~ The Colour Of Magic ~ [No filter]

 

  • When you are not anymore where you were when it all began, you  wonder if you are nowhere again after all.  The place where it all  began, when you were still looking, wishing, hoping for the world to  illuminate.

It was written in the book of hours.  The whispering of voices  within, "Gold, feathers, and jade," they said.  One would think that  discovering [something] that you have  spent most of your grown life searching for would bring a certain type  of joy instead of a growing resentment.  My simple symbiotic  relationship with myself has grown tiresome.


  • How do I define my existence?  My reflection says through you.   Christ ties hang from my bedpost.  Polished stones gleam in my eyes.  My  condition is terminal.  I'm just trying to stay comfortable.  The walls  are glazed with midnight moonlight.  Writing for me is somewhat like an  exorcism.  Now I am as free as  I can ever be, as Lyla Dare.  I'm  short-waisted.

I embrace my flaws.  The difference between a dress and a gown  depends on the strength of light shimmering from the candelabra.  Who  believes in the Law of Affinity anyway?  Maybe the truth is something  different from what I believe.  Birds moved over the Everland, no  sympathy, dancing in circles, across, around, in/out of the poison tree.

  • One distant memory of the circulatory system.  What is  enlightment?  A non-emergency?  Waiting so long to be where we're going,  as hostages of love, rain whisperers.  Like a prayer in a vision quest,  swans - silvertones- order the return.

Still there is reason to believe I don't know much,   Metaphorical transformations - what color lies?  Trust that your blood  flows to the present only to return to the place you've always known.   Your heart beats wildly, as a comet streaks to some place long before  forever began.

  • A tear- stained map, manifested in the light.  God only knows  this strange immortal one, dancing through the eye of a needle,  balancing on the head of a pin.  Shortsharp bursts of staccato beat a  new rhythm to my soul.  A common ground, nowhere, a closely guarded  secret forever altered with stolen words.  A secret communion rises from  the ashes.  They said, "Write what you know."  That's amazing.  I know  nothing.

A quicksilverthought.  There is no splendour of regret.