01 stars.

Sep. 5th, 2009 12:25 am
aison: so hold out your heart (I have aged)
As we lie beneath the stars, we realize how small we are.

In retrospect, in essence we’ve fallen to create and it tears sometimes, breaks sometimes. The absolution of eternity stretched out in pages before us, edges sharp and darkening. Loss is like that sometimes. Life is like that sometimes. Love and joy remains, dancing to a forgotten beat, shifting with the winds and fading with the stars. The need to create is a consuming obsession, lost and foreboding in its depth of overpowerment. It sweeps you over and turns your mind, and in what’s left you sometimes find peace. In what’s left you sometimes realize. In this, in that, creation becomes a process of something more, giving meaning where they was none, and gaining a religion where there was disbelief. A mocking kind of ceremony, it touches and burns, and if not done right, it’s all you are and all you will be, and when you’ve left behind what you had, you try for meaning in the space left--a powerful loss in the abandonment of dreams. A reworking, rehashing, of everything you’ve known, and perhaps one day you’ll see. Somehow. That things aren’t meant to be.

Create, release, and fall under the tides. The stars still sing. You’ve fallen behind.

---

A faith recedes, a loss remains. Half steps broken by pain. Gasping breaths searching for peace. You will not find those where you tread. Oh, step lightly, lover. The glass beneath your feet is breaking and the shards are ever so thin. Ready to tear at a moment’s notice, ready to shatter at a glance--these are strength and delicacy both, overwhelmed by what was, destroyed by what could be, consumed by the simple truth of what is. You’ve gathered your army, I’ve encompassed mine, and oh, dance this with me. Take my hand and let it out--your hopes and fears and hate. And maybe you then, could then, learn to love again. Ah, these wishful thinkings, swallowed by the very knowledge of fate. Let me sing this song again. My voice rises in a strange solo, reaching to the moon and never touching the stars. I have known you, and will know you, and in the brief emptiness of solitude, I will long for you. But before long I will remember, and you and I will separate, our paths differing. And I will never speak of it; no. I will never speak.

---

September 2009

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