V

Listen. There is a message. A subtle rage. It burns, tongues of flames flickering in your ear. Whispering, scorching. Caging, enslaving, empowering. Choice lies in cinders, pride in ash. Comprehension is unnecessary. Thought is superfluous. The fire has you, binds you. Breath it in. Close your eyes.

Passion set free. Heart ripped out. The heat thrusts forward.

Listen. Let the words caress your skin. Let them enter. Downward. Burning, searing, cooling. Dress in fire. Sleep in Fire. Hear only fire. Imperfection. Worship it. For tomorrow you die.

Listen. 

The Homeless Man

There is a homeless man playing happy birthday on the piano in my student union. His left hand lifted up, kept carefully out of the way as he gently taps the keys with his right. His hair is gray and unkept and his jacket is thick. I can see him there at the end of the hallway. Timid in his endeavors, be gradually gains confidence. Both hand on now on the keyboard and a foot inches toward the pedal. His head rises and his eyes dart at the emptying room around him. Grabbing his bag, he leaves, retreating into the cold night. A life. Making itself known to those around it for the briefest second. A few notes, a moment of emptiness. Then gone.

And the piano stands silent and clean. No sign of the wayward spirit that had just graces it. A whisper in the night. 

A Chill

Put your life behind you. I know you have been standing on the banks of the river. Its crystal water rushing around the bend just to your left. It is cold. Don't worry, I know. I've seen the way you look at it. Fear and wonder. But then it isn't the river. It never is. It is always what is beyond. I see it too, nestled among the green hills rising from the far side. I can see every blade of grass, sharp against the misty blue sky behind. I can see every stone, each sitting just where I left the, in the perfect place as if the world were made around them. Is that one of them? No, just a trick of the wind amongst the trees. Shall we go? Don't worry, I'm here with you. Yes, and you're here with me.

Step. Step. Step. I think I would rather stop. Tired? No, it isn't that. I'm simply content here. The earth is solid and my seat is soft. And the warmth of the sun. Yes.

I don't think stories ever end. I think they just go on. To start a story is a dangerous thing. You are putting something out into the world that will remain there for eternity. It will whisper in the ears of those who listen. It will shape and create.

Rhyme.

Off the road
is the cry
To the earth
To the sky

Never back
Eyes are straight
To the river
Trust to fate

It is there
Do not forget
why you go
Mind is set

It's too late

Ice

In the early morning, before the sun had a chance to get its say, is when ice gripped my mind. Piercing, stabbing, relentless shards of ice like the shrapnel from some freak snow bomb. My mind grew cold, my spirit grew numb. The icy wind blew from all sides. If the sun was there, it was obscured by the roof of my igloo. The more I thought, the colder I grew. Hope was fading, I was going to freeze to death.

But it takes surprising little to melt ice. A single beam of sunlight at the right time and in the right place and the ice slides off. There is warmth in the world, even if it isn't always as strong as it should be.

And I thank God for that. 

Spirit and Fire and Dew

I decided to post this weblog's namesake. I don't love this poem as far as poems go and Robert Browning certainly has better work, but the one line sticks out and is beautiful take out of context. This is just a verse from the poem as I don't think it is necessary to post the entire thing.

Evelyn Hope 

by Robert Browning

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?
What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire and dew—	20
And, just because I was thrice as old
And our paths in the world diverged so wide,
Each was naught to each, must I be told?
We were fellow mortals, naught beside?

I hate not being able to find the words for what I want to say. Language to so restricting. 

The Purpose of Horizons

There is purpose to a horizon. A limit to sight, forcing us to keep our eyes on the path immediately ahead. There is so much here, so much right now. The future is just beyond that next ridge. There may be dangers or they may be wonders, but there are also wonders and dangers around you. Why do you strive for the future? Do you know what you will find? Another horizon. And another after that, and another and your whole journey will be seeking out the next horizon, while the present is passing you by. Stop. Look down at your feet. Why don't you worry about the earth a mile below your feet? Well, it is only life beyond the horizon, but there is also life now. 

Look up at the stars. It is the only direction where there is no horizon. Your sight is only limited by the brilliance of the light you are looking at. It is neither before you nor behind you. We are allowed to see eternity and we are allowed to see the present. That, then, is sufficient.