Minds of Madness

Buried deep within the mind of madness
Lies the lonely X on the map.

A darkness born of light of lust,
Tempests of loneliness pushing them away.

Strong words longing to be used,
A desire hidden in the darkest cornor.

In the darkness of the heart
There can only be truth.

In the fleeting moment before
The witnesses cry horror.

Eyes staring into the empty emotion,
Desperation aparent.

It is in death that virtue shines
And life that virtue dies.

Here in our existant plain
We swallow our sins and praise.

In the dark corners of our mind,
There awaits an X, a guide.

Alone, he wanders
Looking for the venturer.

"In those fleeting moments when an opportunity presents itself, we are able to see our full potential." - Authors note 02

The Clouded Mind

In the ashes of the clouded mind,

The smoke rings truth
And the in ruins of society
We find symbols of ourselves
Reflections of what is
Of what could be
And of what should be.

I have witnessed
The second coming of love
Lived through the emptiness
Felt the curses of the sky,
That ever watching looking glass
Forced to relive life after life
Like a flame bouncing along a log.


Clouded thoughts
Distorted desires
Resonating reflections
Witnessing the endless recesses
The depths of images
Residing in each thought
As the wind breaks the waves.

It is here in the darkness,
The stone faces of the past
Echo amongst each other
Noise rebounding off of noise
A tidalwave of ignorance
Against the ruins of perception.

"We all see each other in the same light as we see ourselves." - Authors note 30

The heart and those which run through it

The heart, a large wooden door leading to that unknown and undescribable emotion which we all seek. That tiny four letter word which man has killed man in order to keep to himself; like an artifact of some ancient place. The ironic thing is that the word, in itself, teaches the opposite of death, of destruction and the opposite of everythign accompanies those things. Yet we still do it.

The glorious thing is that the heart, itself, acts as its own barrier and its own protector. Keeping those at bay who can not choose the right key from the dust covered walls of hanging, once silver keys. Keeping most away and intimidating others. There is, like everything, exceptions that work their way through the breaks and the cracks, have a lucky guess or persuade their way through.

Upon the entering the heart, a long dark hallway lite by a single light at the end faces whoever be the lucky one to open the door. Key in hand they wander the halls, finding in the emptiness the deepest desires behind unlocked, unkempt doorways. Blacker than shades in daylight they wander from room to room with no explanation. They seek the desires, temptations, disgusts, losses, memories and many other emotionally tied objects. Something in which they can keep as their own to show what they know. An egotistical search by trial and error, tripping over the fallacies of their original thoughts.

Slowly the candles ignite along the walls of this hall. A singular door is shut with no way of opening it, no key, no lock just a road block. They stand before it with their object like an offering. Believing that the hallway of the heart is the end of the journey to love. Little do these people realize there is more beyond the door. The door does no seek offerings, the arrogance of the belief that this is all.

These hallways stretch for a timeless amount. It brings the sands of time to a halt, watching the flakes of dust be pushed aside by each others strength. The eager mind seeks a stimulant, not an offering of words or object. The heart is the beginning phase, the emptiness which accompanies the heart is eliminated by the acknowledgement of the mind and the body, of the soul and the heart. A person must walk the hallways and search the right door through instinct, not by fumbling through each other clouding the judgement of the heart.

The cycle never breaks, never begins and rarely finishes. Thus, we settle. In a time of increasing emptiness, we settle more and more. In searches of intimacy and companionship, through which ever lonely facade we can convince ourself of. Life turns into a masquerade of lies. We shield ourselves from the revelation of the fact that we are alone in the world, by falling for our own lies. They last until the sands end and we wash away to the shore of truth. That final realization of falsehood we distracted ourself from for an era. Then that breath escapes the lungs and the heart remains an empty vessel for the mind.

"Life, dreams and desires are just replications of one another. The fact that we split them apart into separate categories is the greatest fallacy man has ever made. If we were to live life as though it were a dream, find that desire and seek it out we would be eternally happy. Most live life as if it is a punishment, seeing their dreams crushed and their desires striped; however, if this were true and not just a perception, life would and could not exist. As life would be a pointless facade without a direction to move in. We mustn't split dreams and desires from living life each day, else we will see life in the darkest corners of our mind. Watching and holding the noose which echoes through the visions of life's worst perceptions." - Authors note 62

Ode to the Lonely soul

I awoke in the same place I left. Breath gasping, nails cutting into the red velvet armchair. Fire ablaze, sparks casting moving shadows along the walls. Crystal shimmering alongside the sparks, echoing the melting ice. A branch before the window dancing with the darkness within.

In the darkness, everything appeared normal. Something was off, however. Each breath tasted normal. The fire cast its warmth externally. The sounds of silent echoed, as it did daily. Yet something felt wrong.

My pen still gave its ink to the page. Notebook, empty and open. Revealing itself to the crystal ashes. Stains of ink bled through like memories of the past. She lay there, accepting without protest. Each stroke, each line being placed with conflict.

In the emptiness of the mind, everything was off. The fire was not quite warm enough. The branch begged and begged to get in, from the opposite side. The page looked at back up at me as I carved in her. Guilt ridden shadows knocked against the glass, tormenting the branch. Everything was the same, but slightly different.

The velvet chair moved under the skin. Crystal echoed the silent noise of the world which surrounded me. On the brink of darkness, each breath was strained. The air was still, stiff, stale and empty. Its hollowness mirrored the lonely soul watching his world turn.

I imagined footprints in the snow. A man alone, wandering through a whiteout. A castle, a modern cityscape, silhouette beckoning to him. His feet moved him closer, but the closer he got the further away salvation became. A chain attached to his waist dangling desire in front of him. He walked himself in circles, desperate. Alone. Contemplating how the path led him here.

My gasping breath, and guilty hand scratched word after word into the page. Listening for her silent cries. The pain of the outside distracting from the pain within. The bound pages running low, its end nearing. A revelation of mortality, regrets floating to the surface.

Here in the darkness of white and snow. The mind wanders to the truth of lies. Forward thinking about the past. This undesirable ending, the box of society. Struggling. Forcing the restraint to tighten. Struggle more. It flows the like the wings of birds.

As my muscles tense and attempt to leave the armchair. Her voice echoes through the room. The ice cracks withing the crystal. Soft. Sensual. Soothing. Elegant in the way her words go from one to the other. Jealousy ignites the page as ink spills over each word. In my lonely world of lifeless objects and bitter truths, a light begins to shine.

As with the footprints, I allow my mind to wander in search of her, the sound. It draws me in circles. Bringing me closer, then pulling her away. Her skin was soft as silk. Her lips like the wind lapping at ones face. Her touch sends shivers through ever nerve in the body. Pure. Beauty.

Memories surge and the fire begins the rage against itself. Burning out. Devouring the wood, the fuel, like a starving dog. Temptation.

There is a cliff in the mind and along the edge of it is a room. In this room, there is a single red armchair, walls accented by selves of books, a fire place with an ever burning flame. There are two tables one on either side of the chair; the first holds a single pen and paper, lovers to the end. Pain and suffering accompany their love, as the pen scratches away at the heart of the page she accepts it, welcomes it, allows it. On the other is a never ending crystal glass, it is always half full with whatever you imagine. Outside this room is a singular tree, it longs and dreams of entering. For each attempt, each tap it its pulled further back. Forced to watch from the outside, never belonging forever dreaming.

"Before we can find the one we are destined to belong to, we must find ourself. To do this we must allow each grain of sand to tell you its truth; listen to for the whispers of lies, the glimmers of truth and allow the beauty of the world to fill your eyes, heart, soul and mind. Once we have discovered who we are, that person will be waiting." - Authors note 16

Those Words

They were like every other word

Endless and eternal.

Language spoken in Gryphon's tongues

Hymns through serpent's teeth.

In the breaking silence,

Echoes of stolen voices.

Projections of ourselves upon each other

Deflecting truth from the eyes.

In the streaks of the sunshine in daylight

The rain falls between.

With the other words stabbing from the tongues

We walk wounded.

Basking the glorious glimmer of the sun,

Whispers of the deflated faces.

As the daylight falls below the earth,

Lasting the darkness of the world.

Painting the world with a grey discolouration,

From the tongue shaped brushes.

It were those words which bore me,

It were those words which destroyed me.

"They say the pen is mightier than the sword for the words which they projected onto the world. They stain the stains of world which we ignore everyday. The pen opens the opinions which we choose not to see, it has a mind of its own and can see; whereas the sword is at the will of others." - Authors Note 04