brought back to life by flowers

Some days are harder than some.

            I awaken light-headed as if I had been one with clouds, unbounded and foreign to limits and fears of soaring with no wings beyond all touched by the stained hands of reality.  Then I suffocate in the heavy air adorned in garments of energy left by my fluid dreams; walls looking gruesome, stained in spurts of blood from wounds inflicted by the sharp edge of reality's light upon the backs of my dreams(coward!).  Heavy thoughts playing musical chairs upon my head, games they play to earn the right to reign over the kingdom of my spirit; blankets whispering stories of how they have helped many imprisoned like me to escape life.

 

With newly-borne limbs I would grapple with the heavy air; shifting it laboriously just so that minute spaces friendly to movement may be found.   Eyes turning into wells bearing ‘holy’ water to sanctify the air and quench the thirst of the unseen; I would reach the window, a warrior against time with dust particles as trophies of days defeated, and I would open it as if crying to the world to save me from my dreams, or for the warrior to anoint me with a dust particle that would lure me to once a good day.

            Sure enough the world would enter just after sucking the heavy air out, conquering my dreams and ‘saving’ me.  Energy shifts; paradigm displaces thoughts and the world being the tyrant it is my room would be colonized; screams from beings enslaved to push the cogs of the clock-like world so it can go around would torment my frail spirit.

            Out the room I would run, eyes tightly closed so as to avoid the sight of islands I had vacationed in, islands held by the comforting hands of shelves; hurriedly past my aging mother with a face that reality paints with elusive colors of disappointment inspired by hopes, ambition and success.

            Feverishly I would trip upon the broken pieces of my heart, being mended by a love beyond, into an untrimmed rose bush with thirsty thorns.  Dead I would lie only to be brought back to life by clouds of rose petals bearing a scent that speaks words from the ancients: ‘Certainty is an illusion, doubts are the sharp spearheads of reality that steer you to certainty.  Lie silently and allow death to embrace you.  Only through death can we again live.  Only in the dark can we see the light.  When the world morphs into tornado, stand still and smell the flowers.’

 

You that read this blog, or attend poetry sessions to listen to me; you that loves the wretch that I am, and you that have learnt to silence the world as you mother me, are my flowers.

 

BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE BY FLOWERS!

Son of forgotten gods.