poelinista's blog: "Perfection is a Dream"

This steeple runs its blood through my veins, As the saints of my demise carry my life Close to their hands and hearts of longing. I cry in a storm of my suffering, cry in silence— As the squall who doesn’t believe in its feathers— While my coursing blood flows its delight. These busts know not their importance, No rock could replicate perfection, Could taunt divinity with duplicate reality. It is in the essence truth lies, Solidity in the soul, not the body— Or lack thereof, for fiction holds a soul— And it is in the essence I attempt to live. To leave my own destruction behind, My own tears away from my weeping— My own eyes dry in their wetness— Is what I lead my spirit towards. I kneel at my own altar, Wrought of my own conviction and paths, And I sleep as a gentle hand caresses my heart— Rocks me to sleep with its soft hypocrisy. I dream of this steeple, of its mysteries. This steeple runs its blood through my veins.

Oh, starve yourself, my friend, for the very sounds of the wind mock your enchantment over the stars and sky. They break your howl and tear at your strength-- hollow and incomplete, like an hourless night of tears-- just so the Moon can laugh. It can and will rejoice at your tireless sobbing and weeping, only as cruelly as you allow, for its somber pretenses reap only what you give. Let loose this chorus full of stars into the very entrance where yon heart lies, the only escape one can hope for lives not where it is open, but where it is dark-- where the Moon can extend its hand in offering, in praise, in love and protection-- and the sounds of the wind cannot muse their way into-- Sing and dance for him, the life-giver, for his own rhythm is yours. Smile, for his own words are uttered with your name in between, weaved and sewn. what could be called the night.

Fury accompanies what little is futile in a fertile land of fertile stones, wrought in the fashion of old kings bent on providing a bounteous future for their unbound cattle made of bottomless greed and insatiable hunger-- in the style of him which will forever tinge what little can be with less-- that flocked and flanked the sanity that encompassed the people's hearts, what little could be accredited to sorrow was left up to the hands of bounteous bludgeons, such as one could find in the hands of a killer whose life has been threatened by the Merciful-- the ones who carry Light in their hearts and have sought Beauty over gore-- offering their ever-growing Love to his soul, which stares blindly downward, where his grave should be forgotten, since his life has been meaningless and his Love Empty, full of a deep Void as was once written in a forgotten tongue that spoke valiantly of what could be offered by an extended hand and a heartfelt grin of desperation that cannot be hidden, not knowingly cast down into that very same Void that shatters hearts and throws them to the valley where they tumble down, as the earth belches forth impure souls into their cores and they arrive on the land, where so little is dreamt of and so little is loved and carried upward, heavenward, where goodness lives and triumphs and laughs.

To compensate for this fall would mean to drift... To fly and float into further precipice. Inevitable, yes, but utterly convincing, enthralling, and complete. Like a light swim among the leaves of a beautiful tree.

Quite strangely, I roamed about a room of dreams, a quarter that held naught but smiles, empty vessels for an endless future that was destined for admiration. I hear the chuckles of the great Irony's lips, of how she had become what she dreamt, of how she had dreamed of what she would become... She could cry for hours and never drop a tear. Of course the clouds appear, they dwell and wait. The mood darkens, as do the words, and life moves on. The heavens cry as laughs arise softly from the ground. Or are they claps, revering the endless beauty? O, yes, your endless beauty and continuing embrace, so sweet as verses can capture and keep, as I blindly roam, roam, roam, as I utterly abandon reason and dwell. There should be song where only pain I hear-- exquisite, enchanting, and consuming, as a meal-- as a metal that cannot seem to harden, to cool after the fire has been retreated... such burden. As the hours melt away, as the flow of time continues, this brief chant will clear the way for the overflow... Such beauty! O, yes, I can see it, I can taste it. Dance away the hours, dance, dance, dance.

I crave nothing but these soft strokes, this cloud to rise, to move... to be moved. In strands, they come, they produce nothing but beauty. I produce nothing but beauty. It overwhelms me how such minuteness-- such harshness-- can become what it is... Calculated, as it can be, these angles make me crave them more. To produce this purity-- Only from dark can this whiteness come. Only from me can this beauty be. So hard, it is, to keep so tense, so livid, so sweet, So as to your body rock forward and back... To make your senses stir. If only I could dance to my own music. If only I could breathe my own air. If only I could show my love... If only I lived....

Perfection is a dream Without an end. It yearns for naught but the Stars to bleed their Light to his Moon, it mourns Its own despair— He speaks of the Starvation of the Arts. In tongues they speak to him, In dark they laugh, Followed by dancing flames In growing fear. Run not at their coming, For winter’s nigh. A laugh is not a laugh But a romance… Carry your own worries In a sword with Growing stems of laughter And dreams of day. No one will come for you As this night dawns. Forever they will seek Your own end.