The Tide of Night

 The pale moon is hoiseted high casting a white light of rememberance on forgotten woods. The dimly lit paths we used to tread came calling back to me as an echo or the remembrance of a dream within a dream. The vivacious spring time had held such promise of new life and hope of the coming summers dawn. Then I recall the moment fall found us and we fell through time as a leaf watches the love of the familar branch pass as it drifts farther to the ground. Yet, unlike the gentle leaf that lightly touches the soil, we hit the ground with a thunder and were buried beneath the thorns and thistles.

There we lay upon the cold ground struggling to regain a sense of footing, a sense of foundation.

From that ground the winds scattered all that we were or could be. Storms raged and refinement rained down upon me drowning out the dead seed of the man I had been, allowing the growth of the man I could be.

As I watch the tide of night wash over the memory of the mountains crest,

I turn my ear from the echo of those forgotten woods, and smile to God for making me the man i am.

The Gathering Fall

 

The Gathering Fall

These words are tombstones littering a graveyard of memories. My eyes have finally started to blind themselves to your ghost in all these old haunts. I've got one foot in the next world and the other is trying so hard to wipe my feet here. These old muddy boots have tread a few too many back roads, and dark paths. These eyes have wept in the depths of sorrow and uttered broken laughs. I lay these sentiments before you like roses among the cold empty air, as a visitor to the tomb of my own heart. The days of mourning a lost love have come to a close. I can see the winds of change pulling the stubborn leaves from the comfort of their branches. I can feel the breath of uncertainty as it caresses my cheek. This town holds the bones of dead dreams; the skeletons of old romance, and the burning silence of purgatory. I've burned my sins here in wasted breath and worthless words. I've felt the weight of a stone cross crush my iniquitous pride. I have seen the grave take you from me my ambitious bride. So in the stillness and quiet of the gathering fall, in the collective memories I lament... I shall remember that I loved you no longer my dear. I promise myself I'll forget

The Weatherman

There’s a tireless war in the soul, between pride and submission. The flesh and spirit fight for the prevailing interest. My mind oversees my casualties, and calculates the collateral interactions. There are days that my thoughts are cancer that seem to warp the cells of any around me. There are others where my casual self shifts the dynamic of the room, casting out shadows in a flood of life and light. It’s like predicting the weather on a whim even though nobody asked you too. It’s a gift and it’s a curse. Who can you trust with reality and truth?

There was a preacher man back in the day that used to tell me about how I made people feel when I walked through the doors. It was like I could reach into their hearts and unstrap the weights from them. When darkness fell upon me, with my grief and my sorrow, the man was wrought with contempt for me, like I was some casino cooler that just cost him his lucky streak. They always demanded that I be something. Fit the mold, dress sharp, wax the sheen in my smile and don’t dare wander into the area of mourning. He wasn’t even a good preacher. He always clenched his butt when he sang. It’s the odd things I remember.

 Love was like splitting the atom. The energy and the raw power destroyed me, burning my shadow into the ashes of my former self. In a moment I was becoming some one. I had a dream about her last night. It wasn’t unlike the rest. We’re trying to make it out safe, but I can’t save her. Sometimes my dreams are more honest then my waking life. Sometimes I’m pulling apart the things I know, and the world I see. I deconstruct myself like some self cleaning machine. I laugh at my flaws. I work on becoming nothing.

 Maybe relationships are like catching arrows with your teeth. In time, you might get one right, if you don’t bleed out first. People seldom sit with a man covered with blood, it makes them uneasy. It’s messy. Perhaps I have a morbid curiosity in the metaphor, “Who are you killin, or who’s killing you” It’s dramatic, yes. Reality is as such. Sometimes I wake up like I’ve got a secret to tell the world, but first I’ve got to measure who can keep it. Each day starts as life or death and it pivots into the other, moving as awkwardly as a high-school dance class. Monday was high with a 90% chance of memorability, but expect some storms rolling in by the end of the week. It gets lonely out there so bring an umbrella.