THE FURNISHED ROAD

From deep sleep at the tip of the Universe’s hip where gods keep their feet fluorescent and leap in the marvel Dreams of their creation, sounds creep and reap sleep out my ear, I listen, they speak: “wake up, there is no night in time, light just moves in space, walk with us, as always we shall follow the light and watch over their sleeping thoughts, alter certain paradigms and do touch-ups there and there to influence their decisions in advance, enlighten them” they are the manufacturers of dreams. Amidst the crucifying shock shattering every wall of my ego, one of them whispered what seemed to have been like a wind propelling friction with still flames within the sun to help blow heat to this earth, the voice said: to nomads; time does not matter, only space does. Now let us displace, evacuate this place, we’ve got dreams to chase…Walk with us…

When others sent their spirits to walk forth and open path for their bodies to follow, others had their heads beneath their knees in the quest of fortune, they left no stone unturned, attention to detail I thought, I later however learned that; they left no stone unturned for they failed to move rocks. We all walked through the gallery of dreams, a road that seemed to have been constructed just when our feet touched the ground and destroyed once the same feet move from the ground to the next step. The road was like a world of its own, a vertical world, where all are queued for same experiences and thus no one can be different from the next, only time makes them feel better because they went first or even bitter because the weren’t first, followed steps of the ones before therefore made them the worst of all that could have happened and somehow faded, maybe because it was not meant to last. We walked through the passages of collective imaginations of the sleeping minds; some images had colours unfamiliar to human eyes, lines of dots no map reader can plot, special effects no filters can distort, pass comprehension to concepts beyond mortal thought, I thought, these are the worlds transcended to by spirits of philosophers and mystics we have left far in history, why did we think we had left them when they form part of what we think and believe?

The road was furnished with too many stories of what is to happen and strange to the eye was the sudden emergence of ideas on pages written in a language I could not understand, but I could tell they were a rough draft of what the architects of the Universe were guided by, before the times explosives were planted in gigantic non-practical books and the big bang theory materialized.  I saw, not just the tress but generations of humans still serving their ten thousand years of solitude as stems that form a sacred forest where Dreams are sawn, and reality scenes are born. I saw not just holy ghosts of the past but mysterious beings who eat their heads off, so they could taste their thoughts, knowing not that; mind resides not in the head but all around, they went ahead and buried their hopes of basking in the elysian ambience of paradise with ghostly desires so they played dead, Dreams played binoculars casting midget spells on the distance so they could cut short their journey and catch their destination off-guard.

And then it hit me, there is no death in Dreams, Dreams rather scarifies themselves to limbo for us to wake up and live, up the road when I gazed were the 12 apostles rejoicing as children who had just discovered the reverse reaction of oceans to clouds, the apostles were rapidly tuning rocks into bread, water into wine, they drank and unwind, back at it again, with cruelty they turned all the world’s bread into rocks, the famished apocalypse, starvation took the place of reality, with the abuse of faith and prayer magic came to be, and suddenly it occurred to me; Faith is the bridge between me and the divine, there is no way I can access Nirvana if there is no link between my soul and hers. The furnished road ceased not with its miracles, the elders lead me into a garden of souls where our sorrows are used to nurture the soil and our tears irrigate their roots, we suffer to better the lives of those to be born from are waists, the message I deciphered from what I saw.

"The Spirits have created a world of illusions for you. What you see is merely a physical manifestation of your thoughts, past thoughts; those few that went unobsereved are mothers to déjà vu, and those of you who Dream with open minds: manufacture your realities in advance. Yes; do not sleep and Dream, Dream your way to a beautiful sleep."

entranced in a vortex dance of enchantment they all recited, I knew then that; it is not always about the destination but more about the experience through the journey. Moreover; not every experience has a lesson, sometimes it is just about the experience itself.

THERE IS LIFE ELSEWHERE

There is life elsewhere
Spaces in the Universe we can never perceive
Right there, the air is clear, or not even there
Talents unexplored and gifts we can never receive
Dry seas, liquid mountains, square clouds, reined by gods we can't deceive
All year, weather's constant, whether or not, life there is fair
Fear is a nightmare dreamt by inhabitants of a world they've never seen
Blur is the line between him and her
Eyes stair the night sky with flair, stars are massive
Prison bars are passive, no one's there
Cursive scribbles speak of active trees that bear
Divinity and care that Angels wear
Branches composed of songs that only pure souls can hear
Dreams that hidden gods share, sheer beams that lights retrieve
Believe; yes believe, that's the imperative step before the practice of faith,
They know that, God is a fact, no soul doubts that, or questions that
Yes believe! There is life elsewhere!
Spaces in the Universe we can't perceive

New colours exist, unknown shapes are there
Amorphous canvases painted with glare
Collages of time; future and history are concurrent
New philosophies and novel artists
Congruent dichotomies, single dualities and same differences
Never identified sound of voices, never classified sort of choices
Past body language to spirit jargons, imagination is before photography
Last holy carnage to new unborn saints healing wounded angels in advance
Meditation morphs mere mortals to paragons
Paradigms unnoticeably agitate word temperature
Conversations are heated, witness the speech bubbles
Troubles are tales of a life imagined by the weak
No dream, no reality, all is as it is, any other idea is oblique
There is just space and nothing else, shut your mind and connect to the unseen
Your belief system is a link
Yes believe, there is life elsewhere
Spaces in the Universe we can never perceive

Horizons hold twenty four doors to realms of miracles
Gaze at skies and see cross temples of the new chronicles
Thousands fold laws to govern hopes of lost popes
No one being is above the other, No mother or father
Only daughters and sons shining promises of a bright tomorrow to forgotten yesterdays
What we see as miracles have deployed frequent occurrences
As the syllables of amen on the tongue of a praying mantis
What bonds the son and the daughter in essence is incense smoke
Sons smoke and daughters make love to the dancing smoke
The dancing incense smoke caring hypnotic movements in its stride
Arms stretched behind the flat surface of the wind to protect its dreams from fading with time
Miraculous beings with cold feet caughing infinite riches from their treasure chests
Pleasure best suits fire blazers; appareled in flames sisters of phoenix they're perpetually hot
Wisdom promised to the brothers by the empty pages of doctrines and blind masters
They will alter shapes, align colours, balance numerals, their minds play rubrics’ queue with the walls of the Universe to show us spaces we could never perceive, provided we believe
Yes believe, there is life elsewhere
Spaces in the Universe we can never perceive

LUCID DREAMS

In the nihility of I, self swiftly swings in the  corridors of their lucid dreams

In the obscuriry of an eye, self quickly shrinks in their  perception of my fading themes

In the narrow aisle of their imagination I am formed only as part of their dreams

I enter dreams, it is then that I become

I dont have a body of my own, 

so in enigma's tears how will I be calm?

I watch as my impermanent footprints fade as I move into my next clone

This palm lines only a reality I can never experience with fantasies I carry in my bone

My bone molded  by an empty sound of a bright tone 

heard only when sleep aprroaches an end and dreams escape a dreamer's head

To unseen scapes I fade when they wake up. 

With a great deal of suffering being the only thing I can spread

as compassionate butter on my fast braking bread, 

they wake up before I could even digetst what I swallowed

Hollowed is my chest as my heart transforms to a spirit they percive as a mare to their dreams.

Intering dreams-

Gastrique's dreams:  

I stand firm and listen as darkness paints these words

"Regain your losses, what you lost of course"

I am architectured to a digital fortress with no flaws

A magician with one mighty hand giving to the hidden gods a round of applause

Up floors of uncontable stairs before his eyes I evolve

and then pause and hear a name clipping on my identity without force

I become The Symbologist and read deaf man's signs and calculate the scores

I add reading esoteric scribbles to my daily chores

From the eyes of my environment I disappear, 

welcomed to the underworld by 1696 spirits of a hidden firmament 

I become a secret away from my society's claws

My brain is now an archive of the 7 universal laws

Visible voices reffer to me as Proffesor Robert Langdon but I act blind to their sounds

and then later realise it was only one voice from the dream crafted passages of his honour that sees great in the wretch I am

Now I'm speaking tongues of my mind to the audience, not knowing that his night is dying into a new day 

and I'm about to dissolve soon and meet emptiness as my gloom. 

He sees light and enunciates "God made mistakes that man was destined to plot, he failed". I fade.

I enter dreams-

My little sister's dreams:

I appear in the third day of her dreaming, the thirdteenth dream she's having

Her infant body posture oders my sinful arms to pick her up, I'm a brother now

she starres at my flat head and creates a strange hair style with wisdom strands hanging towards my neck 

I fall back to her eleventh dream; she is one year old, her eyes are shining with radiant beams of gratitude

as I stretch my arm to offer her my soul candy and ask her to forget about my hair 

I teach her how to say hello, I hear her braking it down to two portions so to accomodate her infant tongue

She first says hell and then says awe, she is mostly stuck on the hell part

being impetiant as she is, she wrapps silence over my mouth with an ineffeble awe 

later gets tired of that and decides to jump into a dream with my little brother and not me

I once again fade...

In the nihility of I, self swiftly swings in the corridors of their lucid dreams

In the obscuriry of an eye, self quickly shrinks in their perception of my themes

In the narrow aisle of their imagination I am formed only as part of their dreams

I enter dreams-

Wordbender's dreams:

The room is clear of any distructions, I toss a question so I could Join him

"What are you doing" the air gets dim, "I am listening to my fan" his response brushes the air to gleam 

"Count me in" I conjure my long abandoned smiles and join in because I can

I'm a man in the position of a writer fighting with my father using biblical scriptures as fatal weapons

Raptures of unseen fractal caldrons boil my thoughts, I'm writing my retaliation

It's Trojan war. Bender hears me say "Gospel is Goth" and he likes it.

Now we share the same spirit, exchange digits, the bond gets instatly solid and we can't believe it

We both escape the fixed numbers of our families and become brothers

We are siblings, synonymously traveling the psychopath and semulteniously see all these miriculous things

I step in a room and detect residues of negative energies,

It is a second layer of his dream

My father wants me to quit art and become a scientist

He says I'm unconsciously losing my intellectual abilities

Now the dream turns to a mare, Bender kicks sleep out of his mind 

but he doesn't realize that he's still in a dream and all that was just a poetic freestyle  

The story of candy is born so I can't stay in his dream due to the lack of space

I am replaced by a poem in his head, he awakes to jot it down and I fade

I enter dreams-

Paulo Coelho's dreams:

He doens't know my name and doesn't even make an effort to give me one

I follow Santiago through his pilgrimage and burn my unreal hands trying to transform lead

I see my self as the other within the other, a distruction to self

I'm an annoying sound in the second mind, so I learn channeling and how to see my angel

but he cannot dream me to that far because there are certain charpters I misread

However I'm glad he has now found a name for me, He calls me Reader and I'm satisfied with that

He has a lot to dream about so it doesn't matter how many books I've read with his name on, he's got to dream on

He promises to return the day I turn lead into into gold, but I tell I'm just a reader and that's perfect with me

His dream is now shut, I rotate in limbo. I'm no where.

In the nihility of I, self swiftly swings in the corridors of their lucid dreams

In the obscuriry of an eye, self quickly shrinks in their perception of my themes

In the narrow aisle of their imagination I am formed only as part of their dreams

entering dreams-

Mutle's dreams:

I gain motion as he advances to a statue ornamenting my pilgrimage. the statue speaks;

"Please help me find a potion to make me smart enough to fit through the cracks in the walls"

I'm walking towards my self in the approaching ages,

My under-developed mind cannot hadle these images,

Massages from his creations can only be deciphered by retarded sages

Stages of insanity are growing less as I listen to inaudible hyms from above streams of a watery heaven

Having cautiously collected all I could from the definitions in the magazine of the blind

I build my self a novel haven

Clocks hit seven, it's time for him to get deep, now his about to sleep, I realize that I had not been in his dream

I hold the hadle of the door opening to his dream abode, the handle is hot, I cannot handle it

Open the door Phoenix! 

I finally lose my right hand to flames, The room grows and I shrink, his dreams get bigger and I'm getting smaller

I decide to voluntarily jump out of his dream and find something my one left hand can hold.

I have no body of my own 

So I now search for someone that can embody my soul

The All: Saint Of The Silent Gods

I sneak into the garden of her dreams since the scarecrow is not looking

Plant a seed that will intertwine my near destiny with hers

I'm empty of all my knowladge because I appear always in the fullness of her moon

Its an astrological conspiracy, I'm locked in the 28th planet of her universe

I ask her out.She tells me my mind is too limited for her reality

So there's no greater reality for me than this dream, we can't go out

Lets spend our time inside. "why take me out when you can keep me intact in the roots of your soul?

To that idea I'm now sold, days unfold I die out of myself and reborn inside her

We are an Epic of the gods, stories untold. We can only be seen with an open heart.

I stand bold and feel immortal, no ocean is too deep to drown my soul, I can swallow it whole.

I am The All.

Being the all means I'm everything, the roof and its flaws,

I mess her dream up and rudely she dreams me out of her head and I'm gone

down to her heart and soul.

I appear in the next dream just to tell her that

If what we have isn't love, then love does not exist.

Emptiness takes its place

And like scars on palms I fade within the lines

The audible scents of the new day are crawling with the soft knees of light rays towards my face

I also wake up from their dreams and realize that I've been living my life based on what my environment percives of me

It is time to wake up and wrap awareness around my head with self-knowladge as my pillow 

So I could voluntarilly sleep and dream my life anew...

PERSPECTIVE_SHIFT-VISUAL

SOMETHING HAPPENS WHEN WE SPEAK

WRITING FOR THE GOD SAKE OF WRITING

It is the epoch of bleeding mirrors

Reflections of their children appear with leeching auras

Hours rush out of days as though time is dying

And space is fading in the approaching audible necro odors

Infinity is drawn near, cloaked in robes of darkness carelessly piercing the sun with a gloomy sword of hatred to foray the speed of light, rushing with winds of agony to blow off flames marking illumination in their sages, oracles go blind, fortune tellers are mute so they’ve nothing to tell us, with injured legs they limp out of luck, the chief is taking orders

From illusive voices, deciphering unseen omens, he doesn’t know who to trust

Death is back to retrieve what was loaned to them by birth

They descended from the bedeviled messiahs, their forefathers

Now it is time to recolour their blood, they should swallow the rainbow and repaint their insights, they should repent!    

It is the epoch of bleeding mirrors

The stonyhearted suffering to passionate live performers…

Beneath the tall ring marked tree the hierarchy of elders formed a circle and tried angles with different shapes, in the quest of rounding off a perfect diagram for their forth coming redeemer. They sat and outlined the distinctive features that would determine their messiah. All haphazardly shouting out their arguments and reasons thereof: 

  “He with firearms, dynamite fingers and hand grenades for gestures that will blow the audience away”

“I say he with a metallic voice to still attention we he speaks”

“And I say he with motion in his soul to move his audience” 

“Let him possess a cashier’s passion to speak and leave the audience with change”…they went on and on with their demands hoping that no one begets a child of that kind, but to their astonishment, a soul was retrenched beyond the palisades of forever and their reminisces embodied this soul, a messiah was born. He with the spine of copper and eyes of switches, his bulb mind would get ideas every time he sees light. The bulb would light and he would get ideas of a new set to charge momentum into his audience and move their hearts whenever he performs. But he had a mission to complete; his birth was an insult to the elders, thus leaving him with no choice but to pay for the disgrace, it is the most rational thing to do, to justify his birth. 

Trespassed the high gates enclosing the fortress of unseen bricks, pillars of nothingness holding up the void that was meant to roof this shelter, like an orphaned serpent he sneaked in through the cracks of the absent  door, entered the house painted with colours of invisibility. There lived a man, a tellurian with a soul that has never touched the ground, a man that had defined his existence as a solid nihility, a man who loathed the world and constructed a neon asylum in his head; in times of suffering he would hide in the maize passages of his mind…his mind...his mind…

His lucent psyche, the prism to light; he would slice one beam into seven coloured light rays to elucidate those around him and paint radiance into their minds, but to his sad reality they did not exist. So he would sit, suspended on that rocking chair moving to the future and the past concurrently, morphing nights to days and days to nights as the chair rocks back and forth, with his thin eyes rooted in the dead stem of an old wise tree, now killed to serve a page’s purpose. He sits there silently hugged by the compassionate arms of solitude, scribbling shape to his earth, scribbling matter into his space, he would sit there as God before the seventh day, and he would create. The ungoverned hand swiftly moving with fingers clutching the pen as a shovel over cemetery soil; he would create a portal away from this life to his death and find refuge in the images drawn by his afterlife thoughts. Father to his hermit nation he would merge ages and weave images of euphoric tomorrows with the beards of the sage he is in his imagination. It is only through writing he could smell life from songs of birds decorating the horizon with melodies of hope, hope for the sultry summer rains to purify earth with joy tears from angels that have witnessed her aphrodisiac bosoms during her wet seasons, though time was still frozen in the breezy winter breathes, he would see the rain moving from earth to heaven carrying prayers of the aqua worshipers, they say waters heals, dipping their heads in rivers hoping to wash off impure thoughts from their minds, all these were the vacant tales carried by his writings, the imaginative fiction that crafted a novel universe for him, where life’s sufferings are only God’s times of having fun with his servants and nothing really worth moaning, a universe were death is accepted as part of life and not used to install fear into people indulging in their hearts desires. He would write himself out of reality and realize that his dreams are also a reality only condemned by those who have mares for dreams.  

From a distant land the warrior came, having kissed his flawless elbows and promised sacrilegious phrases to his God, the lives of the village children rested on his palms, the future kings and queens with cloud characteristics to reign supreme in his land in the approaching equinoxes, the perpetuation of his people was the reason he was born, his mission to complete. Yes many follow Moses day in day out in the quest for ceramic tablets with a list of purposes to give meaning to their lives, but he’s out shined crystal by far, it was as clear as the photographs of oxygen on an A0 canvas. He had been born to the land of movers, the land that prays in tongues of body language, where silence is appreciated long as motion is shouting leisure to open eyes. 

A nation devoted to actions and oblivious to the meaning behind the acts, Mission statement: “We have been empty tins, shouting our foolishness to the gods in times of sense and silence; we resorted to this empty dance and lost all sense. Now you, you have been chosen to go loot sense out of scribbles of the madman. Your mission is to bring back sense to our nation” commanded the village totems, pointing the messiah 

He stands there in the emptiness of the writer’s residence; the house decorated with empty spaces that were believed to be shelves of his archive, he stands firmly with his fluorescent warrior ego glowing with fury and passion in the aisle of this mad house. From the depths of his glowing spirit he shouted “I am a warrior of motion, the messiah of agonized voices, I speak silence with oscillating postures of my vessel, the house of my never resting soul. Reveal yourself!”  With a trembling rage he said. In return all that was said to him was not heard, there was only silence…and nothing else but the fury inspired pulse of his heart chanting songs of struggle, crying to escape through his throat. The annoying fingers of impatience scratching his back, boiling chest, words are now evaporating out of his mouth, you could tell be the appearance of the speech bubbles “What are you!” now his sharp eyes are collecting water from his tormented mind “I said reveal your identity, what on this breathing earth are you!”

After numeral fractions of seconds nearing a minute a voice came carried by the lucent hands of sound, from the unknown fields where the gods play hide and seek, a voice was heard, “I am not, I am as residues of your past thoughts, your perception of me embodies my soul, only then do I become ”…

”How sick are you? Do you even refer to that as an answer?!” savagely uttered the warrior of motion. “Reveal yourself and meet your long determined doom!” 

Learning that the warrior had been driven by flames of hatred and the energy of conflict, the writer humbly spoke “Only bliss resides in a spot previously inhabited by ego in my mind, so your fury is just a weapon of suicide to yourself, inhale serenity now and witness the wonders of being still” a smile could be heard spreading itself on his face. “What is it  that you seek from a solid nothingness that I am?”

Astonishingly this time no silence was heard, fury partially faded and this came from the messiah’s mouth “If you are not and yet you’re part of us tellurians, what is then your sole purpose?”

“I write. What is your mission?” asked the great nihility

“I move those who are fortunate enough to see me, through channeling I walk with their minds to realms of visible gods, the gods that have chosen motion as their token of worships. Who are you trying to help with your writings?” with words compressed in a vehicle of sarcasm, he asked.  

“I don’t write to save and change lives, I write to stay alive. I don’t wish to entertain anyone, I don’t dream of having disciples nor do I want to be celebrated. My writing is a bridge between me and the gods, I write, they exist. I write, they become, I write and become one with them”

“Well I have come to burn the bridge, I want to perform, I want to connect and be one with my audience, I want them to feel me, I want them to remember me after every performance!” fury came back only this time tamed by sympathetic flow of tears, sadness became the invisible vacuum that sucked ego out through his pores of discomfort, without the interruption of the writer, he proceeded “I have been commanded to come here and loot off you your writings, so please, you have to help me, my existence is an insult to the elders. Grant me your scrolls”…

“It is only my text you will take; you cannot take my writing even if I wanted to permit that. I’m afraid your elders have long neglected the art of writing and went astray with the joys of crazing the audience and the beauty of fingers yelling snaps to their pseudo lines punched out of context by blur imagery constructed from clichés and modern consumer language. You see writing allows me to fly, performing sends me back to the lifetime prison that is this body, this body is a predicament, I want to fly”  

With no conclusion or whatsoever that usually marks an end to most conversations, emptiness took its place once again…then there was nothing but writing for the God sake of writing.

THEY ARE STILL_HUNTERS

Hunters of the unseen; they have hearts walking iniquity forests while bodies sleep partially silent nights. Nights governed by howling sounds uttering the language of beasts claiming territorial dominion of the dark sky. They are hunters; beings sending forth their souls searching with flaming torches, refuge in the midst of the hideous terrestrial mind. The mind; the wind playing devil’ stirring hand to the tranquil waters covering sorrows of the terrestrial’s heart in the lake of earthly desires, the very mind that has kept terrestrials in the darkest hour of a fatal winter night, though the sun chants light over shinny foreheads of the unseen sky gods, mind created monsters hiding in the empty passages of nothingness cluttering the atmosphere, the great source of the terrestrial’s fear; the unseen. From between the wretched thighs of the non existing dark witch of the unobserved, fear of the unknown was given birth. Words passed mouths from all the corners of earth preaching oblivion to believers of eternal death, slaves to ideas of hell being death’s only aftermath. Throwing their hearts where no thought can reach; they are hunters of the unseen.

Hunters with bodies chained on death raw chairs while souls chase mind to the planet of lucid dreams. Toes tipping silver lining hopes of being set free from the torment of their grumbling hearts of earthly desires; they are hunters. Arrows bow to sharp points made by loud body language yelling truth to lost eyes, eyes deafened by hand gestures speaking antagonizing tongues to silent mouths, ears feeding on last notes of a rhythmic heart pounds. The universe is trembling with despair. Only they can hunt and kill the hopelessness enveloping the terrestrial’s divinity in the cruel claws of the horrid terrestrial made monstrous bird flying hatred and suffering winds through the calm sky, terrestrials breath now the diluted air by the painful wing movements of this flying machine. Light beams emerge in the darkest face of time. Unknown to them is a life with no grin, tears they can only imagine.  With spirits playing hide and seek with souls and letting mind observe the godly game, they are hunters. 

Follow their souls left grounded when gravity forced their shoes to marry earth, they are not of this world, they are hunters of the unseen with guns cocked by violet liquid flavored lilies to shoot roses and ordain the sun with oily flowers. To catch their prey they speak beauty in different glowing words when they pray giving thanks and honor each day, gratitude be the greatest song enunciated by their still minds. They have mastered the art of being thieves of motion; they still movements, craft statues from mobile bodies carrying static hearts beating only when fright vacuums adrenalin out glands of comfort. Hunters preying on already deceased organisms; only in death is the truth absolute. This side of forever bears only a portion of what might be true, there is but a half truth! Both sides of a story communicate only the duality of everything, darkness is as fundamental as light is. Death is Life. Even God needs Satan. The servants of God need to know about the dark deeds of the Prince of Darkness so to stay intact with their God. The Universal Law of Polarity. With eyes pointing arrows and oblivious to the point of the arrow; they are hunters of the unseen.

Their prey is captured by prayer. God dwells in the word. The word is God. They speak serenity to oscillating winds and still mobility out of space. With shut minds they gaze at skies and see no clouds, clouds hide the sultry sky with deceptions of rainy and partly disastrous weather conditions, clouds change and sky remains the same, they gaze at skies and let lenses caress the moon while pupils kiss the stars, with sight oblivious to the unsatisfied clouds sobbing darkness to wet the land with rain drops of shadowed cries. They have killed mind and became. 

Nothing is novel under the sun! They reside on milky points of the unending way and suck energy from elucidated by meteors, chests of feminine galaxies. Hands beyond degrees of 360 ticks revolutionizing time they have been around, observing their childhood enlarging spines of infant experiences to balance their adulthood, which now reads death scripted by daily travails of earthly desires on a black page, the knowledge gathered to wrinkle their old age. They saw all the growth stages. They have always been there, part of terrestrials with bodies miming all that is done by their surroundings, but forgetting not that they are hunters. With frozen minds and boiling spirits, souls are neither cold nor warm, they are still hunters. 

Change is inevitable; they cannot name. Knights with hearts rooted beneath horse shoes; they have souls of still allowing their anti-gravity spirits, flight towards the magnet of God, with chests attached to Nirvana’s heart beating melodies of bliss to sing light notes to dark tones of time and stone existences to higher the realms of life. They are STILL hunters. Souls clearing the path for hearts to euphorically walk the land.

THEY ARE HUNTERS OF STILLNESS.

LETTER TO PHOENIX

I'm at that point were I just want to write, not poetry precisely but just write. I want to write about anything. So today I was learning the basics of writing Sonnets, I must say sonnets are much of work that the normal poetry I always write. Now I just thought of a random thing I can run a couple of words over, then I stumbled and fell over this exciting and amazing "mythological" creature; PHOENIX. Yes, so I without any fragment of "inspiration" decided to write this bird a letter. . .

The letter reads...

Dear Fiery Bird Phoenix

You are of neither begging nor ending, the perpetual being of an inferno soul. You wear flames as your pride, you curse the poles and inhabit only where heat resides. Your wings boil atmospheric walls and let loose the shy wind to play around airy play grounds, shaking its elegant tail and letting crescent moons exhale full shapes to circulate the sun’s hate, terminate its missions of poking the ozone layer and blinding our ancestor’s sight. The fiery lord; with passion beating your heart and inspiration flowing your fuel blood. Wisdom was a solid rock, Fiery lord you have melted all the rigidity out of iron intelligence and reigned to mortals light, enlightenment. You warmed into thinkers, news about reincarnation. You were and are the after none we point in proving the eternity within time, lord we know they will return because you do. Death is but a change of apparel, yes you taught us. Death is but a restart to all the monotonous scenes of the undirected play we act out. In awe we shout; miracles of the instant rebirth just on the act of death. We see life rising from death only to destroy existence and build a living. Phoenix we are now familiar with tales of enlightenment, we know about Prometheus and his divinity, you befriended his numb hands and helped in bringing salvation to mankind. Storms are now cooked. Extinguishers now exist. Alchemists value your existence, lead has to be processed into gold. They have brought their coins to purchase sparks and to hell flames were sold, horrid stories unfold, truths untold, you lord, you never get old. Forever young, you have kept life exuberant, the hidden gods feed upon your smoky scent, Abel of Genesis left us the example. You are fiery o endless bird. You're immortal o eternal bird. You are of the gods.

They categorize you in the panel of mythologies, I know you not a myth. You are virtual. You see fiery bird, they don’t believe your existence but I have faith in you.

I know what they believe. I know what has enslaved them for centuries. They are slaves to ideas of what was. They are enslaved by silent voices they visualize from their environment’s mouth, their society. They say you are a myth, how mythological are their sanctuaries, their abode of shivering pillars, quacking temples, shelters roofed by tiles of predictions and deceptions. Yes they claim to have faith, but do they trust?  Fiery lord they don’t trust, lord faith is beyond trust so where is faith situated when there is no foundation of trust, mind believe lord. The say “seeing is believing” …I don’t know lord, if they have really visually witnessed what they “believe” in.

You see lord, I have came to realize that the universe is filled with many believes or rather “myths” and now mortals get to select whichever “truth”  they want to follow and become enslaved by its man made “principles”, so lord, it matters not what one believes, it’s always going to be just a myth to the next. So fiery lord, I have chosen you amongst many of the “truths” advertised as if they were new Glomail products, to me and only this time I have to offer my soul for purchases.

I am now; with flames from your wings lord, illumined enough to know and comprehend that ; there is no bad food, all food is good, it is just a persons preference, yes some may desire to eat what isn’t good for their bodies and this will then result to their bodies being rebellious to the food, yes lord, allergies.

We believe what we want to, so let us not try to feed our slogans to the next. Faith is not a trend. Not a new cool brand.

Yes fiery lord. I’m grateful of you existence and for the flaming ear you landed these empty words of mine. You’re divine o lord.

Sincerely yours

Mind