of? love.

the concept of love
young hearts fill with wonder
but as years go by
it tears them asunder

the innocent boy
lost to the world
set off in a boat;
sails never unfurled

the patient girl
waits for her fate
pursuing false truths
never finding her mate

faithfully they sit
eyes to the moon
the sun begins to rise
then it's over too soon

to take what was new
and make as if old
this is a tale
so often retold

to hear a song and fall in love with just a single listening

it's as though it has been silently playing in my head my whole life until it finally reached my ears. the sounds vibrate across my eardrums and are translated from analog to electrical impulse, in a way, becoming part of me

the electricity runs through my veins, causing goosebumps to rise and a widening of my eyes

then i realize why human beings dance

compelled to move by something primal and basic

billions of cells moving in unity to a single impulse; never questioning

we go about our lives dancing with one another to the inaudible beat of our hearts. as they pass our lips, words turn to lyrics both faint and ephemeral

there is no audience to listen to the performance but the stars, and yet, we still sing and dance as passionately in their light

sometimes i wonder about how tightly we grasp the thread of reality. it's only when it's pointed out to us that we notice our white knuckles.

we seem so afraid without it; like we're lost in the woods and the breadcrumbs we've left ourselves are no longer to be seen

often times my heart starts to race and my mind fogs over. is it terror or is it exhilaration? i can honestly not tell but its something vaguely familiar

i'm just an excited electron whose existence is to move back and forth through brain tissue and electron clouds hoping to one day return to the ground state

just one of many elaborate machines designed to become obsolete once my gears get too rusty

i wonder what the others will think of me when i return to the ground state

a bedtime story

There once was a girl who slept upon feathered pillows each night. She would rest her head, heavy with her regrets and unspoken words, until she discovered a lightness that eluded her in wakefulness. Each morning, as she awoke from the dreaming, tears would fill her eyes. She closed them as hard as she could hoping to go back to the peace she found, but when she opened her eyes again she realized the world she created was not there anymore. The tears would run down her cheek onto the pillows that laid beside her silently. She didn't feel happy but she wasn’t sad. She was alive and the world weighed upon her shoulders once again.

As she prepared herself for her day, she gave no thought to the feathers that filled her pillows; laying white and as pure as snow inside of the pillow cases that were strewn across her bed. They had been destined to carry the weight of imperfect creatures against the oppression of reality since their creation. Each of the quills represented a reparation to the Earth, allowing whichever mortal form possessed them to attain communion between Dream and Reality. Before her there was the bird, so free and without sin, gliding across the clouds that rolled beyond where the eye could see. But as is his nature, Man became jealous of the transcendence of the bird and had to punish it by taking away its feathers and binding them in cloth.

A long time ago they found themselves in the girl’s care and each night, as she slept, the feathers would take on the heaviness that the girl accumulated over the course of the day without bearing a grudge or finding fault in her soul. Each smile she would cover up, each song she’d leave unsung, each breath she held, and each idea she kept secret would pass from her dreaming mind into the care of the feathers. Days went by and, soon enough, months also came and went. Each night the feathers would change and the burden they carried would slowly turn them heavy, brittle and gray.

The girl soon realized the feathers were no longer soft and lovely. Without remorse or even a second thought, she threw them away for she was young and beautiful while they were old and humbled. This was a world of vanities and passion. She did not realize the sacrifices they had made to keep her happy, if only during her dreams, and so they were gone.

The pillows now sit underneath other such possessions that have been used up and thrown away like trash. But unlike them, they still did not blame the girl, nor those like her for what they had done. Although the pillows now lay heavy with the stains of forgotten tears and what-might-have-beens, they have found a new lightness in their own naive dreams.

illumination

in a day such as this,
we shall no longer exist,
and the sun shines brightly to remind us

cheese

a flash of light,
i see her smile fade,
and try as i might,
no memories were made

i'm not what she wants,
the passive observer,
with sadness that haunts,
and a literary fervor

but when she walks past,
i see flowers bloom,
each moment only to last,
as long as a firework's boom

she dances and sways,
like leaves in a breeze,
i can't stop my gaze,
she trembles my knees

her image begins to center,
my eyes start to zoom,
whenever i notice her enter,
the very same room

i gather my strength,
hoping that it will be over,
despite our distance's length,
i want to avoid overexposure

it's time that she knows,
i can't help but stutter,
her eyes then close,
and i hear the cold shutter

culling

The afternoon sun knew no mercy that day and my young mind began to wander. I peered out of the sliding glass doors to the fruit trees that stood in the backyard. Each silently imposed themselves upon the surrounding landscape like ancient pillars that once held the priceless works of artists whose names, much like their work, lay shattered and strewn about upon the floor. I looked away but something beckoned my eyes back to them with reverence saved for the written words of a bible verse.

I opened the door and was met by gust of warm, dry air that caused an uneasy shiver to run down my back. I took a deep breath and headed into the yard. As each foot met the concrete floor of the patio, they jerked back in primal spasms until childhood curiosity overwhelmed the feeling of searing pain. One after another, my steps led me from the burning stone to the forgiving coolness of grass. As I approached closer to the trees I began to feel the soft flesh of the overripe plums give way under my feet. It was then that I began to hear a low monotonous sound that began to drown out the static hum of the overhead power lines.

I was puzzled at first but as I looked down I witnessed the glutinous feast of the flies. They nervously darted and twitched among smashed and liquefied fruits in frightening numbers. It was impossible to distinguish the flies from the ground I was walking upon. Maggots squirmed beneath my toes as the flies rubbed their little arms together as if preparing themselves for a massive undertaking.

My stomach grew sick at the sight and my mind once again began to wander. Without thinking, I returned to the house and entered the kitchen. I opened a cupboard and returned holding a flyswatter. My feet retraced my steps until I was once again an observer to their orgiastic delights. It felt like something had changed within me each time I lifted the swatter above my head and brought it down upon the closest patch of writhing bodies. Waves of flies radiated out from the location of the strikes and all that was left were twitching legs and oozing fruit. I began to feel satisfaction in this purification until waves of flies started to reclaim the ground they had paid for dearly.

Again and again, I brought my swatter down upon their heads with a righteous zeal I have never felt since, but each time it seemed as though for each pair of wings I silenced, the buzzing became louder. I beat upon their mounds of filth until I could no longer lift my arm. Pools of juices began to collect where the impression of the swatter made its mark upon the grass and the flies flocked to it. They gave no respect as they gorged themselves upon the same putrid liquids that their dead floated lifelessly within and paid no heed to those who laid upon their backs, pathetically moving their legs to no avail.

I realized that, much like them, my body lay defeated and stuck within the sticky mess all the while the drone became louder in my ears. I tried to block it out but I began to feel their legs crawl upon me and their song turned to words whispered into my ears. Each fly had a different beautiful lie for me. I laid powerless until a scream rang from my mouth to stop their horrible little voices. My parents ran to my side and took me back into the house where I laid for the rest of the day.

Wearily, I made my way to the bathroom where I began to run a bath. I laid within the tub until the water rose to my lips and I began to think of my time beneath the boughs of the fruit trees. I thought of a lesson I had learned but there seemed to be none. This was no story with a moral or a happy ending. The closest tale I could remember of was about the Archangel Michael who found victory in the face of the Lord among flies, and yet, here I had found defeat. I closed my eyes and sank into the water and held my breath. Only when I gasped for air, did I realize, not the lesson I had learned, but what I had just lost.