Tomorrow

The liar and her hauntedness, and I was wondering through years, how she would be affected by the way that she had treated me with those lies. And tonight I await the bells, as another year far away from the time that I was in with her, ends once again. Feelings and affection can be devious in the wrong hands. And that unseen gift may well be abused,and the multi affections for an apparently lovely young lady, can drive a young lady to extremes. Today,I cared about the memory of pure feeling,inside of myself there was commotion, and it frightened the trees. And the sun can shine in December,it can clear away the memories of the cold of spring. And what are those bells anyway? and what do they really mean? I think that the truth lies within the solitary mind, or the way to it. And even then, the day lies still and will not reveal its truth. Beauty sometimes deserts itself and seeks to confuse, it can take the easy way out. And I can only see beauty as a simple thing and as a precious thing away from hurt and its offsprings. And away from hurt, lies the power of friendship and togetherness, and there is an evening where the shadow cannot cross the picture, where it is disallowed, where it may not enter. And I saw a lady today and she smiled on me, and I have her in my mind this evening. There are stars in the gentle feelings of affection and they avoid untruth, they are the places to reach and they are places of love and truth. And tommorow is a new year, and tomorrow will be a new day and tomorrow will be a new time.

December in a Cold Country

The King and the Queen have become like phantoms, they both have returned to the way that they previously were, in their comfortable versions of repetition and existence. The book is speaking of departure and memories. Winter looms, there is no food on the table, and the hunger lies somewhere at the back of the heart. Predictable conclusions are screaming their truth, whilst life remains in deathly eyes. Extraneous loving feelings try to persist somehow in their confrontation to the dark reality. A world has changed, it is no longer on fire, there is an empathic smile nonetheless towards the place where weakness appears, as perceived by convention. The electric landscape is showing urgency and its dynamism is aggressively suggesting a new and extravagant freedom. In the city, the lion has succumbed to truth and has awakened to the idea of tranquility. Nothing is new and change is repetitious in itself. Dogs bark and prams are pushed, there are new people born, the continuum remains intact. December skies with the prospect of a new year. A new year with a new number, a change. In this room, the sound explodes, there is no requiem, as there is no death, just a deviation from a constancy that scared itself away from permenancy.

How to Fix a Dream

In the dream you looked a bit different from the way that you really are. Your hair blew around your face somehow and I brushed the offending strands of it away. We became closer than before and talked of our histories. It turned out that we had come from very different places in life, and our smiles were empathic. There was no time to rush away from the moment for, time was gone and was standing by and listening to, and watching us, and smiling over us. I then walked outside of my dream to find that things had changed, and that you hadn't really been here with me at all. I wondered about how to fix a dream. I hadn't had to deal with this kind of thing before. I was thinking about the relationship between dream and reality,I was sure that there had to be one. And your words played in my head,and they spoke to me once again. Your words have a habit of doing that, I wonder if my words have the same habit of doing that to you? And I wonder if I appear somehow different, in the dreams that you have of me? And still I wonder about how to fix a dream.

Let the Darkness be Gone

In the morning when you awake, when there is darkness in your soul, try to take the time to remember your true spirit. Search into the memory for your real self, the self that means the most to you. And search with spirit and soul and your light will shine. Your darkness is not a conclusion, it is not the end, it isn't final. It is just a visitor, look at it in the eyes and know that it is an enemy, to be overcome. Accept time, and time will accept your patience and together you will succeed.

The Mysterious Stranger

The mysterious stranger, walking in life's underground, his eyes express indifference and his look unresolved. He walks between light and darkness, through his remembrances. There is no joy and there is no sorrow for him, he walks alone, and his secrets are dear to him. and each moment has a particular colour and he seeks to capture its hue. Sound is not the greatest meaning, and words not the greatest truth. And in a city full of strangers, he is the stranger. He is out of time and out of place with a certain kind of reality, the physical kind, the obvious kind. He walks alone and is conspicuous in his aloneness. The mysterious stranger walks in the dark and accepts its relationship with him. There is no imposition, no rebellion, no trying to make the world to come around to him. His eyes are tired and he senses the time of the ages. He feels and senses about the natural elements, he is in touch with creation and he is silent. Somewhere in the past has magnetised him and drawn him and wont give him the usual regular freedom. And he is close to freedom and he is close to not being drawn to attraction, whether negative or positive, but there is a power greater then even the mysterious stranger's, and he collides with antipathy.

Differences

The Lion tamer addresses the dancing horses, and among the spectators, a rose in the hair of yesterday's bride. She has questions about reason, and she stills. Images float around the arena, open to personal perception, there for all to see, and to relate to, or not to relate to. There is a world of make believe and there is a world of reality, and they dwell together in the same place. Illusion attempts to gain control, it gathers its potency and it stands there open. Midnight dancers in colourful garb, undressed and provocative, except for the the angels. Summer has remained and there is guilt in its demeanor, there is a sense of ages past everywhere from Kings' College Cambridge to the night sky to the little church on the corner. And the daughter of the messiah, she has expressed her desire for freedom and she stares at the moon, and if you look, you can see it reflected in her eyes and in her soul. Life is on edge, it is uncertain, it has made no decision. Love is up for grabs, however it can be interpreted, there's an ocean of differences, although the world clock ticks out the same time. And time stares from itself and lies aloof from the moment. And the moment is of an open mind and is given to dream. And within the dream, imaginings, nothing is certain,it is itself open to possibilities and feeling arise,and again they create a world of possibilities, nothing is right and nothing is wrong in this world, when there is nothing certain,and God is open to interpretation and I wonder if he smiles. Guilt can happen to the searching, it can cause comfortable people to estrange themselves, they may prefer to depart, return to a comfort of their easiness. Its all in the realm of mystery,and truth sides with the unknowning, although in neutrality, they still haven't discovered the direction to pursue. Soul has invested power in the mind, and waits for response, waits for enlightenment, waits with time,and throbs in anticipation.

To Sylvia, for the Breeze and the Wildfire

Bitter memory, keeps me/you close to me. Intervening years, and the ones on the journey, obscurely, they don't threaten the memory. Not a touch and hardly a word between, yet, somehow there can be no release from the grip of your achievement. Somewhere inside of the psychic self, I know the truth of you and your progression, but truth is difficult to find in embitterment. What kind of connection was this? when all that it suggested was confusion? In the days, when love was a lie, and lies were piled on lies? My brightness, which is my spirit will not let you colour it. Affection expressed and then denied, and turned to anger and mockery, from mind to mind, in the telepathic way, and if I had forgotten you, you would completely belong to the past, and to your own past, perhaps your lonely past, and songs sang of you at your own behest, songs that I couldn't touch, couldn't look at. I wonder of the trouble in your soul, and I wonder where you are, if indeed you are. Strange how time has a moment riding on its wave, can't seem to be able to free itself. And it seems that for that day, there was to be no new tomorrow, freedom remains a far off place, from hauntedness.

Warm Winter

A long time ago. Fiery youth, telepathic nightmare, in the name of romance. A rape of a certain kind of innocence, by a certain kind of opulence, a certain kind of popularity. Suggestions, for vain creation, in the hands and the pen of another. Darkness in a heart that sought for love. And so far from love, her deception and deceit, or were these things related to love? So long ago in December, in a cold country, whose present was emptiness without art. And the art, the attraction, it tried to kill itself and move away to a peaceful and easier place, today in a different December the same feeling, at a different time of life, youth has given way to age, and age is a rebel here, it smiles at time and looks in reverse at the wrongs. And today, this memory is unnecessary but it is alive nonetheless. There is no darkness in the clear sky, and the sky has brightened, attempted to kiss the truth of personal experience, and anywhere to look, is just a place where electricity should be, art and love and living. And living is the highness, it embraces, and it enfolds, and it seeks accompaniment. And there is warmth in the winter air, a warmth that will not be denied, and it smiles in a warm way, and it senses love, and it wishes to convey the same.

The Fantasy of Truth

In the middle of the not knowing of knowing, distancing from the delusion, the fantasy of truth, foolish love and the memory of innocence, and a virtual explosion of colour and incandescence, intended and dreampt of, closing in to the magic of her beauty, surrendering to the captivation, remembrance of her irregular touch, my heart smiles on her still, and is at home with her,and it all comes to the point where I wonder and question the thought of memory, and if memory should consider the present, if a memory is a consideration of the past, she in her armour of status and acceptance and convention, and I consider the darkness in her sky, but no, I sense that there isn't, and yesterday was a dream that forgot about tomorrow, when there was no real tomorrow, the picture was exactly of the moment, the focus was on the now, and then on a frosty Friday, in the barbed wire cafe, the ruins of affection controlled by insincerity, and in the middle of not knowing, distancing from delusion, the fantasy of truth.

Just a Glance at a Moment in Time

Crowded into the corner, eyes searching for release, the loving heart and the electric eyes, powering, looking for their place, the muzak and its emptiness, and the vibrant force, and the living spirit, and life without touch, and looking to the sky for answers, and where is the sky anyway? and why should it provide answers? On earth this evening, descendants of the people of the ages of time, their colourful smiles and the vigilant love, and the walking of progression, and love making, life is bright and is searching in multiple directions, and the guy in his knowing, is lost to its truth, his world of black and white reality doesn't exist. I read about him in a newspaper article and he wasn't the person that he pretended to be, still, the target is in sight, and sometimes it likes to be evasive, it prefers to conceal itself, and when it conceals itself it can only make itself more visable than before, questions, are the beginning of the shattering of illusion, pictures tend to want to express some kind of definition, they look for some kind of solution, but alas a picture is a single moment, it can't provide any lasting answers, it is just a glance at a moment in time, and the mind is electric and it explodes, and it rapes conveniency, and eyes are on the moment, and the moment lies still, and it accepts.

Night of Dream

Night of dream, you are not afraid. You are a wild kaleidescope of my life. Yesterday suggesting the motions of tomorrow, and in the memories in the darkness. In the morning at the wake up, that's when decision begins. That's when the fear arises. And there is the journey from the power and the certainty to the questioning and the conclusion. And in the day, the reality is born, within a dream that was embraced and expressed, and in crazy sanity, the knives are out, for the unacceptable, the originality, the nerve of the dream. The question persists though: Should I forsake my dream for the sake of acceptable reality and ease in communication? Oh let me have the nerve of my dream. Let my consciousnesses merge, Let them be truth.

Thoughts from a Drowsy Evening

In the drowsy evening, boozy regret, the naked trees of late autumn, passive, without expression, there is nothing to be known from them, seeking to be inside of time, to lose anxiety, the flickering flame of the candle, teaching tranquility, within, complex simplicity, it mourns in a particular guilt, concerning feeling, and yesterday still appears to be present in the today, and freedom urges abandonment, and a smile rises, and there is something in the picture that speaks of time, and all that it can mean right now, and speak of, is of ages, and this is the kind of time, that has no government nor movement, an eternal thing without beginning nor end, And God is lateral to the life, and the movement increases without recognition, I guess, that however God is peceived, would prefer it to be, there is now no light, nor is there darkness, this is a place of wonderment, and there is silence there, and it is dignity, and it is alive with compassion, and there are no questions, and there is no conclusion, not now, right now.

Magic, the Beautiful Extreme

Extreme beauty enters into magic. Becomes miraculous, for the pure of heart, the true lovers. And in the place of magic, the world explodes, and for the discerning, the seeking, a homely place in on hand. And all kinds of love are available in this place, that you have arrived at, the love of lovers, and the love within friendship, the key to the magic is love. I was informed of this, and I will never forget the wisdom of the lady who cared to share it with me. And I abandoned her and set myself free, just like I feel, that she had wanted me to. She believed in prayer, and she prayed for me, and I wondered if prayer was also the casting of a spell, a psychical wish, an act of love, asking for magic, to colour the spirit of the cared for.

Almost Twice Upon a Time

Almost twice upon a time. The collision of the sameness. And separation in the sense of the real. And yesterday, long ago, the simple love and the simple sorrow of the young, and later on, a smile of kind understanding. The same things arise. They feel the same embrace, they have the same need, but development has made things richer and greater. And there can be no condescending to youth and its age, and its mind. And December just before Christmas has a sense of time about it. It seems to stand still and wonder. The chill and the people in haste, the traffic in the city, the fired eyes, the expectation, the dream, the imagining, the anticipation, There was strength in the feeling within me today, I turned away from her, and I turned to truth. Somewhere inside of this wilderness, there is warmth, and it speaks from the heart, and it loves. And nighttime darkness, is shy on cheer. It asks to be considered for the way that it obviously, apparently is and no more. But within the darkness, stars shine in optimism, seeking not to be ignored. It may be winter in the seasons of the year, but blinding to the dark, the sun shines within, smiles, and provokes. And the cold, can only still one into warming. And the warming air envelopes, and challenges one to prosper. There is something in the air this evening, and it cares, and it desires. It refuses to stand still, and it prompts, and it teases, and it looks for answers.

The Dawning of Tomorrow

Far away, the future, my intention, my being in another place, temporarily. Beckoning, I gaze into the eyes of wonder. Dreaming I gaze into the eyes of unreality. And then there is the distance between the dream and unreality, and the distance between the dream and reality. And the mind, the thinking mind, is short on truth, and it stills in this awareness. And in the world of spirit, the feeling rises, after a world of living in a world of pretend affection. And the attraction lives, is still wanting to embrace me in its apparent lie. And in an ancient time of life, a face reemerges, clearly before the eyes of my memory. Truth, is on its own, in its purity, in itself, in its perfection. And I look into the eyes of her heart, and all I can see is delusion. Love is nowhere to be seen, and inside of me, springs unease, and springs antipathy. And I have seen the words and the feeling of the words that her apparent soul spoke to me, and I'm stirred somehow to reject any kind of anger. And the music is silent, has changed its course, and is searching for itself, quietly yet again. Inside of life, the eyes are firing, and everything is yesterday, and tomorrow, must be managed, entered into. And I wonder why she was there at that particular time, and why I was also. And I look away from yesterday to the dawning of tomorrow.