It is only the prerogative of an enslaved consciousness to deem the truth apocryphal. Nothing bears meaning except for that which we attribute to it. And with no escape from influence, our consolation rests in erecting a fortress of all which is supportive of our true selves; thus, being armed enough to relentlessly wage war against that which does not serve our purpose, or perish in the crossfire. The outcome of the struggle will be greatly contingent on one’s own desire to be free.
In the night’s Plutonian rendition
of water warm and subtle might,
the Silver Lady of the Sky
didst away the ghosts
of past thoughts and spider-webs
of human bejewelled lore.
She soaked herself
in through the guise
of noon gold and rainbow cross,
and oozed from every pore
to purify the pools
with the reflection of Soul.
And I knew, and she bespoke,
“Carouse in the essence
of sweet and tender storm,
and leave no cemetery unturnt
that thou may’st draw deeper
into the mysteries openly veiled
without being swayed
by the dozen semblances
which I have bore
froms drops to streams of frailty
which bedrock is the will
to stand strong.
Umbra: Logos! Come and dance with us.
Logos: I am fine, thank you.
Core: Oh, come on! I’ll teach you some moves.
Logos: Umbra, is she staying long?
Umbra: Core is part of our family. She’ll stay forever with us.
Umbra: What’s wrong? You need Core for a balanced forefront. The army needs you both.
Logos: I know… but she’s so *looks at Core who in turn looks at him glistening with joy* moist… and sweet.
Core: *bursts into laughter* I know, right! Everything that you are not. We’ll make such a great team.
Logos: *grits his teeth as he glares at Umbra* So, Core… uhm… what are those moves you wanted to teach me?
Umbra: *giggles and pats Logos’ shoulder* Good general, good general.
If foreign to the essence of the lover proves to be the hand that sews and closes the old skin that shudders; if by requisite of the tearing muse should come the ruse of the bittersweet hook which survives the age of consciousness; the blooded linen shall take after the viper, and redeem the unseen from the lust of heartbreak.
Somewhere amidst these cubicles, the mind has thought to bemuse itself with the sole indulgence of being.
The flower garden trickles from the eaves of a long forgotten rain sit as the frozen dry buds slowly smile to greet the sun.
Out the window, the swaying branches invite the wonder of late spring, and for the first time, its brightness is a gift.
Here, sheltered by the unknown pages of the library, blossoms life where many had walked putrified.