spearofhope

Let me tell you, One thing that I really like about domesticity is the way that change comes: Gradually. From Day to Day. An Endearing process, to me. A seismic shift in the status quo comes slowly, bit by bit, until the way of things are changed. See, you can wait for a Phase, or a series of chances, or an accident to come around. You can wait for it to come up, wait for something to bring it to the foreground. Misfires aren't fatal, aren't the end-all, be-all. Missed Chances are no real loss. Any hit can be recovered from, really, unless it keeps you from going on playing house. It's really very special. Slow. Soft. Gentle. The way Romance,

I wonder - Oh! To tell the truth,    As if the Truth had worth to tell Could scarce abate the living proof,    Could solve the Migraine, Living Hell    That's perched upon my own Death-knell. What Once was fluid, joy sublime    has Cracked at last the Mission Bell that Chimed it's last in perfect time with the empty tallow spoken of now in hollow Rhyme. The Truth my lie of omission    Does Hide is Precious, and in fact could swiftly, eas'ly commission    a Vindication of my act.    If I chose to, at end, retract my guilty plea for Innocence,    at once my honor'd be intact; repaired, replacing dilligence in the face of wrongful punis

I have a tool without Project, a Thesaurus of Iron and Clay, A Boundless Vocabulary, but alas, have nothing to say.

Mediochre Rhymes - when I can be bothered to rhyme. Fractures in an Opalescent Prison, casting light like Prism fragments. I find myself unpoignant; Unable to be poignant even about my own lack of poignancy. This is a problem. I'm reminded of the Musaeum; the great house of Alexandria, least Humble house South of the Sea. Temple to the muses. They would ley thoughts at the feet of the statues instead of coins or valuables or shekels or ingots. Sacrifices of knowledge so the Muses would smile down on them. In Rome or Byzantium or Thessalonica or Antioch, they would sacrifice the little precious things to get the fruits of their labor. In Alex

A slipshod wedge of geese fly over, barking out their song and I am reminded of a place. I grew very fond of it in my handful of visits. It makes me think of a plaintive Oboe saying everything is alright, echoing sadly with a strange sense of longing, ringing out across a large and empty room. Like a Bugle-call at the end of a very long and arduous day. The Pond, it's the Pond that the birds make me think of. And the geese... or are they just ducks? gathering and begging for food, except in winter when the pond is frozen. On the real side, the important side, is the path that goes around and off towards someplace very important, I'm sure, but

Which is the Song of the End I 1Bring our people, Sons of Romulus, Champions of the Time, to great hopelessness, 2Remind your Uncle's Children of his Sacrifice. 3Cry out in Falsehoods at the hand of your father's father, 4For it was he who Broke you, and he who denied you, 5Though you are not broken, and you are not denied. 6Act, sons of Romulus, in the name of your Blessed Sires, 7Who drank without thought in the name of ignorance. 8Dream, sons of Romulus, Dream of your world laid bare before you, 9of a world without veils and a land without Borders. 10Though you are a veil, and you thrive on borders. 11Know, also, the mind of yo

I soldier on, My Endless Quest to Solve the Untold Mysteries That are the All-encompassed you Your far-too-complex histories.

A real-life example please - the fictional is such a tease. The rigor Eros makes it look like all the hard work's such a breeze With A Sophomoric entry Laden with some seniority Is none the less completely bunk - It's Strangled elementary. I simply can't believe it's true Without a real point of view. Since Every single case I've seen Is Grim, as when the word was new. When every sight I see is Rot I can't but think that love is not Quite what we've made it out to be; A Poem without a single thought.

A Cloud that passed before the noble sun did not quite make eternity divine a less perpet'al state of solar shine. It did not dare diminish what was won by Promethean fire, by sun and moon, by far too many origins to name, by original myths, foundat'nal flame from Ra to Helios, Center Star will loom. The cloud could Scarcely hope to stand defi'nt against the fusion monster which we see will not quite breach the name 'Eternity' and far too soon will be a red Giant. A Whisp of Vapor really can't compare to it's own fate, at Sun's death, Burning air.

There is a story I have never told. It is one of the few I know by heart, and one of the only ones worthy of being told, without embellishment. It is one of those rare stories that Survives, survives. It is the story of the rolling clouds from the skyrise. A precious tale from the time before. I suppose it began with an accident, and ended with what I can only imagine is the antithesis of accident; a moment of great planning and synchronicity. Mimesis in it's highest form - mimetic life. I think what I remember most is the disbelief. What I was seeing was so surreal, it was hard to believe. I believed and accepted everything but that. I t