Peace.

These thoughts…

More than words, dear Faustus,

they are worlds.

Though sometimes in mine mind’s eye

the difference is slim;

And based on a whim the pen becomes the

the sword from which he faced  his match,

from then the dance was the eerie prance of those guided

by destiny,  my dear Quinton.

More than fire it becomes the desire to

thumb through histories of what she lives for,

they are whirlwinds taking ships to the harbour

of truth, which when beheld become the dots by which we draw

pictures in the dark with our blood

These thoughts, my dear Serenity,

they are love.

Since the first

Since the first,

I pay no attention

to the syntax nor

the punctuation.

 

The flowing of the river

second to second

may not be arrested

by simple inconveniences.

 

I think time a gateway

and days the pathway 

to sweet successions of 

moments.  Not a sentence

but a rant

for us

I think death no period. 

Pen.

imagine writing for the first time and feeling worlds flow through your pen flow through your heart flow through your dreams and they lift you up lift you up lift you up to a mountain where no one can touch you no one no one no one knows your name and you are a god with a pen in your hand and an itch in your feet and nothing will stop you from letting it out letting it out LETTING IT OUT.  and breathe.

A thought.

I find that in my generation quantity is valued over quality, with excess being the mark of success.

Wide Eyes Blind Love

It was a cold Tuesday the night I stepped off the airplane.  There was no pilot, and no passengers.  Just me.  As the door opened my eyes did too, and I was blinded by the darkness.  I stepped out onto stairs of marble, and took my first breath of the air.  It was cold.  It was beautiful. My empty lungs shuddered with relief as the breath of life came back.  I put my foot down to Earth.  Was it Earth? There were no stars in the sky.  My naked feet rub against the dew on the grass; they are wet.  I breathe again.  The cold air rushes down my throat into my lungs and I am alive.  A voice comes from the darkness.

Welcome

Who are you?

I am Lucius.  Your angel.

At this point I had no reason to disbelieve him.  Why would he lie to me?

All right.

Would you like to come with me?

Where are we going?

To paradise.

Withdrawal Symptoms

© Antonio longobardi

The most beautiful melody

Has yet to be written

 

The most magnificent song

Has never been played

 

Yet the most dazzling sound

Caresses my ears every day

 

And the most heartbreaking, sorrowful silence

Attacks me each and every time you leave my side.

Only in silence may the truth echo freely

clandestine motive

screams to be undone, only

in silence can sing

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

How delicately

soft strands of twilight

caress her dark hair

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Together, apart:

pulled to your gentle arms

each lonely night

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Your hand in my hand,

How perfectly you would fit

rather… complete me.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

the quiet nights sing

soft truths unspoken by

overbearing light

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ugh. A Haiku.

It’s been a long day,

I want to eat my own socks,

It’s been a long day.

Serenity

© Andrew Potter

It occurred to me

.

.

That her best poetry was never penned.

nor were her loveliest songs ever sung,

Her most enchanting picture was never painted,

her perfect stories never left her tongue.

.

.

.

It occurred to me

.

.

While I try to practice my art

.

She is an artist in her heart.

.

.

.

© Chris C, 2013

Of flying rocks and sinking dreams

© Richard Baxter

I stroll down the dark road,

With nothing but a small stone as I shiver;

Thoughts, dreams, passions, bestowed

upon the earth as I shoot my quiver.

 

The rock shoots up.  And I panic.

It’s gone! Disappeared for good!

Sky take me as you took my frantic

dream. Like I, it’s unsure: misunderstood.

 

The rock knows where to go,

It’s all really just a show.

 

When the world falls away

Find your wings and stay

calm my friend. The dark outside

is but a different light allied

for naught but your sweet, short, play.

 

© Chris C, 2013