Tuesday, November 08, 2005

On The Shores of Confessions

I. Spatial Distribution of Sand

Rocks clutter the cascades of this lonesome lake,
in the table that we have set up,
sit in a desparing pose upon the stool there,
in your eyes we shall read...
of something done so long ago,
or quite the other day,
before you think to leave, spill out yourself
upon the breaking waves and worn stones.

The devil and holy angels, they have nothing to say,
nothing to break the silence of your gaze,
and stay tonight, and write me a story,
about the everlasting gaze of the stars,
in the moments to come, just look away
and deny everything,
even though it is all written down already,
burning in the blood on the ragged paper.

In the Distance look to see, all the fires rising,
the sun crashing into the moon, and a quake rising the waters,
for the cutting of your lips, upon the workds spoken,
and the distance done to us, what more could happen,
the eyes that were so beautiful,
weakend and faltering before you plunge down
to be with the mermaids once again.

II. The Crashing of the Moon

With the setting stars, spread out like a luminescent blanket
that is being dragged to the floor,
the moon is faltering too, being dragged down.
and with the broken eyes, and shattered glass
that falls from the distinct face,
if only blurryness could set it right about now...
carry out the broken path,
and find the cross buried deep in your walls,
pour out the blood stained sins of your life
and dwindle down into a mote left to seek refuge
from the gathering storm.

On the edge of this cliff we hang from,
what more do you have to say of out perils?
is there something so dire that must be set free,
or just another breath that will pull us further along...
the right words never seem to come at the right times,
and for the moments we linger in slow motion,
the fact is that everything is cumbling around us,
so do we just give in and fall to pieces too,
or are there the mythical phenoix within us?

III. The Mythology of a Lost Phrase

Called ahead to let the plans be shown,
and in the schematics of a broken city,
right along the lake, and desert sand...
something mumbled about the past within this soul.
take a right at the next street as this tale unfolds,
and for the child who never knew his fate, to be undead
all the while he sat in a room alone,
the staring blank pages filled a mind, shattered, but whole
for the love that he longed for,
the child bourne his fears, and left a long while ago,
he found his own grave, and realized the truth of being
and transcending this world, he muttered aloud something
about doing anything he could for you.

in the breaking sun, that crashes lower each moment,
he looks for your eyes, and i looks closer than he can ever be,
and sitting next to you, there is just something that he aches to say
for the navigation of this place is pointless...

for your favorite flowers will never gorw again,
and the ruins in which we linger,
be they may our minds, broken by our follies,
there is just one thing he wishes to let you know
and he comes back to me now and again,
to be sure that you know it...

he is comming home and he will be reborn,
flying along with Apollo as he crashes down,
he will be sure to love you more, with each death.


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