Soaked Feather

On the border of wakefulness and sleep man begins to create. Today a wounded mind paints the hurt that tortures it - this same artist that drew birds and butterflies two nights cast. Dipped in a well of thoughts, wishes and fears, my minds canvas comes alive with images that can only be described by a babbling lunatic.

Even without the sun on my eyelids, I awake to a universe of purpose, guided by thorns and bees yet motivated by thousand year old scrolls preached by herdsman. I wander in the aftermath of a hurricane and marvel at the splendour that has endured me to my mortality- a life wasted on desire, barely scholared in worthwhile wisdom. This silence marks the deafening climax of the screams of reaped souls. I walk away from ship wrecks and mosquitoes un-hurt, though day by day I build a catalog of recessed pain.

I am told of others like me, animals who wandered unto extinction due to the limits of their imagination. And so I push beyond natures walls and contemplate the genesis of trees and emotions of earthworms. Each find is a picture that graces the walls of my closed eyes and draws me nearer to the precipice of my fragility. Shortly, I am tossed by heat from a world outside and my universe reshapes to fit new latitude – one predestined. Destiny, to some, is merely a story of the history of the dead. Our stories are in the sands, thus I walk on my destiny, dry and dusty.

Shreds of reality obscure my vision and contaminate this masterpiece that my mind has created. I am left to acquire more ink from the days of toil. This I must do before the dark when I scribe or the dark when my art is lost forever