He said; She will reveal the artist

‘Beautiful things,’ he said, ‘are the only things.’
‘You love the one to your soul he will sing.’
‘Stars in the sky; we stand in the gutter to see.’
‘A book is not good; just written well or poorly.’

These words pulse throughout my soul,
Like the music vibrates throughout my body,
I feel wordless and senseless;
How can I cure my soul by my senses,
If sensuousness seems to drip
like a broken faucet crashing down
one million times broken.

Once it was bacchus’s delight,
But I’ve seem to have lost this fight,
No more does sweet, delicious ambrosia
trickle past rosy lips to quench a thirsty quaff.

A heart breaks.
Does it make a sound?
A mind shatters,
Does it leave shards?

Voiceless.  Senseless.  Absurdity.

Just let the words be felt.
Let them flow like a stream ready to burst.
Burst from me.

Be free.
Fly.
Burst from me.

Away.
Closer.
Burst from me.

I feel the wind rage below.
Which witch?
Burst from me.

I am sticky.
I am fluid.
I am not sheen.
I am not a reflective surface.

I absorb.
I feel.
I AM.

Through pain, I have become.
Sartre says this is true.
As one is stabbed by the pen-knife, blood flows…
Creativity is alike.
As one is stabbed by the pen, ideas flow….

I am.
I feel.
I ABSORB.

I am sticky. I am not sheen.  I am complex.

I am lost.

I need to be found.
Only I can find myself.

I need to search.
I need to choose this adventure wisely.
I have been to Mordor.
I have been to the crux of it all.
I have destroyed the ring.
I have.

Now, it is time to will.
I will.
I am brave.

I am breathing.
I am breathing fire; power; stability.

I have words.
I can hear them rushing forth; ready to be purged.

He once said…the artist hides himself.
I will not hide herself.

This artist will not.

Spiritual Debut of the Murmuring Heart

Pressing thoughts deliberate their untoward will,
Crashing relentlessly from wall to windowsill,
Rays restrained from filling dark fissures of thought,
Expanses of desert drinking up all I have got.

Level the field that engulfs the sea of squandered souls!
‘Don’t do that!’ they brazenly chide and they scold,
Leaving the empty unconnected—like stars with no signs,
Expecting us to forget the agéd power of the divine.

Warmth is a feeling often served to the bitterly numbed,
As our limbs pine and our dreams needle to overcome,
My fearless hero! Brave the storm of abject ignominy,
Mending the broken walls of shame by nurturing dignity.

Remember dear heart….

Love is a phantasm that swims into the depths of the bay,
Just as it soars infinitely, farther, up, and away,
It refuses to be held in the palm of one single hand,
For there it has little room to stretch, grow, and expand.

Like the pressing forces that mark the point of no return,
Hand in hand, the meaning of love is less easy to discern,
Fingers interlaced, woven together so they may never fray,
Palms pressing into one another, as fruitful souls sing and sway.

Cherish the crosses and noughts that expose your fears,
For it’s easier to live a life without love that’s austere,
Miserly counting the affectionate dissonances,
Instead of writing one of the world’s great romances,

Whisper your secrets from the depths of your murmuring heart,
Erratic, muted tones that, together, morph like abstracted art,
Let it be seen by someone, without further ado,
All you can do, angel-mine, is bring love to your spiritual debut.

 

-fin

edit:
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