die schmerzende Stille des Mondes überreden.
delivering a smoky kiss
to her thorax
Like the winter’s sun
mystery shadows on alpine
innocence will fade.
He’d sit next to her
Like the gypsy’s rendition,
she’d become younger.
His voice is her salt
caramel mixed with charm
hopeful till the end
She is an Iglo
His heart now her vortex
lonely nights no more
He took her hand in his
He sang an age long lullaby
longer than she’d care for.
Flickers of belle âme
First movie her eyes allowed her see
a ballet of sorts
In another time
They could be perfect strangers
Perhaps another millennium.
Vulnerable beings in a human world. As many as the shades of the sky, we revel to the atonement of abysmal asunder.
Complex as the hand of Midas, but who decides how to count seconds, and who yelled; Oh look! it’s sand. We braze in the knowledge passed on by people about what we think we know, slowly crouching a bottomless pit because the earth is devoid of edges.
You’ve conquered an incredulous journey; they may orate, but after that, what next? the future is uncertain and the past cannot be rewritten, even the present is omnimously arcane, projecting little of our influence.
To each, his time capsule afloat. Yesterday we were here, tomorrow we are gone. Only knowing what we were told from the moment of conception, assuming that philosophers and mathematicians of old already did the work, believing a customised template dreadfully gifted by life — oder the galaxy, whichever seems more plausible.
So forgive me for believing that we exist in a matrix-like state. Our minds being programmed by a universal force. A system that balances peace, chaos, and war.
For all we know we are floating in a tube, force-fed the red pill, waiting to be presented the blue bill at our last wisp of air. A bitter-sweet moment of heavenly wonder.
A shot of moonshine
Every night before bed
With Mr. Eddy or Tigger
My head rests on lilac feathers
A plethora of stars revolve my crown
picture perfect is mundane, so I’ve been told.
Too frequently my eyes droop
So I pry them open
The night raves by
A shot of vodka or honey
I imagine counting sheeps
’till my breath steadies
yet time deepens further
The wishy-washy wondering mind takes center stage
The physicists of the relative law knew it better
The only thing standing between human
And reprogrammable telomers
Flying automobiles of the future
An overpopulated earth ‘coz liberals outlawed abortion
Remains the vitality of time
A tide that never ends
Again I’m up
A goblet of bourbon or diazepam
Whichever numbs quicker
For a nanosecond or a day
Letting darkness have its way
Delivering me to the gate of an unrealistic muse
Six more hours of paralysis
Just another flinching terror
disguised as pure bliss
In all this chaos I forgot to add
counting time works better than sheeps