Two Lovers engtangled in eternity
Through concord and broken harmony.
Through the shadows of time
They lost one another, bound to search.
Eager souls eroding away
From each wave, each new era.
Lovers pulled apart by life
Longing to sleep in each others arms.
Desire and dreams hold the tides of time
As civilizations fall, lovers stand tall.
Their bodies ache for one another
Longing for the touch of the other.
Words resonate inside their heads
It is through each breath the other feels.
Souls bound to one another
Seeking their shattered harmony.
From love they stem
Their story extending time and space.
Her touch and her voice
His strength and his embrace.
Elegance since the beginning of time.
That longing within all.
From words to desires to dreams
A lasting love
Two souls across time
Torn apart by circumstance,
Forgotten
With each word
The are pulled together
Empty vessels
Seeking one another
From the beginning
And until the end.
Love eternal.
"During the darkest times we are ignorant the light and the beauty that attempts to break through the grey cloud covers. During the brightest of times we are blind to the darkest shadows that lurk in the corners." Authors note 24
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Memoir of a Solidary Wanderer pt2
I dreamt about her again last night. Her flowing brown hair and gloriously sparking eyes. She was like an angel, I could not have been happier. Our daughter was the mirrored image of her, beautiful and stunning. We were happy, beyond happy. It was good.
She was in her bleach white sundress and we were laying on a blanket under a tree. Her smile warmed my heart. I knew it was a dream, even while I was dreaming it. Her soft hand brushed against my scarred face, I was not alone here in my head like I was in my run down shack of reality. I could be with her, see her, touch her. I have lost the sound of her voice, forgotten with so many others. Lost amongst the waves of irradiated ponds, burning cities and collapsing civilizations.
By the end of the dream I had watched the waves of nuclear fire wash over her, as they did the day before. She tripped, it was not fault. I was carrying our daughter, I ran back I swear I did. I was too late. I'm sorry Vanessa, I am. I watched as I lost you, my love, again. Your life slipping through my fingers like grains of sand falling through an hour glass. Body collapsing into the flame, like a tired soul on a mattress.
You see before the war, or wars would be more appropriate, people were building and setting up shelters from the poison and the flames. Our neighbours had one, we could not afford to redo our house with the necessary materials (I would love to be able to tell you about the mechanics and all the technical jargon behind it, but alas I was no scientist just a mere office clerk working to pay the bills).
This diary, notebook, journal or whatever you wish to call it is my last attempt to tell my story. It is the last thing I am able to talk to. You who are reading this, I hope you understand. The darkness that swallows the human soul during times of cataclysmic events is a horrific stain, one that rarely ever leaves.
The sun has fallen: Day 30
Month: Unknown
Year: 2015
(Decided to try and keep track of the days)
She was in her bleach white sundress and we were laying on a blanket under a tree. Her smile warmed my heart. I knew it was a dream, even while I was dreaming it. Her soft hand brushed against my scarred face, I was not alone here in my head like I was in my run down shack of reality. I could be with her, see her, touch her. I have lost the sound of her voice, forgotten with so many others. Lost amongst the waves of irradiated ponds, burning cities and collapsing civilizations.
By the end of the dream I had watched the waves of nuclear fire wash over her, as they did the day before. She tripped, it was not fault. I was carrying our daughter, I ran back I swear I did. I was too late. I'm sorry Vanessa, I am. I watched as I lost you, my love, again. Your life slipping through my fingers like grains of sand falling through an hour glass. Body collapsing into the flame, like a tired soul on a mattress.
You see before the war, or wars would be more appropriate, people were building and setting up shelters from the poison and the flames. Our neighbours had one, we could not afford to redo our house with the necessary materials (I would love to be able to tell you about the mechanics and all the technical jargon behind it, but alas I was no scientist just a mere office clerk working to pay the bills).
This diary, notebook, journal or whatever you wish to call it is my last attempt to tell my story. It is the last thing I am able to talk to. You who are reading this, I hope you understand. The darkness that swallows the human soul during times of cataclysmic events is a horrific stain, one that rarely ever leaves.
The sun has fallen: Day 30
Month: Unknown
Year: 2015
(Decided to try and keep track of the days)
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Wooden Mountain
Alone with the sands of time,
At the top of this wooden mountain
Awaiting for broken clocks to chime
We wash away the blood of kin.
The clouds of power form
Over the basset of the mind
Resting the reckless storm
Insight dies as life becomes blind.
With a candle flicker
And the stars ignite
We bury our vicar
Next to his despite.
He sits next to angels' kin
Temptation's embrace holds
As these morbid desires sin
And the scarred truth unfolds.
"At the top of any kingdom the stress of life will attempt to drown you leaving ignorance to be blissful boat which allows you to stay afloat." - Author's note 19
At the top of this wooden mountain
Awaiting for broken clocks to chime
We wash away the blood of kin.
The clouds of power form
Over the basset of the mind
Resting the reckless storm
Insight dies as life becomes blind.
With a candle flicker
And the stars ignite
We bury our vicar
Next to his despite.
He sits next to angels' kin
Temptation's embrace holds
As these morbid desires sin
And the scarred truth unfolds.
"At the top of any kingdom the stress of life will attempt to drown you leaving ignorance to be blissful boat which allows you to stay afloat." - Author's note 19
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Stone
It is here
In this courtyard
Surround by whispers
Past and present
Swirling emotion
Fact becomes fiction.
Born of stone
Erected statues
Gargoyles of sin
Saints swallowing pride
Eager ignorance
Cracking under pressure.
Unfeeling, unmoving
Wind lapping at the cold
Internal shine muffled
Frozen faces
Broken methods.
Mounds of silver.
Liquid glass
Reflecting mirror
Eternal clock
Ticking down
End of time
Cracking under friction.
The witness
And the pain
Shards of past
Cursing the present
Eager for movement
The chains take hold.
"Grey skies just make us appreciate the sun that much more; it is the same with pain and suffering, they allow us to appreciate the love and the happiness." - Authors note 11
In this courtyard
Surround by whispers
Past and present
Swirling emotion
Fact becomes fiction.
Born of stone
Erected statues
Gargoyles of sin
Saints swallowing pride
Eager ignorance
Cracking under pressure.
Unfeeling, unmoving
Wind lapping at the cold
Internal shine muffled
Frozen faces
Broken methods.
Mounds of silver.
Liquid glass
Reflecting mirror
Eternal clock
Ticking down
End of time
Cracking under friction.
The witness
And the pain
Shards of past
Cursing the present
Eager for movement
The chains take hold.
"Grey skies just make us appreciate the sun that much more; it is the same with pain and suffering, they allow us to appreciate the love and the happiness." - Authors note 11
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
The Memoir of a Solitary Wanderer pt1
In the end we are all the same, at least that is what they told. We are all dead, either dust or ash. Yet, in the world we exist and convince our selves of the differences. The blood stains around me, the cold steel at my waist are all the same colour no matter who the man was.
The wasteland, or so they called it, was nothing but desolate emptiness. A vaccuum of heat, housing the remnants of the world before. It was percisely this determination of distinct differences which lead to the world burning. Arbitrary disputes accompanied by ignorance. As it turns out the hippies were right.
The sun around breaks through the cracks of wood which old the shack that I slept in together. Each morning I awake from dreams of how the world was before. It had not been long that the world was ablaze in nuclear fire. There are still standing messages from the war. It is unclear, without traveling through time, how the conflicts began. All that is known, or is believed would be more accurate, is that it involved every nation and every man, woman and child.
This is simply the recount of one man's story attempting to survive the desolate lonliness. My story. I found a notebook in this shack with a working pen and decided to jot down notes to you (whoever you may be). These days, as I am sure you know, it is hard to know where the next meal, drink are coming from or the last time you see the sun will be. Not that not seeing the sun would be a bad thing.
Contrary to what others may percieve this desolate world to be, there are survivors. Some of which have been driven mad by the chaotic anarchy, and others who have banded together to form small settlements scattered through the North American land (probably throughout the world as well). It was my path to walk alone through this world.
I was with one of these settlements, was not always alone. The choice to leave was not entirely my own either. You see, if you have no already come accross them, they tend to be rather tyranical. Power, percieved power, takes over the mind and reaks havoc there. One thing I have learned as I watched the world burn is that we do not change. The old saying "history repeats itself" is more true now, than it ever has been.
The wasteland, or so they called it, was nothing but desolate emptiness. A vaccuum of heat, housing the remnants of the world before. It was percisely this determination of distinct differences which lead to the world burning. Arbitrary disputes accompanied by ignorance. As it turns out the hippies were right.
The sun around breaks through the cracks of wood which old the shack that I slept in together. Each morning I awake from dreams of how the world was before. It had not been long that the world was ablaze in nuclear fire. There are still standing messages from the war. It is unclear, without traveling through time, how the conflicts began. All that is known, or is believed would be more accurate, is that it involved every nation and every man, woman and child.
This is simply the recount of one man's story attempting to survive the desolate lonliness. My story. I found a notebook in this shack with a working pen and decided to jot down notes to you (whoever you may be). These days, as I am sure you know, it is hard to know where the next meal, drink are coming from or the last time you see the sun will be. Not that not seeing the sun would be a bad thing.
Contrary to what others may percieve this desolate world to be, there are survivors. Some of which have been driven mad by the chaotic anarchy, and others who have banded together to form small settlements scattered through the North American land (probably throughout the world as well). It was my path to walk alone through this world.
I was with one of these settlements, was not always alone. The choice to leave was not entirely my own either. You see, if you have no already come accross them, they tend to be rather tyranical. Power, percieved power, takes over the mind and reaks havoc there. One thing I have learned as I watched the world burn is that we do not change. The old saying "history repeats itself" is more true now, than it ever has been.
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