The Hour Peace Vanished

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.

Vortex

Cigarette lingers

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.

Humanoids

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.

Reverie of an Insomniac

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

…..or whatever

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