Life isn’t a puzzle it’s a pattern…And the pattern I weave is quite unsettling..

You see, behind every loved soul… Is a trail of what-could-of-been loves…. So many who thirst for my acknowledgement only to have me seek the affection of another..aborted loves..

Hallowed out hearts and slumped love… Muddied puddles and molted daisies.. So much love lost comes from a broken heart..

But so much loved can be gained from a love renewed..

Imagine that.. If all that waisted love could be gathered.. And a seamstress could make a perfectly sewn patterned with each love unique.. Each patch representing the potential the heart felt and the mind’s eye foresaw…

Could you imagine wrapping yourself in the warmth of all that potential..

You’d keep warm in the midst of your cold heart.. 

Rather… My chilled emotion..

I wouldn’t feel the way I felt now.. This aloneness would never be… The pattern of searching for something that was always there could never be…

But it isn’t difficult to figure out why this is my fate.. Because life isn’t a puzzle.. It’s a pattern.. Habits and human nature customize the death bed of us all…

Glory doesn’t fade but tell that to faded glory..Everyday she reminisces.. I too see the memories, that once stood alive, but now take refuge in the glimmer of her eye.. For I see her as she once was.. 

A voluptuous beauty.. 

Every testosterone’s object of desire.. 

But time no longer displays such..Time does it’s best to keep beauty hidden..

 Like her mind’s eye.. I see her for what she once was.. What she still clings too.. Because deep down inside she knows she still is what she always was..

So what is faded glory but a preponderance of time..

What’s faded glory but a lie that time attempts to tell…

What’s faded glory if I can still see the beauty in you.. The truth in your smile.. The flirt in your eye..the gentleness in your tones… Everything that made you, you has remained intact.. Delicate.. Awaiting to be unlocked.. A treasure for another life time perhaps..

But a treasure nonetheless..

So what exactly is faded glory if glory can’t fade…

A pulsating wound…
Not mortal but could be fatal if left unattended.. 

How do you heal the unhealable…. 

Yet, so it was written… That which can be done can always be undone..Despite such.. You sit before me.. Exasperated expression.. Tears crescendoing along your cheeks..

And why?

 For a past hurt that time forgot to heal.. For time can’t heal all wounds… Time is but a construct of the imaginative.. An implant of the past… Will always be present…no matter what power you attribute to time.. In matters of the soul… It has none..

Disgruntled and disillusioned.. I am no sorcerer of time.. But I would beseech upon you.. Do share with me your tears.. Why does’t thou perpetually hurt… Art thou so accustom to it that it has become a part of you…as a scar would a soldier of war…

Verily I beseech upon you.. Do not push away my love.. My love may not be the answer.. But my love can help us to find a way..

Your blood drips.. Your wound can no longer be hidden.. Your hurt shows.. And you only have so much blood to give.. A rose has but so many petals to shed before it becomes unrecognizable.. And can a man cherish that which he can not distinguish..

I am but a man….

Holding a rose… That is down to its last petal…

At times you can set eyes upon my gaze and know I’m not completely here.. Galaxies and cosmos asunder, my mind traverses.. Spaced out and high beyond all measure.. High on the fact that reality can be so bleak– the reality that I can be here But never truly here.. Always a part of me somewhere.. Somewhere far off.. And a piece of me is always trying to reconnect with that part.. 

A Union of polar opposites at this point..

The smart ones gravitate towards God.. The convinced always manage stray away from themselves… 

A temporary alleviation from responsibility provides that light as a feather feeling.. But when the weight of the world catches back up, it crushes like a boulder.. What man’s shoulder’s can bare such.. What man’s spirit can withstand the ill this world has placed on his fellow man.. Who’s soul can turn a blind eye.. Unless the eye of the 3rd is nothing short blindful.. And the shallow eye only looks inwards.. And you become the center and periphery of the universe at least the only universe that matters..

A cosmos of the mind, and you are all that matters.. An isolated automaton is what most aim to be.. Failing to see, rather denying that everything is everything..

Because something can never come from nothing.. Everything must inevitably be everything..

Thus, I can’t hate my opposite no more than I can hate myself.. I can’t curse the decisions I’ve mad no more than I can praise the circumstances life has presented..

And this holds true whether I’m here.. Nor there…

Spare the rod, spoil the child 

I watched the news, and it told me that a man shot into a car full of young men because he was stricken by fear..

Their music was too loud…

Trust me, I know the sentiment.. And believe you me, if you knew what your DNA knew.. You had every right to do so..The music was just too loud.. Too truthful..

There’s power in them drums you know.. Let your subconscious tell it.. Thems be the war drums of antiquity.. Those same drums you would hear up to two days away, and know for certain that your desolation was inevitable.. Know your slaughter was imminent.. You’d know you’ve transgressed past the point of forgiveness.. These weren’t just war drums but the drums that nightmares were made of…
Universally known..

Zulus… Among others…

These drums killed your fathers, brothers and uncles.. And spared the child.. The battle of Jericho and those walls came tumbling down.. 

And the spared child carried that truth with him forever..

So if I were you.. I’d hate that music too.. My heart would pound a little faster when I heard all that bass and them 808’s… I grow increasing nervous as well.. I’d not only panic but be quick to action..

Everything is everything.. Spared child..
And time never changes the truth…

Among us they lie in wait.. Expressing, disorientating themselves but only every so often…But mainly they remain dormant as any parasite would and should..

For if host every gained knowledge… Everything collapses upon itself..

They study us.. In aims to mimic us.. In order to capture our spectacle.. So that one day we will no longer be of necessity..

And now they study us in order to manage our energies.. The negativity, hurt and lust provides a breath of life into their very being..

So they left us with The Spectacle… A mechanism designed to self perpetuate their desires, like clockwork it runs… And as the time ticks away, so does the humanity of man..

Brothers slay brothers for the illusion of money..

Man no longer makes love but alleviates greed through lust..

Fathers abuse sons just to grasp on to a power they can never true attain.. 

Like water power can never be held in the hand for long.. For all power goes back to the source.. The Spectacle.. The Queen Machine… Designed through many years of analyzation.. Built by the frame work of human nature and fueled by the hopes and desires men alike…

Love that once built us.. Systematically redirected to instigate and antagonize our own undoing..

Love will win out one way or another.. And for one side if not the other…

Parasite or host… Whom shall prevail?

Greater doesn’t study the lesser..
The lesser studies the Greater…
They keep us under a microscope because they understand where the truth lies..

I was told… If you make it home before sunset… Consider yourself lucky…and I did, because I do… I’m not quite home yet, but I feel that nothing can stop the truth..
But then again.. I was told.. If I made it home, I should consider myself lucky…

Ominous… Brooding… Death upon a star… 

Study the twinkly of memories past…

Your heart begins to race because you don’t understand how you’ll meet your demise…

You simply came to the realization that you aren’t as lucky as you presumed…

Death and luck have never met..

So eventually you’ll realize it’s not your demise you’ll meet but a new you, you’ll become.. And through all the struggle you’ll realize that that light you were walking toward was merely a crack in the cocoon…

How do you feel? Was all the anxiety worth it?

You’re no longer forced to touch the earth in order to feel free.. You can allow the wind to truly guide you…

And maybe your demise was but another stop  in a never ending journey towards home..

They probably thought I’d die in hell..
But hell created a pathway towards opportunity…

What’s the point of coming down here in a physical body.. If you don’t plan on playing by the rules.. Unless you aren’t here under your own fruition.. Perhaps you’ve been condemned as the rest of us… Encaged, ensnared… Entrapped.. In this hollow space defined as a body….

Perhaps you are a demon as I.. And this is the hell you’ve made for yourself…

A chance to make right…

That from which you have fallen…
If you love what you love.. Then why the curse… Why the formality.. Why the obsession with what doesn’t quite fit naturally… Can nature be wrong or is your spirit unsettled.. Perhaps your soul has traveled to one too many galaxies and unaware of all the rules and formalities it must follow..

Do as thou wilt.. Is the law of the slave.. Quite ironic.. To be free one must follow ardent rules.. And if one doesn’t follow these rules they will be condemned to unending misery…

Yet to be a slave to one’s desire is no freedom at all..

What is a boy to do? Damn if I do… Damned if I don’t..

Perhaps I should sit idle….

And let the stars show me the truth…

No matter how false it is.. If you believe it long enough, it will manage to find a way to become true…Your story isn’t a universal truth, although it may be your standard of conduct it doesn’t write the script for the next man’s lullaby… 

That’s your god’s edict and your life journey… You may be cast as victor or villain but who is to decide but you and yours..

Verily verily.. I say unto you..

Though your script may impact the next man–Overlap with the next man…
Your story is not that man’s law…the lines of your play were written specifically for you and may not fit the next man at all…

So how does one find morality if it is truly this subjective… Check the end credits, and ask the Writer…

Your answer will find its way to you, it may be convoluted with filth along the way, but that’s Wisdom’s purpose to help you with your lines…

We are what dreams are made of, but do not make your nightmares another’s…without the darkness light holds no power…