Copyright (c) 2001 M.D. Ward. All Rights Reserved. Terms and Conditions.  


By M.D. Ward




Here I sit. My hands like talons hang over the typer as the pages from a

disintegrating dictionary's fall like ancient leafs of gold upon my

bed. Falling Feathers sweet as angel's cheeks light upon my head. Words

Words I love you. Someone, Someday, will sing a song, a song, from long

ago. A Lullaby so sweet and sublime. A memory of infinite joy. A

rapture of sound and sight and soul. Words are Things. Words have Wings.

The right word at the right time to the right ear can rock the World.

The right word in the desert is Water. The right word in the heart is

Courage. The right word in the Spirit is Fire. A sound can crack a

mountain. It can heal and it can hurt. It can make and it can break.

Hearts of Stone melt into Gold only if Recognized. Careful the

Incantations of the Wise. The God's hear you in your dreams. Speak soft

wild wishes drenched in lust and wine and They Will Come..... They Are

Already HERE.




I keep trying to disappear. Dealing with the normal world makes me ill.

I do what I can to avoid it. I am a volcano smoking in the dark. In

the dark and alone I smolder in memories. In the dark and alone I hold

back the dawn. In the dark and alone I wait. Wait for the promise of

yesterday. Wait for something Real. Wait for the rage to age in the

darkness and disappear. This thing called life. This maze of miracles

and limitless possibilities is not enough. The price is too high.

Every door has a Tyger behind it. Every stranger hides a dagger. My

fate hangs by a horsehair. A puppet with strings on fire. Im burning up

and falling down. Drowning in my ashes. As the blood red sun cracks out

of the black belly of the night, I disappear into the dust.




Shadey ways the devil strays and preys and prays and rude truths shoot

lewd spikes of blinding light. A man who wants to be alone must be a

good sleeper. He must walk and talk and eat in his sleep. To be what

he is anyway, alone, he must not wake up. If he does he will find

himself in a world of sonambulists. And he will be more alone than

before. The man who is Awake is the One who cries out in the

Wilderness. He is a Trumpet in a Cemetery. He is a Resurrection. He

WILL be Crucified. For to be alive among the dead is the greatest sin.

And to be dead among the living dead is the only peace. The iron door

grows thicker and it's hinges creak with rust and ice. And so I sleep

and keep the deep dream of life at bay. Until the day I Truly Sleep,

and fall far far away from it all.




I am a rime without a reason, I am a time without a season. I am all.

I am nothing. I have seen the days run watercolours into one another at

dusk and at dawn. I have seen the winter end and the cherrytrees

snowing pink petals from blossoms hanging full and drowzy in the sweet

springlight. All about me they fell like angels and covered me under

their soft wings. I laid entranced and drank deep the smells and colors

shimmering thru the broken flowers. I Drown in Beauty. There is a

Gardener. In the ever lasting black winter's night of my soul I had

forgotten. And now the Spring sings and the buds break and the World

begins again.



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