Machinations of a dream

The cogs grind
to a halt
As the dust of a million
battles flood the cracks
And teeth that
have consumed the souls
of a million revolutions

The sweat and tear drops that fall
have been weighed
and found wanting
yet they fall
yet they fall
as if their vain splattering on
the bone-dry machines may perchance
oil them into life

Lament of the Soulless

The greatest of friendships exists In the baring of selves The mutual exposing - voluntary! of each’s naked being

It is where friends have seen the worst of the other plumbed the depths of the soul known all the retardedness the other can stoop to the indulgences weaknesses dreams fears and despite the innumerable host of imperfections that mar that naked visage extend the fiery embrace of love to the other from one core to the other

When becoming sworn brethren was a thing what could be more real than the blood oath The mingling of the very liquid life that courses through the veins of the twain

Can deep friendship be, where two leave standing the walls, masks and fancy Venetian blinds that hold the world at bay where the projected image of the Perfect-er Self displayed to strangers is retained for a ‘close friend’ to see?

but the knitting together of souls is formed of heartstrings the strands, the fibres of the innermost selves where the fabric of outer veils are rent asunder

And between naked self and naked self the burning bonds formed surpass words spoken, interests shared, ugliness witnessed where dark secrets can no longer hold hostage the intertwining of beings Where covalency - the strongest of chemical bonds is but a facade, a mere interaction of outermost shells Where the deepest friendships are a fusion-but-not-fusion the enjoining of two cores one but not one two but not two A new ‘self’ born of two old.

Thus bemoans one who, desperate to prove himself worthy fearful of being judged keeps shields up, moat filled and walls manned letting none past his gates and wonders why none dare knock

self awareness

Self contemplation: gazing inward
into my shattered soul, my fractured heart
My self I see, but only
as through a broken glass, darkly
Betwixt rivulets of glittering cracks
and in scattered splinters on the cold ground

to hold love

somewhere in the dead of night
on a tired open palm
a tiny tongue aflame dances
in the flickering gaze of eyes
'til the fist clenches
and in a silent teardrop
it quenches

The Unchosen Ones

I keep a little graveyard of dreams
Snug under a hillock deep inside my heart
Every so often it grows
Howbeit I am glad because
For every cross I add to it
Three other dreams thrive above
Roots thrust deep
Drinking from the rich ground
Fertilised by the Unchosen Ones.

Nyctophilia

What is sleep?

Sleep is but rest

A time to regenerate

To heal

To shrug off all the troubles

The hustle and bustle

That vex and worry in the day

What is sleep?

The surrender of the consciousness

The release of the iron bands 

That enslave the mind and heart

To duty

And honour

And love

And image

What if I told you that

sleep could be done without sleep

that

restoration was possible

without the shallow

superficial meaningless and vain

form of sleep that most

people succumb to

what if

the mind was truly the master

and the body the slave

and regeneration was all about the mind

not about the body

and if being awake at night was all the healing

that I need

then my healing would be in the form of

the embrace of darkness

free of all the problems that the day brings

and I can be free to agonise over things

that I cannot during the day

because I must look confident

and brave

and manly

and cool

and all the things that society and family and friends demand and expect of a typical someone my age

things that would make me fail all of the above requirements

what if I told you the night sets me free

to lose myself in my personal pursuits

to lose myself in my insignificance

to lose myself in my non-existence

the me that cannot exist in front of everyone else

what if darkness allowed me to wander my own paths

beyond boundaries no one has known

beyond horizons others have denied to me

to learn

to work
to mourn

to build

to be

what if the even's darkness was nothing more 

than a blotting paper

for my own darkness inside

darkness that grows within during the day when the windows 

of my soul are shut

and the curtains drawn

so no one can see inside

what if that was my rest

what if that was my healing

what if I love the darkness

what if I am night incarnate

No road

Sitting in the darkness

Waiting for the moon

Because the sun refuses

to grant this boon

Mind like a dusty road

Questions racing full throttle

Dark skies groaning with watery load

Dripping from dashed bottle

The compass spins wildly

Wind roaring in the yards

The seaspray hisses sourly

and bursts in briny shards

Drifting without rudder

Sails tattered, ropes frayed

Prays the sailor

All hope allayed.