The Hermit Chronicles: Aimless

“The true adventurer goes forth aimless and uncalculating to meet 
and greet unknown fate.– O. Henry
chymecindy
In the early dawn, the dark and the bright birth
My silver cage flew open, and I wandered,
Aimless
 
In the cool of the morning, the placenta of night
My foundling feet find rhythm, and I wandered,
Aimless
 
In the heat of noon, the umbilical light a rage
My downy wings grow furious, and I wandered,
Aimless
 
In the dying day, the flower of life now closing
My infant dreams lay in grasses, and I wandered,

The Lord is My Shepherd, I shall not Want?

“When those who found this skeleton attempted to disengage it from that which it held in its grasp, it crumbled to dust.” ― Victor Hugo

 

Sandra Ramos
            Sandra Ramos

 

When for ages the wind swept years away, there remained little of the life of the hermit, a stir past the window reminded eternity that mortality has its limits. Another flicker of movement that proved a harsh statement against all the laws of nature that screamed to be true. There’s always an exception, always an intervention by the divine laws which are generally ignored by the empiricists knowing they cannot tame the wild west of the spiritual. Though the house is dimmed by age, and windows covered in dust, sagging in their own way from age, life refuses to die. He holds on, battered and calloused from the struggle of living, refusing to crawl under the comforting sheets of the deep unknown. Something has died however, his passion has suffered the mortal wound. When it’s all said and done, am I alive if love is dead? And if so, what good is it?

Imperfect

“I realize the imperfections in this composition, and I left it so because we’re all imperfect and need to accept the message of who we are and not what they say we are.”

I wish I were clay
then I could change myself
everyday

Today I should be this and
tomorrow I should be that
and for the moment
society says I’m fat

But not so long ago and
in other royal cultures so
this was a good to go

But merely because times
have changed and lenses
have different colors

I’m resigned to serving
like slaves in chains
I’ll be your skinny mistress

I am whatever you say I am (Eminem)
and that, by the whims of
a psychotic society

And even in writing if I forget
to dot an I or a comma I relent
of that you’ll never forget

I’ll be forever judged and that
it’s a fact of this life
YOU WILL NEVER BE ACCEPTED

Except by those who understand
that hats turned back and
hats turned to the side
are all a part
of the same ride

Alone –

 Imaginary lovers
Never turn you down
When all the others turn you away
They’re around
It’s my private pleasure
Midnight fantasy
Someone to share my
Wildest dreams with me” 

 

DreamWind

I’d do anything to keep from being alone, pay any price, be used to the “nth” degree and never say a word. Being used is better than being alone but it stings knowing the object of my affection will hurt me, maim my spirit, and destroy my forward progress. Still, I follow hard after her, giving all to maintain that relationship and avoid the terrors of being alone. What compromises have I willing conceded to? What violations of my self-esteem and personal space have I allowed for unrequited affection? What tortures has my heart been through, my body feeling the wretch of emotions that sets my nerves on fire? Being addicted, not to a substance, but to a world of egocentric affection that I’ve created by taking the object of my affection and embellishing her to a fantastic degree. I should know better, I do know better. The voices of friends and family, concerned that I am “being used”, try to slap me awake. Ignoring their advice, pushing away the voice of truth, I continue to live a world that only I see. Go away you bearers of truth, you wreckers of dreams, this is my world, I will not see it in your light! I take my script and apply it haphazardly, patching up the holes in the dike containing my empty dreams. Eagerly lapping up my lack of self-control and willful delusion, the protagonist in my play continues to feed my world of facades with empty compliments, cool affections, and eyes empty of love.  One day I’ll wake up and grab hold of myself, one day I’ll acknowledge this self-imposed hell, one day…but for now, I look at her and imagine how she loves me.

Also published in Broowaha

012112

The Dust – Apathy exposes your cracks

“Even when I try to stir myself up, I just get irritated because I can’t make anything come out. And in the middle of the night I lie here thinking about all this. If I don’t get back on track somehow, I’m dead, that’s the sense I get. 
There isn’t a single strong emotion inside me.” ― Banana Yoshimoto
 

 

 

You see beauty everywhere, your supposed to be happy. Your not.
You see people laughing, your supposed to be a part. Your not.
You see tears falling, your supposed to feel. Your not.
You see beauty everywhere, your supposed to be happy. Your not.
You see people laughing, your supposed to be a part. Your not.
You see prayers offered, your suppose to do that. Your not.
You see tears falling, your supposed to feel. Your not.
You see life passing, your supposed to do something. Your not.
And worst of all, you just don’t care. I mean you really, really, don’t care. About anything.
It’s death you feel in every little crack of your soul.
Like dust collecting, this death accumulates in the small areas of your life.
But wait you walking dead! Be encouraged!
There’s life again, a spring cleaning as it were, rising from the dust of death in your life.
You must quiet yourself and stop running to the next thing that will numb you.
You must quiet yourself and wait to hear the voice of your maker calling after you.
You must quiet yourself and pray to the one who has the love that will make you whole.
I’ve felt the death that living life can bring, and I’ve felt the arms of my Father,

Those arms have made me strong enough to live and be safe from the dust.

 

Also published in Broowaha Magazine
01082011