ItsElemental

I have become uncomfortable with its presence.  I am not afraid of ghosts, but I shall not dwell with one made of flesh and blood.  A corporeal ghost-  a perturbance which moves silently through my walls, indifferent to the cadence of this life-force, bored with its study of this human being, yet, not moving on-  as all ghosts are supposed to do.  Need be not, of an ephemeral psyche expressing want.  Nor tenuous proclamations of desire.  My judgment, borne of intuition, has become impenetrable.  A hungry ghost can never eat.  A hungry ghost can never realize that it is chained by its rootlessness.  A hungry ghost can never know the lasting bo

At long last, I have found the poet of my heart. This writer of word births savage beauty from the page to the mind's eye in living, breathing color.  The emotion is real, consistent-  not fickle or flitting about.  It's a different kind of beauty-  not of green pastures and sunsets, but the kind that pricks your soul to awakening with a longing and mournful melancholy.  No, not the proverbial "woe is me" written-across- the- forehead kind of melancholy, it is deeper than that... but the kind that exists in the between of light and dark... and the moment one comes to realize the being of this existence.  This poet I have discovered, dwells w

can you hear the wind of darkening light? turbulent song of nature's flight through willowed-branches, leafless tree a frenzied, cosmic symphony i think i shall dance in my dreams tonight