29. Slowly..

.. seconds.. they WILL turn to moments.

Those moments, breath by self-destructive breath, have found some sense of sensibility shaken back into a monotonous routine. Thriving would be a word ill used, but alive.. that would suit the devastation that has come and gone. Leaving behind it a hinted glimmer of something warm upon the horizon..

To be plain, and brief, it has been a little over a month since the passing of my Opa; my Grand Father. I am still not myself, and don’t foresee that I will be in the near future. I’ve made peace with the anger, and for the most part have come back from the blackness with which I found comfort.

As to writing.. it may still be a bit before I return.

A close soul has their suspicions, and has stated thus: “When you do finally decide to write again.. I have a feeling it’s going to shatter your Silent facade”.

If only you could see the smile that was given for those words. Perhaps it IS time to break beyond Ecnelis. Wouldn’t that be something to see?


28. Stillness..

“… let it be in the correct manner..”

When some men die it is as if you had lost your pen-knife, and were subject to perpetual inconvenience until you could get another. Other men’s going is like the vanishing of a great mountain from the landscape, and the outlook of life is changed forever.

~Phillips Brooks

There is pain that cuts through you so viciously, without mercy, that it leaves you in a state of perpetual bliss. Something vanishing, in which you [lie] upon the graciousness of your own misfortunes, and what is yours is shaken into dire states of desolation..

This is not that pain..

This pain is delicate. So delicate, in fact, that were it to be caressed with but the single breath of wing.. it would shatter. This pain is held in the silence of a calmness. This pain is isolated so well, that it dare not even quiver for the sake of forsaking nothing and everything in the depths of absolution. It is something to be tethered, cradled, coddled, and traced in the gentlest of heartbeats that sound off in unison beneath a courageously lacking shell. A facade built so well, and so quickly, that the tremors of folly beneath it wait in stillness for that all too familiar collapse to set the world in flames.

Which will break me first?

26. S[hhh]elf – Inflicted

Screams whisper about as well as Silence.

When there is nothing holding you in place, except for your own inability to remove the pins from the wall, that.. is fear. That is a silence that is all encompassing, and yet, it has a distinctive ability to cover [my] Earth in its validity. It is a warped sensation. From the edge of that pretty little visionary line, you can see the silhouettes so poised in preparation to be of some use; dismissively. Yes? No. Your surrounding endeavor is one riddled with trepidation, and it stands to reason, that beyond the delicately lain tendrils of your own misdoings is some semblance of aversion. To what, being the answer that bares ground in no tangible question. Everything is as it seems, and nothing truly falls within the realm of being unfounded; so… twist the anything, and mark it with the grievances of nonsensical confinement. That should do it..



25. Take a walk with me..

.. beyond the boundaries of all you’ve thought was known.

If the illusion is to be held, make it hideous. Pretty lies slip from the tongue with fervency, but [oh!] the true addictions are beneath in the creative callousness that withers away the bone with crude verbiage. If the illusion is to be held.. twist it, mock it, take stock in it and truly let it grow into something so ravaging that it creates a safe haven of cruel deliverance. Give it a life so grand, that it is boisterously silent, and needs only to be whispered to shake the flesh into submission; where the mind shall follow the spiraling depths of perversion. If ever it did so rattle the cages of beats.. one beyond the other.. to truly sing within the shadows of restlessness.

If the illusion is to be held, make it count. Otherwise..

23. Trust can be.. curious..


If [you] knew the particular poison.
If you were told its details in precision, without omission of the smallest sort, right down to how it would lead you into the confines of madness..
Would you still take it?
Would you [willingly] take it, drink it, touch it, perhaps.. wait for it in the darkness of curious wondering?

If you were told, after, that it wasn’t poison. Would you believe it?

If, perhaps, it was not a “thing”..but a sensation that laced its way along your spine..
..and left you with a breath that could barely be categorized as “shaken”, would you still?
If the very darkness of it gave you dreams, so delicious, that your [heart] ached?
If the idea of it, alone, dripped off your tongue in whispers of all you dreamed?
If you only had the words of another to go on.. would you?

I would.
Some moments.. I believe that I am.

It’s a chaos that cannot rightly be explained, when the moment of “What if” is met squarely with all that can be counted as a reckoning. Sometimes, chaos is not so loud as to drown out the sensations.. but a delicate [whispering] of curiosity that sends one into a place, so deliciously scattered, that the pieces are forgotten. Not ignored, or left in waste, but forgotten for the pure fact that someone else has taken the board. Fingers, which curl decisively beyond your own, move the shards in an arrangement that is yet to be revealed. A question leads to inner reflection never before glimpsed, which leads to whispered words and bitten [flesh] as an answer is sought from the [shadows].. which leads to stolen glances, curiously halted breaths, and the knowledge that another piece has shifted. Though, you know not where. It could very well be nowhere, and  yet, it is somewhere all the same.

Whether a loss, or a gain, is yet to be seen.
However, it is in anxiousness that the particular detail of method is awaited.
Poison needn’t come from [Another]..


22. Shall I?..

The unforgivable crime is soft hitting.  Do not hit at all if it can be avoided; but never hit softly.  ~Theodore Roosevelt

Of course.. how else were you to find me?

It is a crime, or so he whispered..
That delicately cross, unwavering, unnerving little voice of substance.. in which plagues me; by the bated breath..

It is a moment of peace, stolen in valiant acquiescence.
A frustration, for which the circling monotony grappled with a naive sense of.. bewilderment?

But, to what do I owe the honor of such a malicious infestation of sunshine and tolerance?

To whom, Dear, shall I present such a fallacy of rosy cheeks and glinting callousness; masqueraded? Basked in chartreuse glory?

Shall I; even? What say you?

21. Innocent corruption..

“There is nothing so painful, as walking on the shards of your own inhibitions.. There is, also, nothing so delicious as Another creating a Masterpiece of their edges.”

Not all changes occur over time. Some, in fact, are swift and vicious. Creating a vice, with which to steal the soul in all its chaotic glory. Methodic is a way to lease a less intricate statute..

 There is nothing so lovely as when the eyes behold the promises of Sin, and nothing so constricting as the lines of Heaven that blur such a glimpse. Namely, when that “one” has discovered that they favor the distinction even in the shadows of confusion. A confusion, in truth, which is labored in clarify and drawn deep within breaths of magnificent destruction. A monotonous deformity.. perhaps? 

It is every little girl’s dream to grow up, and by some fancy of illusionary grace, marry her Daddy. Some grow and ripen into disillusioned mongrels, who tilt the world, and bask in the sympathetic lisps of a Daddy’s design. Then.. there are those who walk the threaded line where no true answer can be given. They love without constraints of monogamous bearings, and wilt beneath the bindings that wear like jaded shackles upon a “normal” spirit. I.. I love beyond what’s right, live in a bliss of well drawn sin, and deem it to be worthy for the fur which wraps around my little heart. A gentle hand, a heavy heart, and all can be met in the center..

Sometimes, happiness is found in the most sorrowful places…