Thursday, June 12, 2014

Drifting Beauty

Drifting Beauty...

Mounted and wielding a mountain of feeling,
she doubts it, but really, in her mind she allows it;
concealing through her outfit, revealing the reprise,
awaiting the rewind each time but she's shielding
to hide... Just a little longer, it's just a little stronger,
and yet when she approaches the awning she's lost it:
the strength and the warmth of her soul;
painful and forcefully, slowly and awfully frosted.
Slow on this pulpit, coarsely coursing her soft skin,
a burning so intense, so immense she's exhausted.
Fatigued to the point that she wretches: intention
to let it progress but instead the result is...

That evening...

the rain fell like the clouds were astounded,
at the strength in the way she played with her smile.
It drew this lovely little line on her face near her eyelids,
her lips meant to kiss as the surf on an Island of mist
so she let her mind go adrift.

Still jousting the doubt with the weight of a dying love,
she rests upon the wings of a diving dove,
flying so shyly and high above, she sings, or she cries:
Enough! Let me break free of this madness, confusion,
let me take heed! Instead I bask in this sadness,
a savage illusion with tangible means to damage my peace.

What passion; such musing!

What a lasting grapple with the past and the shooting
pain.

But what sort of beast has true grasp on her strings?

Like her favorite poet's pen encrypting meaning in the metaphor,
she takes her treasured sword by its hilt, extending forth,
believing what she does with this weapon is more than death and gore,
rather fate in pleasure's core where it tilts, relenting force.
Listen! She screams with such attrition!
Her voice collapsing image after image... but listen!
She pleads as she's pouncing atop her mounted beast,
hooves like wolves with a thousand teeth galloping.
That evening when the rain fell from the clouds, beneath
to the crowds of weeping spectators:

If these words mean anything you will cease and walk away,
tickets refunded, perhaps your grief might be lost today;
rather it is present as the letter is in each piece of writing,
her blade like the pen still clashing with these beasts,
with these titans; with Zeus and his Lightning,
with Truth and its frightening non-proof, and she's finding,
with each inch that she travels in this arena of combat,
where substance and essence and belief is the lost craft.
No cause, no pause, just claws for the slaying,
she rushes with haste to place her lance in advance,
praying she hasn't lost her step in this dance.

What a passion, a musing!

What a lasting grapple with the past and the shooting
pain.

But what sort of beast has true grasp on her strings?

The crowd cheered in amazement as the two riders collided,
she with her shining raiments of steel, no lining so fine,
each steed with a fierce beast's determination to triumph.
And the rain was the same, enough pain to hide love,
to hide Suns from Life,

no working matron tonight.

Just a blade,

in her heart,

like the last pen-stroke, on its mark,

and set go!

And it starts.

Mounted and wielding a mountain of feeling,
she doubts it, but really, in her mind she allows it;
concealing through her outfit, revealing the reprise,
awaiting the rewind each time but she's shielding
to hide... Just a little longer, it's just a little stronger...

Do you see? Did you try?

"The torch of doubt and chaos is what the sage steers by." (Chuang Tzu)

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