Behind closed eyelids. Where silhouettes become equine arced horizon’s wide bids. To dressage unforgets. Canter shadows in the moments of our syne. Incantations of the kin we left behind. Coalescencing with the patterns come the night. Inconspicuous are guises called, ‘the Dark’. Behind those closing, tired eyes. I gallop towards a blink in ever’s memory. I shall not cower at pinks, greys, and blacks linked together; emery. When I brush and tangle with my thoughts in the mane I charge on forth. To the lushing greenly meadow of our reverie. This is happening. Yet, has already happened. From the start. And, too, will happen. At the end.
Crock, kettle, boiled pot. Blackness after stratosphere. And, after body’s stiffened rot. Melancholy and the fear when set upon by black dog. Burst clouds over heading near. Foot stuck in the bog. Doomed days blurred, unclear. The jamming of the cogs. No end in sight but that’s more common than it’s not.
Yes, there is more in common here than not.
A vision, now, I can steer and see blue skies over every plot. The motor’s running easy, top-tier. I’ve got my foot loose from the crop. The rain is more like happy tears. What I thought was a houndly leer turned out to be a gaze from a log. Happiness’ touch in the eyes of deer has pierced straight through my fog. I’m glad to be alive in sheer rocket sensed uplifting agog.
Either way you look it here.
There is so much more in common between us all than not.
A Hummingbird of fire, hanging wingly snow, that obliterated ire.
It delivered me — a message, in envisioned freedom’s essence.
When, I feel it, again, at my snowblind end, I’ll thank it for a lend, of belly-flamed repent.
As, I flew amongst those frozen blazes, that purloined balance from our ages, and, called upon prophets and messiahs, doomed to burn to dust; Ignatius.
Like, so many, uplifting, scriptures pages.
Yet, my fiery, snow-tipped Hummingbird, never turned, or, forgot my words, nor, faces.
I’ve worn many through my stages — books, profiles and cases.
But, my Hummingbird, floating there in stasis, is a transcendental dirge, that lives to soar within my traces, a vestige not seen or heard, by other people’s gazes, nor ears buzzed and stirred.
My Hummingbird, saved me from, extinction, with a cold and warm embrace, that I’ve since adorned, within my graces.
So, it might sound and look absurd, but, thank you, for my life; Hummingbird.
the puppeteer; has scaly, reptilious skin, a charming, colourful, cataclysmic chameleon, with eyes of, devouring, gluttonous jealousy, like glowing, bite-sized, emeralds, the puppet-strings, that are pulled, are made of, flaccid human backbones, spineless, and, apathetic, docile, and, weak, always easy, to bend, shape, and manipulate,
the puppets; are twisted, in a daily spin, forever unfurling, and, falling from favour; like disgraced comedians, or, top-storey, tumbling clerics, guilty of heresy, their shelf-lives, are; fugitive; ephemeral, the pre-packaged, chicken-y cattle, are; disjointed, culled, mooing, clucking; moo-ucking; those unrelaxed tones, soundbites of; tinned laughter, canned speech, eager to unoffend, a sterile escapade, veiled by a fake-crusader’s cape,
the audience; never looks up, from their, feeding troughs, staring, ravenous eyes, and, mawing, myopic mouths, transfixed on; oven-ready propaganda, an amuse-bouche, of; punch, and, judy politics, succulent headlines, curried scapegoats, a diet of; regurgitated news cycles, each garden-variety brain, is, washed, boiled, and, mashed, then, cannibalised, and, ingested, by the, frenzied, factory-fed,
the puppeteer’s; plotlines are misleading oft, making polar norths, into, cancerous tropic souths, teaching true-falsehoods, that reveal, and, cover, the lingua franca, with, tongued wands, that cast, polyglottal tricks, selling ice, to; Inuits, and, Amazigh; Saharan raincoats, making a play, of religion, and, a cat’s paw; the idol, the final act is here, box office takings, are; sealed, and, stashed, as, the audience; counts sheep, daydreaming, of lying in fantasy’s bed,
but, ostensibly…
the outcome is always the same, the outcome is always the same, the outcome is always the same, the outcome is always the same, the outcome is always the same, the outcome is always the same, the outcome is always the same, the show is, almost, finished,
and, inevitably, before, the final curtain, you beg for…
Inevitably, your moments of; heartache, and, jubilation, sorrow, and, raucous laughter, will be momentary brushstrokes, of humanising colour, on an eternal, universal, canvas. It does not matter, if, post-use, your sapient, vehicular, corpus is; burnt, buried, or, embalmed. Every; thought, behaviour, and, action, made, in all conscience, must be accounted for, on your soul’s departure, from Gaia.
Just as, an ancient, Egyptian heart, must weigh, equal to, or, less than, the sacred feather of Ma’at. And, St. Peter’s keys, will only allow entrance, to the righteous, at the pearly gates, of the kingdom of heaven. The bearer of the soul, has, not only the mystical responsibility, but, the metaphysical obligation, and, duty, to be; morally and intrinsically: good.
Goodness is paramount to a clean conscience, and, more importantly, a clean soul. Spiritual; cleanliness, wholesomeness, and, goodness, are imperative, in order for the soul to continue, peacefully, on it’s supranatural journey, along the Milky Way, and, onto, the perpetual realms of yonder.
And, when, all is said, and, done, as your life, in all it’s ubiquity, magically, propels before you – like a feature film, or, flip-book, composed of; your natural essence, transfigured by, the shifting sands of time – will you be pleased with, how you; formed opinions, treated others, and, lived your life?
Or, will your soul, be burdened by; sin, loathing, and, regret? Forced to recount, every; hateful decision, every misinformed opinion, and, every missed opportunity, to form healthy human, and, spiritual bonds?
Your familial bloodline, and, genetics, may carry forth, or, they may not – that is, ultimately, out of your control. Yet, your opportunity to contribute, as many beautiful brushstrokes, to this; galactic masterpiece, as your life permits, is perfectly, within your grasp. And, in contributing with good; heart, mind, and, conscience, you enable your soul’s interstellar travel, to the stars; smooth, succinct, and, better yet, truly astounding.
All bonds, of virtue, that bind, righteously, will endure armageddon – not only, sororal, and, fraternal. Your body, will grow, languid, and, old, but, if wholesome, your soul, will spring eternal. And, while your body, may be, lost at sea, cremated in flames, or buried within Earth’s crust. Your before, your presence, and, your beyond, are, permanently crafted, by the moulded creation, of life, in stardust.
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