Roses, Words and Other Sharp Things.

There is a deliberateness in the winds of the universe. It is not a spiritual truth but a passing speculation. It's ok if you don't believe me. I have spent years devising ways to not believe me. But listen, ghost of the world, my story is not how it should be or at least not how I thought it should sway. So many hate what I bring; more than a crowd have bled themselves to extinguish my inner fire. They did not quit succeed. I am not so concerned with that. What I am concerned with is objectivity. If I run away now I would brake an oath to myself and my honor hangs in the balance and that is not a sacrifice I will allow. Ghost of the world, I want to tell you a story. It is one that might be sad and it is one that is filled with scenery. Like a grove. Imagine a grove, the grass, fine and waving in the soft breeze. Emerald and glistening because it is morning. Now imagine to the left, facing the horizon, where the lawn falls out of view, there are leaning bushes and beneath its leaves are thick roots of vines that have twisted, caressed and gripped the tops of the bushes. Just behind that growth (if you are as small as I am you would have to strain to look) are flowers. Large flowers with large petals. The ones you could see are blue, but there are many different kinds. I have seen gardens like these many times. I used to dream about them.
The garden would be in the back of a house that I would live in or in the middle of court yard where a group of scholars where gathered. Then there was the garden inside of huge mansion that I and every good soul I have every known resided in. That was my favorite by far. I wonder sometimes if one of you ghosts should be one of them. But the story. There was a girl. She loved adventure more than anything. She would look longing and the mountains that where well beyond that sacred garden we were just discussing. Yes, she was very ambitious. She stayed in the house that was next to the garden. It was wooden and large, but very comfortable. She woke underneath a window sleeping on a blue pillow, one of many scattered around the house. The gold of the morning was soon fading into pale and brilliant noon when she made her way down to the lawn behind the house.
She was cared for by a guardian he was a man of great patients and spoke only after great thought. He loved her and worried whenever she strayed from the home, lawn and garden. She never meant to, but sometimes something would catch her eye. There was a great wood behind the garden that was behind the house. It had shadows that shifted and swam with the day and grew immense during the night and every now and then she swore she saw something in between the trunks and amongst the green that she never saw before. Her heart would grow as light and as fast as the wind and her feet would have to move as quickly to keep up. Then she would find herself someplace magical. It was magical because the sun would look into the moving water of a stream and instead of it glancing back as a boring circle it would shimmer in a million pieces right before her in the stream. Cobwebs would drape across a log framing the mouth of the stream as though presenting a god and drifting leaves would put on shadow plays until dusk. In these places she could hear animals beckon to each other. They were not just talking; it was and ancient hymn that came from them, one that she longed to understand. She would stay for awhile in these places and longed to go further to see if she could see any other magic, but she knew that her guardian would worry so she would return to the wooden house and spread some more pillows around.
Her name was Elizah and she loved everything she saw.

Writing Exercise 4

How stupid it was for the forces to come upon me. I am not their swaying tower; I will ravage the breathing night until only the insanity angle will remain invincible. That, the first step in the reincarnation of animal wisdom, will induce an earthquake to the sickness of cranial failure. Come to me flies in the trees and birds in the flowers. An instigator of the highest-power; rise institution, rise-realize-been there to the last hour. The wolves, the wolves are all red. The night is their canvas. They are the beast's of life. Their redder love is for the insanity angle; beautiful, fire blessed, the only true spiritual of the Suffering Diana learning to dance her moonlight religion. Bare as the wind and wise as the quiet earth; I am the real wild. I am guided by red. Hunger for the right dream my wolves. The night will pass and pale intention to incident like sunlight against spider web.
There is nothing if not bleeding honesty that the night isn't real, but helixes into the static of day and then the witch of dreams will know her moonlight.
Necessity, necessity. The only god that can help me.
In the wake of a life undone by a receding storm there are the undeniable occurrences not of the supernatural horror or of chemical manipulation, but of a natural happen-stance that instigates in the remarkable rhythm of fiction and I hear it.
How to describe a girl of a touched disposition and a women that seldom wakes. She knows her sisters in falling glory, but do you know them by their broken minds and sunset eyes? Swaying under cloud torn skies, breathing prophecies, heeding your discomfort like worried ghosts; they will know, more lushness besides your hollow words. In the tied existences of the pre meditated sculpture of youth they bleed and were bled and came rushing in as currents do to the shore to be swallowed up by a static tide pool. In dispensed, wooden homes their aching chaos stews and you... you went there, encroaching and shameless and met by cranial stares. What then was your purpose among those suffering Dianas that could shatter your template welded life into a thousand stars likened to their inner waring galaxies?
It never occurred to anyone; the necessity of breathing. She relied on her intangible vessel to see into the space of demented machines and skies that couldn't be bluer. The touch of the atoms only reach her from the cosmic umbilical that wraps around stars and tears her between the color and grey and with each time she wakes she is born again under skies not as blue. That morning the time was when the light was an uncertain white from the slanted sun and the air was spun into a deadening circle from the ceiling fan. Her soul fell into her body and her body was in the starchy grasp of a comforter. Her eyes met the room under a resentful squint, so reluctant to resurrect a most boring existence. Sleep was heavy in her veins, but if she must wake she had to be in the winds and under the sun. Once outside she made her way to a wooden shower that hydrated a flourishing thicket of wild flowers, bushes, and vines. They engulfed the door. She wiggled out of her loose clothing and ducked under the nozzle until the water became lukewarm. The atmosphere had already become balmy and laced with a mild breeze that wound it's way through the raised shower door, carrying the songs of insects and birds. Here, she could feel truly one with the world she looked down upon.

Harmful Truths

There were harmful truths all around and the snow covered them all.
Sweet winter in the quit of the morning. Pale from the first lie and cold from the silence.
When daggers of sun rays splintered off from the ice and frost gripped it's translucence on every Window we couldn't see them, but there they were.
In the spring, that is when we shouldn't have been caught unawares. Words can kill.
Secrets, sweet secrets only hide harmful truths.

So the summer and now the rain. Pain. Is that what was meant to be?
Sweeping on the front porch never saying a word. Kill no one.
Push dust of autumn. Eaten by the soil. And then turned crystal from cold.
Then water. When spring comes. Sinking deeper and deeper. We can bury. Dead.
No more words. That is how it should be; that is the nature of how it should be.
And then only are we safe.
Underneath the snow are harmful truths.

And they came. In the spring we were caught unaware.
Grow words in the warm that could kill.
Never bury harmful truths.

There's No Lover's in California Only Groupies

The voices in the sky they damn near moved me 

almost like a lovely groupie.

There’s no lovers in California 

No lovers in California

There’s no lovers in California 

Tap the vein, let it rest 

your only pretty when your a mess

Angles, Chakras, Valentine;

bleed it out from yours to mine.

Some of us aren’t spun in fiction

Some of us live like  vicious
Don’t lie to me, god damn groupie 

There’s no lovers in California 

There’s no lovers in California

There’s no lovers.

The Isles.

The isles of wild and green.
Sing the bliss; unseen and knowing.
I will walk the halls knowing and known.
Stone the citadel and wind's lark song;
A narration upon the sights unseen.
Not to me in a place of green waking.
Through the isles of paths seeing.

Cold, moving, still.

See Lightening

Don't look, don't hold. Your all that's left as the future comes before the storm. Don't think about what you are and why you promised to run. It won't be the same. Whatever you do, don't look. It's not an action without chaos and I breath it like air. Hold back! Hold back! why do I care. The season can change and has done too. It's a waterfall without hitting the lake, an arrow into a void. Don't hold back . We're all that's left and I can't wait to begin.
Something moves and there's nothing to hold it so lets go before it bests our will.
Can't you feel it in your blood? Ambition, sugar, sensation and several more trinities of inner fire packed like ammo and worn like armor, but it won't keep us down just far away.

A Series of Events

She has a kind mind
Like the fashion of the sociopathic.
Lighting queen; she's fantastic.
Miss I missed your fist
Stare down into a jack-o-lantern eye.

She can run the rounds
Etched, empty, in the night.
She and they are in sanctuary of virtual space.
Only space for their glamorous taste.

When you find kin in a world of your own
Then you are not alone.