Tuesday, January 3, 2017

Three bottle of bile

Three bottles of bile; for the greedy, the strong, and the vile.
The greedy will starve, the strong will succumb, the vile will thrive;
with three bottles of bile.

Ain't no gain in wanting, no grace in having and taking,
yet there is fear in hating.
The bile is blinding, the bile is poison, the bile is guiding.

Three bottles of bile; three more souls for the pile.

Monday, August 31, 2015

Eyes of Presence

Close the eyes of presence
and sink into the plane of omnitude.
Seek the light that casts shadows upon the corners of your mind
and make a fire in its place.
Let the shadows dance and melt into dreams of rain;
of waves that flood the flesh with shivers.

Open the eyes of presence
and witness the ashes of the pyre.
Plant a seed into the darkness
and watch it sprout and make the Sun.
Welcome and behold the warmth;
feel the light that casts shadows upon the corners of your mind.

Friday, August 28, 2015

The Wolf

In the shadow of the snowy mountains, a lone wolf is trying to find its way amidst the thick forest. Surrounded by untamed rivers and ancient roots, its path is neither set nor stray. It is driven by an internal cry, shaped by the hymns of the birds and sharpened by the howling of the night.  Carrying the scent of wild flowers, the evening winds lead the wolf upwards, past the countless trees and the rocky ground. It reaches the peak of a hill, as clear from trees as the endless sky that lies above it. The wolf stops its tireless march for a moment, awed by the impervious beauty of the thousand beacons of the night. After a while, it sets its eyes straight once more, looking down the other side of the hill. It encounters a huge lake in the valley down below, something the wolf has never seen before. With primal excitement and speeding heartbeat, it starts running downhill with immense haste towards the huge lake. Its feet barely touch the grassy ground, as the wolf becomes engulfed in a deep outburst of freedom, happiness and relief, a feeling that makes it wish the lake was a bit farther still.  And as it flies forward, the sun slowly rises from behind the snowy mountains, and everything fades away once more; yet not in vain, not without truth and reflection.

Friday, August 21, 2015

The Jar

Beneath pillows made of silk she's hidden a jar of tears. It used to be heavy, when the lid was young and the pillows smelled like jasmine. Now it sits there light as feathers, on sheets that rarely move. It is not entirely empty yet, some tiny tears, dry with age, escape once in a while from the tired jar and she counts them with more pain than they cause her when they spill, with ever growing agony replacing the relief of their passing. Once she hated how full her jar was, how she could always fill it over and over again; now she dreads watching it empty. She uses its precious tears for waiting, for hoping she will be able to shed some more for waiting. This keeps the pillows on her bed, this makes her sheets shine under the sun each day, this makes her wonder how much drier her sorrow can be.

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Behind the Bookshelf

They asked him what makes us human. He could not answer, not right away. He left hastily, head down and head hurting. What does make us human? Has he ever truly felt what being human means? How can one feel that? We are but flesh and bones and brains but how often do we experience the intense moments that exalt our flesh and break our bones and open up our brains?
It seems that life takes a certain comfort in the lack of these moments. Maybe rightfully so; pain and fear can be every bit as intense as love and relief, even more so. And curiously, most positive things seem to get amplified when they are preceded by negatively intense feelings. It seems like there needs to be a motivation, a taste of how ugly things can be, to push us to our potential, to lead us to a taste of our true essence.
He kept moving, head down and head hurting.

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Golden Fields

Outside the gates of the great wall that reaches high up into the sky, there are golden fields as far as the eye can see, beautifully daunting. Above them the sun always shines bright and heats up the chest; once you close your eyes the calming silence brings you dreams of incredible cheer and joy. It's there beside the gates where you like to sit and do your dreaming; it's where the world of happiness begins and ends that you find yourself each time you dare step out that wall. Behind it you are safe and cold; outside you are fragile and warm. Rarely you go walking among the golden fields; you always come back afraid, vulnerable, regretting it. Yet golden fields are all you dream about when you close your eyes, your back always resting against the great wall.

Sunday, March 1, 2015


Them twinkles and sparkles are but chains and shackles.
Those inviting eyes of winter, they that spread only ice and hinder.
Those silent beams of light and dust, the sore screams of thoughts that never last.
And the fire that endures, it burns higher but never cures.
These nights that feel over, these nights are never sober.
And the place up there stays hidden, amidst the air it roams forbidden.