Death Of Our Seed – Death throes of love

The flowers anew, returning seasons bring! 
But beauty faded has no second spring.
Ambrose Philips
Would that I were a dry well, and that the people tossed stones into me, for that would be easier than to be a spring of flowing water that the thirsty pass by, and from which they avoid drinking.” – Kahlil Gibran

Image Credit: altitudinarian

I wander, looking, not feeling. Experiencing but remembering nothing. The taste is gone, bland are the fire scorched courses of your love. I wander around the echoing rooms of passions castle, like a spider hunting in the sedentary atmosphere, catching my supply and watching the inactivity with many points of view. My meandering desire leads me to other lands; stepping on the thorns of my morality, my feet are hesitant to find the new, knowing it violates the old. Satisfaction, though fleeting, is found in errant trysts. Excuses are easy to make when I am dilapidated; rotten and broken like the old planks in the floor. Shoving the rusted door of our haven, the hinges squeal in loud eery cries, giving up their life in broken protest; they can no longer bear the lack of attention. Revelations are born in tense moments, your eyes meet mine and the truth wants to be spoken, yet remains hidden; these are haunting times. Lovers find it hard to pull the trap door on the hangman’s rig; to see their intimacy in death throes, struggling at the end of the rope of boredom. The sun rises, a strong wind blows, a storm is coming; it hits hard and washes away the mementos of years, bringing relief. Nature does what I loath to do, destroying the useless and dangling appendages of a dead love, giving birth to hope on the dry and barren paths. In this newness I linger, amazed at what comes from the death of love; like the death of a seed, it breaks the hardened ground with fingers of new passion, restoring my faith and blinding me again with lust unconfined and unexplored.

Also published in Broowaha Citizen Magazine

Death Of Our Seed – Death throes of love

The flowers anew, returning seasons bring! 
But beauty faded has no second spring.
Ambrose Philips
Would that I were a dry well, and that the people tossed stones into me, for that would be easier than to be a spring of flowing water that the thirsty pass by, and from which they avoid drinking.” – Kahlil Gibran

Image Credit: altitudinarian

I wander, looking, not feeling. Experiencing but remembering nothing. The taste is gone, bland are the fire scorched courses of your love. I wander around the echoing rooms of passions castle, like a spider hunting in the sedentary atmosphere, catching my supply and watching the inactivity with many points of view. My meandering desire leads me to other lands; stepping on the thorns of my morality, my feet are hesitant to find the new, knowing it violates the old. Satisfaction, though fleeting, is found in errant trysts. Excuses are easy to make when I am dilapidated; rotten and broken like the old planks in the floor. Shoving the rusted door of our haven, the hinges squeal in loud eery cries, giving up their life in broken protest; they can no longer bear the lack of attention. Revelations are born in tense moments, your eyes meet mine and the truth wants to be spoken, yet remains hidden; these are haunting times. Lovers find it hard to pull the trap door on the hangman’s rig; to see their intimacy in death throes, struggling at the end of the rope of boredom. The sun rises, a strong wind blows, a storm is coming; it hits hard and washes away the mementos of years, bringing relief. Nature does what I loath to do, destroying the useless and dangling appendages of a dead love, giving birth to hope on the dry and barren paths. In this newness I linger, amazed at what comes from the death of love; like the death of a seed, it breaks the hardened ground with fingers of new passion, restoring my faith and blinding me again with lust unconfined and unexplored.

Also published in Broowaha Citizen Magazine

Cascades – Metaphors of a new start

 “Water does not resist. Water flows. When you plunge your hand into it, all you feel is a caress. Water is not a solid wall, it will not stop you. But water always goes where it wants to go, and nothing in the end can stand against it. – Margaret Atwood, The Penelopiad

Pour down rushing cascades

Filling the voids in hungry glades

Creation born in the splashing enclave
Swimming in the abundant rains

Pictured for me in the grand scheme
An image of strength for my soul’s need

A river flowing from a source so high
Allowing fresh life, relieving my deep sigh

Frolic in peace, the swirling water alive
I swim with ease, living I no longer cry