To tell a truth of blood and wine
Takes tears of liquid steel and a lazy tongue
Clenched fists, holding on to a hope that fades
Into the grave, sieving through the cracks like fine sand
I kissed your mind and our souls collided.
So I’ll give you to the count of three,
‘Til you think of me.
I awake; eyes open wide, ears pierced back, I lay still for a while and take in the damp dense air.
It smells like victory tonight.
I creep; silently, dauntingly, down the roof and over the lines of fences in the deadest hour of the night.
It is now my moment to thrive.
I search; in utter stealth, clandestinely for the gifts of the dark. I am omniscient and dominantly alone to reap the rewards of the nth life.
Splice us up in Sin-shine
Immerse us down to drown
Unhinged to depths unknown
Blow kisses against the wind.
Don’t bend the truth to be kind.
And so they floated, high, soaring the midnight starry sky
Above skyscrapers, fumes and sins of yore
Faith vested, lies exposed and tested
Beliefs of lesser men in the dark, feeling worn.
Title: From the Skulls to the Stars, and all the in between.
– From Death to Eternity, and all the in between is Life. The Life we choose.
Claim: Let us make the hypothesis that Dracula was in the know: “The blood is the Life.”
Assumption? I assume that: The Bones is Death, and the Spirit is Eternity.
Conclusion: Do not fear death, for it is the stimulant of our vitality and fuels an ardent desire for the Life. Do not ignore Life, for it is what will enrich our soul and galvanize our Spirit for Eternity.
Continue reading From the Skulls to the Stars, and all the in between.
What is it about melodised words that get us going? That gets me going? That triggers a strong emotional reaction that the same words, unmarried to a set of notes, may in certain cases leave me, well not indifferent entirely depending on content, but with such a watered down version of the same feeling.
Number one: for sure it’s the Words. The Words create lines of verse in our heads, prose or poetry, other peoples’ thoughts and concerns that form a story every time, that are somewhat open to interpretation within the boundaries the Words themselves set.
Tense as if your muscles are on constant strain
Blank as if your mind is empty
Numb as if your soul has been decanted
And you wait, in the waking
Perched on your seat,
Grabbing the armrests with all your fingers’ might
Once upon a time, in a land of ice and snow and reindeer, two twin boys were born to a broken mother and a caring father. Their mother was a sad figure, depressed, and full of sorrow; she neglected her children, feeling nothing but pity for them and disgust for herself. The death of her baby daughter a few months before the twins were born had cost her her soul. She would listen to them cry, bawling out in hunger, and she would turn a blind eye, looking out the window at the frozen, white landscape. Her condition became worse as the days went by, with nothing her husband could do to help reverse the sickly process of her mourning. He could only contribute by offering an alleviating substance, an amnesiac that made her forget her woe by stewing rare violet mushrooms he found in the forest surrounding their cottage. Yet in the winters, there were none to collect and the husband felt helpless to watch his wife on her bad days. Little consolation did he find in caring for the boys.
Helen Marie Joyce 
