Love Without Touch

Today, I sensed that real love, where there is no touch involved, where words declaring love for another person are not to be said. A tacit kind of thing, but its suggestion is dwelling within, and only takes the right time in the right moment for one to gain this understanding. So, not the obvious love, but love itself in great purity.

Colours

Fantasy in varying degrees, planning its assault on certain reality. Fantasy in the place of magic, feeding emotions, strengthening the eyes of wonder. The dream lies asleep, it has tired and is old, it will soon become, no more. Memory doesn't tend to recall fantasy so much, it deals much more in the real, and often in the negatives, the disappointments, perhaps memory can look like it is in a morbid place. Its Sunday and the Horse Protestants are remembering the British war dead in their Irish home. Some wear Poppies and pray for the souls of their martyrs. And I think of unity and understanding and that is about as far as I can get. Neon visions appear, they scream out their expressions. They suggest, and they imply, and they fire. And then they are gone, but for in the memory, and this is where it all begins. In the mind the memory of colours translates to words and music and other art. Screaming colours engage again, they seem to choose who they wish to cling to, they will not evaporate, they will live and dwell.

Nighttime

Another beer on a Saturday night, after The Bhoys done well. And the firm foundation of yesterday's decisions has subsided to a quagmire. I avoid the mirror of my conscience, it can only show its displeasure with me. And the night moves on, bland in its darkness in the lack of imagination. But really in the living mind, it is just a day that has grown a little tired and is reclining. And the black of the night is just a variation of the colours of the day, and if you are to be afraid of the night, I wonder if you would have to be afraid of the day too? And tonight the vampires and the zombies are waiting in the wings. They seem to know the way that it is supposed to go, and all I can do is gaze unknowingly at their possibility. So the sky has gone to sleep, and suggests that I should ease down, though perhaps I would care to have an argument with this particular nighttime. Astral travel stares me in the face, wonders if I would care to climb aboard, perhaps it was a suggestion from the zombies. And I see the zombies in all that I have loved and are gone, and the beauty cannot be misplaced, it remains and is in place with love. And I think sometimes that to think about tomorrow is to think about a certain death. So I guess I can be scared into thinking exclusively of today. And nighttime is the mystery of the day. Darkly provocative and sexual, putting the emphasis on the self. It has blanked life out in its way, but of course, it is yet to succeed. So perhaps it has thrown the gauntlet down, it has suggested; 'Go on deal with me, show me if you can see through my darkness?

The Reason for the Existence of Tears?

Standing outside of the place where your lovers stray, gazing to the religious experience called love, you cast a side on glance, let it be known that your love wasn't to be for me, as I let you know that my love wasn't to be for you. Nonetheless there were songs about you, innocent songs of an innocent time. Songs I believe that were just of a basic connection, nothing more. And you touched me with your duplicity, and it took a while for me to understand. But the soul, doesn't believe in liars, and it awakens one to what is true, when the heart is ready to embrace this truth, when it is true indeed. And when the heart and truth are aligned then the spirit awakens to inform that the truth is a warming thing, is a precious thing, is a loving thing. And tears don't wish to cry for ever, and they will seek to find a reason not to, these tears will reach into the world of the self, for the reason that they should not exist. This may well be the reason for the existence of tears.

Life has Changed

Easing through the foam of the outskirts of my sanity. Waiting for the party to begin. A kind word beckons, says more than its kind word says. The party has begun. Words and a voice had filled my head prompting me to decision. I walked out in the cold day, with strength in my thought and eyes on the present time. And in the midst of walking in the cold day, I thought of sweet cold Canada, and life in Northern Ontario. And the party is at play and its mind tries to capture the drifting ideas that play in the head. And from Canada, to the evening sky in a motion, gently perusing a spirit singing in the voice of a song. Moving on and away, the feeling brightens until it warms. Magnetic life has pervaded an early darkness, a thought returns brought by a feeling. And now the inevitable is not the inevitable any longer. Life has changed somehow, giving this flirtatious wink in the middle of a business day. And for the recent past and for life itself and its subjects I try to let anger not get in the way, when once again, there was wrongness in the things that she embraced. I have a dream of life, when it is vibrant and true, when it throttles to get its result, when it insists on concordance, when it tyranises the stillness, of the peace, of the quietude. Life has come to play and looks through an open window, through the rain. And the fog begs for release and life relents when that same fog will attempt to turn to fire. And in the outskirts of my life, the psychical world, within its world, within my world, within the world. Angels break through, and search into eyes for understanding. They look for a way, and the way that there must be through negativity, in this moment, there is no yesterday and there is not today and there is no tomorrow. There is just the power of now.

Home

Cinnamon evening, from a morning of shallow discomfort, when the rain refused to call, to endorse a suspicious belief that was floating around my anxious head. Love can be a cowardly thing, in the way that it doesn't want to deal with reality. Somewhere in the vampire evening, in the reaches of the past, a friend comes to call. The wolf howls at her moon. And the past is never gone when it lives in the memory of today. It just requires just a little more understanding and a little more patience, to accept that it really is here in this evening of mine. I thought I heard an angel cry. And through the song there was strength, and through the song, there was wondering if the past could re-live itself in a dusty moment of now. Truth is fog, and is pursued in dream. and lies somewhere perhaps, between the dream and the reality. And then there was a blinding sun in February and I felt that I should screen my eyes from the illusion that it suggested. And colours fill the heart, seeking to be reconciled to the places where they belong. And in this wild confusion, the moment is prayerful and its peace attacks diversity and indifference. And home has come to call, and is looking for will. It will not accept passivity and it will not accept ease. It comes to provoke one into the search, into being where home is thought to be.