Music is potent enough of dividing the world into two magnificent halves. The one where all the chaos inside of you escapes and peace, untoward silence follows; the other where a blank space somewhere near you gets occupied by the force which escaped from you. I recognize how all of this, our being born and passing into nothingness is a consequence of the story of balance. The balance of the universe. Every word, sound, syllable, exclamation out of your breath is an echo. And the power vested in your echo is indisputable. Matter and energy; the constituents of everything the universe has to offer, we all are nothing but matter and energy. If the mighty unparalleled universe created us, and even if we are a tiny particle of dust as compared to its magnificence, then even in that invisible existence we have what is called the power of our creator within us. An entire cosmos within our miniscule existence, and to imagine that we are an absolute form of the universe howsoever little; our capabilities are spotless, beyond our own imagination and I want us all to reach that imagination of the beyond.
I am breaking alone with the wind, by the fears of tomorrow, and the hollow promises of today. It's uncertain where the road goes, for my shoes are worn out, my scarf lies torn in a bush tussle, the sweater has begun to rip off, the wool pilling by my turtle neck scratches my skin, leaving it red and sore. I have dirt on my face, smeared of dust, pollen and tears, I walk like an agony, I walk through the middle of the road. My ears are numb to the blaring horns, my eyes half shut to colors of disguise, I am half, half of me has withdrawn. Withdrawn from your absence, removed from your presence, I am walking past my name's significance, walking past places called home. I've been hurt, I've been mean, I've lived to see you go, past the realm of forgiveness and cries. You're so much the soil, the rigid water surmise, your soul by my pillow covers, tell me does it ever cry? Does it break your heart to see me fall at every hundredth step, cry you a river and burn in the light of stars, is this gaze from the inferno enough or this the beginning of my invisible demise?
The paper pulp is still wet, the pressing iron makes the vapour invigorate the entire press room. I can smell a book in making. I hear the saw machine cutting through the wooden blocks, heaps of sawdust settling on the shale surface. My heart sinks for the tree which gifted it's trunk to the blocks of alphabet, from which a countless copies wish to be made. The cotton collectors left bales of cotton ripened in a scorching southern sun, and now yarn after yarn the thread submits to its higher destiny. Rich charcoal shines like black gold, without a speck of light, it will be the reason for enlightening every mind which reads its inked genius. Soon the blade cuts the attached paper, separating meaning . I like the green velvet over red and blue, reminds me of each one of us, made of peace and decay together. The book is sealed with the authors name, but identity is a crisis, so she hides her name under the pseudonym "claypot", for she'll break, but she will never be turned to anything else. ~divokost
"I can tell upon a rose, she's afraid of my touch, but yet I gaze and look upon her fidelity, her unbeknownst otherworldly charm, like a musical episode from my broken playlist. Did she hear my song, the one where I could only imagine what words followed, for my breath was hooked upon the gliding fingers on a vintage piano, buckling up for another woe bitten symphony? Did she talk to her frequent neighbours, like she used to chatter with me, whilst a bud, unaware of my intentions? Did she put on her sweet fragrance and a multitude of stars pointing outwards to emit her light and rescue her life? Did she look at my freckles and defined them beautiful, like marks of a weary soul from another lifetime? Did she happen to overhear my mellow voice, lost in the words, lost in a stutter for the risk of saying it all right? Did she break into my mind, and comfort my chaos with her modest pride? Did she hold a grudge against my chestnut locks, an uprising of honest desire, when she saw me tie them up neat and tide? Did she live where she was planted, her roots rummaging underneath, to take refuge in belongingness and travel far and wide? Did she breathe like every breath was a costly affair, and let the virtues fall by her side? Did she believe in destiny, for she saw separation in every sight? Did she take my name, not the one written on my papers, but the one I let her hide? Did she count me as her conscience, for I knew not the wrong from right, but I believed as one might, that today was her glory, her bright history tomorrow shall be a plight? But she is a rose, raised by a thorn and a mesh of earth, nourished by the empty air and dead communities from side to side, she holds a sacrifice, a part of my stream of consciousness, like a charge of frozen water she consumes what she delights!"
Valleys of feasting thought Spirlonking cliffs and mountains high Avalanche rolling rocks Eagle soaring above Eyes curious watch Detoxifying the cities blocks Sliding muddy puddles Crying tears pure joy Limps momenterely frozen Swaying tall trees Spiritually climbing to the top Breathtaking views Heartbeating spits ears ringing Image's traveling fast Mind filing winking smile Capturing memories Oasis of Love Print perfection Wallpaper decor divine In a solo flight seeking Never satisfied Cabin in the Woods Soul reconnecting Barefoot walking reality Rejoicing being humbled Simplicity my santery Open-minded lifestyle Waterfalls rushing crushing Gracesiously falling Acrobatics come to thoughts Clearest waters diving faith Magnetic energy flowing Body shivering chills Brain warning signals Body one more leap Faith my safety net