Con Spiral Notebooks to See

when will villagers see an ending to their plight, when the dilligent start befriending the idea of an end in sight.  The new world order that certain powers that be speak of, get lost in the shuffle of rhetoric and slight of hand in the weak glove.  Eyes atop pyramids waiting for the shift, unable to know when the foundation will lift and rise up to surprise even the most cynical.  We’re all in this together in song, but we’re in this all forming a path and a way.  The wrath of today is the same in the shadows of Plato’s cave.  We made those slaves fear the outside, and have their own way of simplicity and division free thinking that subjugates novel ideas.  Ideas that could circumnavigate the energy crisis, and help us fight this battle from the saddle not from the ground or beneath the hooves of cattle.  Where is it headed?  The secrets and mysteries that are promised at the highest levels maintain their elusive nature as one climbs into the upper echelons and shakes the hands of a skeleton framework.  The same work the villagers do is being done in huts, and along rivers, near tundra and gift givers.  The seals and symbols, winged portraits and hidden passages, wanting to be part of something larger and never ailed.  These are the calling cards of stalled labor yards and clever nails.  Whichever way the lever sailed, the wind blew the other.  The silence falls, and I miss my brother.  Jumbled words spoken from incomplete towers that are replicas of ones that have far greater historical significance.  We sally forth unaware of any shame and indifference to indignance.  Lubricants could be far more efficient.  Batteries could hold a charge for twice as long.  As long as the masses fight over what is and what isn’t, remain confused, and pirate movies and song.  The eventual demise of the empire should not seem as a surprise.  It has happened before, and will continue again.  Many people claim to know exactly how, while fewer claim to know when.  I want to learn how to fly fish, and grow strawberries.  I want to learn how to silently wish and adapt to what varies.  My eyes remain open, and my heart struggles for the same.  I cannot shake the feeling that I am a part of some twisted game.  My mind carries at nightfall, and my words are somehow short and sweet.  My inmost thinks of a poem, and my right hand contorts to compete.  Should I abort or complete.  Salty or sweet?  Break bread or meat?  Hands, eyes, or feet?  This body of mine is tired but wanting.  This mind of mine wanders but busts.  This heart of mine has been broken too bad, but somehow it still dares to trust.  We will all gather some sought after truth through the pain and laughter.  It will be hard fought, bloody, teary-eyed, and unpleasant.  But the villagers will sing arm in arm, and the lyrics will hold hands with the peasants.  Bridging the gap of existence that’s been in the mist since we came to our own end to meet it.  We nap while we should be running and flinging open the doorway to greet it.  My own letters forming words that form phrases, that sing of praises hidden within the field.  A nomad from carcassonne opens his hand, and only a flower it yields.  Peace like an arrow shoots into the dark.  Love like a cloud rains down on the desert.  I am too much of a coward to howl and bark.  Neither the greater or lesser.  The clothes in my dresser possess the idea in their fabric to become threads of a different quilt.  My nonsense on stilts is experiencing guilt, and in its pride is still waiting to get served.  It is I who should be the first to serve at the Super Dome.  It is I who should slow down in my lane.  It is I who should be at home wherever it is that I roam.  It is I who should not speak of my pain.  I remain, so there must or might be a purpose.  I’m sure this ending might not look as I see it.  I believe I have found a love, to live for, die for, and try for.  And now I must attempt to be it.  But, I fall on my face and others laugh.  I look at myself and shake my head.  I lose my quilt, I get frozen by guilt, and am left holding the end of a thread.  If a loss of order is on the agenda, and pain is a precursor to glory.  The conflict won’t be as short and sweet as splenda or a friend to the enemy at the end of the story.  Insert laughter here before the campfire.  The before and after show the lamp’s desire to shine upon the intertwined as well as the chaotic.  My life is showing right before my eyes, and I may just stop writing to watch it.  Live it.  Be it.  Own it.  The fan is on in the dark room.  The light from the screen meets my eyes.  No magical possession, or intercession, rather a removal in time of the disguise.

About SIDEWAYS EIGHT

Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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