Of Wind and Mirrors

On this calm winter night, humble amongst my own thoughts and silence, I have found myself accepting a single notion, one truth; a singularity amongst this field of roses we have desperately and ignorantly conjured for ourselves. One must see with clear eye that even the rose may prick your flesh if it is held tightly enough. To shake hands with a mirror is much like grasping at thin air and attempting to keep it still within your palms, for even if it were riddled with smoke it will always find escape between your fingers.

Tragic was the rule of yesterday, but hopeful are the days of tomorrow. Time may cripple our bones and seal our tombs, but something as cruel and ruthless as the clocks we hang upon our walls and cage ourselves within still tick and tock by means of machine and metal and motor. Everything done cannot be undone, but the very essence of time itself may be retraced. Like a feather tumbling through the breezes it moves swiftly, unseen and without a sound, untouched until it is no longer carried by that which we cannot mold. Look beyond the wind, and you might just find yourself...

Shaking hands with yourself.

Of Jewels and Archery

So sweep me under the rug.
Eventually everything must shake hands with dust.
And if I may never taste the sunlight in my eyes again,
Remind me why it is the diamond in our sky;
Her warmth and beauty sure does sting me every time.

Archers line the horizon.
Their arrows will soon paint colossal tidal waves
As they admirably carve my name through the satin oceans above.
But with a crest forged of solid steel,
Their wooden spines will surely burden the feathers
On their tails.

If I were to only give them wings,
Would I then have bestowed free will,
And never have them return to whence they were born?
Give an arrow wings, and it may never return to you.
Give man a quiver, and he will always find himself in search of ammunition.

Perhaps if I were to catch one of these exotic
Winged elementals, what then will I do?
Captivity would only demonstrate
The fate in which we all so precariously
Race against;

Her face will discolour and decay.
Her body will weaken and crumble.
And the feathers that once adorned her wings
Will patiently fray and return to the breeze that
Stole her skin.

And so to deny an angel its wings,
We deny the very fiber of its fervor and nobility.
For even ourselves could never be,
Without our glittering jewels in the heavens
That relentlessly scorch our backs.