myriadwhitedarkness

Breeze in the tall pines, is the exhale of an invisible giant. Shaking cone from branch, and needle from twig. It comes in exasperation, rustling the new greens. Swiping old tree trunks, and startling rabbits. The brook is rippled, the grass is bent. Shadows tremble, and the birds lament. The forest leans away, in boreal trepidation. Yet it only whips between, a horse with no chariot. It torments hillock, and bare mound in equal measure. Then it is gone, like a blink... ...all bark but no bite.

3/18/23 I want to believe, that if I turn into your arms enough, the world and its troubles, will melt away and dissolve, into the silvered pools, of your eyes. If I hold you long enough, if I count the cobbles, at the riverbed while you, talk to the birds, would it be enough? The universe is a giant, knocking at the castle doors, and I am afraid the longer, I let it bang on the gates, the less time I will have, to go out to parley; to beg for peace and if not peace, to take the sword and slay, the black splotch at the doorstep, before it crosses over the threshold, and stains the corridors with death. The encroaching cold, of inevitability is the closest thing, to consistency I have ever known. If you look beyond, the warmth I pour into my words, you will find the letters, are bristling with teeth and sharp edges. I am so afraid cutting us open, on the dagger-like apex of, my nascent, cynical incisors. My court-date with dread, at the throne of Misgivings, holds such a

Despair was a propagation, a product of dysthymia... ...a soundwave on a tide vibrato. Crashing down like the calf of an acid glacier, it spilled ice and fire, thus boiled. The tide was a black vein, an eye constricted, a needlepoint byway. Ífingr was personified by itching eyes and anhedonia; a narrowed, frenzied focal. Like a black ship thundering through the midst of a gale it took its burning cargo to the shore. The harbors, they were matchsticks candlewicks and ill wishes; set aflame all the same, down, down and drown...with the fishes. Yet come daybreak, hope lingers in the brushstroke of dawn against homely husk and skeleton hearth. We dot our ruined shores and face these devastations with the knowledge the night did not take us. Despair was a propagation, a product of dysthymia... ...a soundwave on a tide vibrato. We stand before the craven maw of ruination and scream in our battered legions 'not today.'

Sometimes preserving your heart can feel like burying it.

You're too big now for me to carry you on my back and skirt the puddles in the murk of a rainy-Sunday drizzle. But I never say no. I love these cold late-Autumn moments when my breath plumes out over the bones of bare trees and your chatter in my ear is like summertime. We chase the egg-shakers roosting in their boxy pine-bristling sandcastle between the misty weeping of today's sky. Your wrinkled-paint moue over sour peeled tangerines and pumpkin swirl cake makes my heart less heavy. Today, I took coffee with a unicorn that wanted to steal the good-luck crystal in the tip jar and eat 'green-cloud toast' next to the river. If I am never loved any other way save the wide-eyed, occasionally bossy sunlight of these gray day adventures then surely I have been spoilt completely rotten. I hold your hand between the raindrops and drive slow while you sleep, down the winding roads back home.

Youth's twilight comes slowly and then rushes in like the explosion-week of the leaves in their resplendent glory. The nascent glimmer of sunset on the precipice of the deeps is the dream of Spring... ...absent and inert beneath the earth. I tilt my head against the cool promise of the coming years and feel I could be content if goldenrod remains as soft and yellow as it always is. If the birds sing in the trees if the brook bubbles quietly along beside me if the ink on my fingers can capture the warmth of a brilliant morning I should be glad to know my tomorrows are numbered; the best has yet to come, the earth is beautiful, and the sound of firelight is like heaven in a box.

You want to become adamantine... ...hard and unyielding, like the snow-capped peaks of the land that freezes beyond the tree line. Snow has an honesty in its frigid numbness, it feels like relief; feeling anything else is a great and terrible agony. When the fire comes in its meteoric hail declaring love but becoming a morphology of devastation you want it to shatter broken and lifeless at the gates of your palisade formed of barred teeth and empty expressions. You sharpened those incisors yourself on the grindstone of disillusionment... ...slid your tongue across the silvered whet of disbelief. You want it to crawl across the empty, scarred waste of bastions to howl into the black contorted abyss that is the antechamber. Your guards are Bitterness jaded Evaluation merciless Judgement and unforgiving Rage; their gazes, beneath the armor are as dark as a crypt. When it collapses; a pathetic, writhing creature before the throne of Nothing you want it to understand exactly why

Accepting The Present

A silhouette only knows the cast of itself... ...made noir and unbending yet completely fickle, like the expanse of a cave never yields its flitting shadows to the sun. Not because it will not but because it knows not and, therefore, cannot in its ignorance be anything else. So a person can be an outline, cogent solely of the bright, beating eye of scrutiny in confusion yet see only the numb of worthless midnight inside themselves. Not because they want not but because they dream not and, therefore, cannot in their drudgery hope for anything else. I realize that when gentle, patient hands coaxed open the iron of my doors and ushered me into daylight I had no business grasping at that brilliance like it was saving me from going back to whence I came. The light wasn't coming from them. It was mine. It's always been mine.