Stuck Outside the Dream

September 2, 2013

How does one determined the line between dream and reality?

 This tells the story of an old woman who has spent her time in sleep building a relationship with a man who is deemed, in our concept of reality, a dream. She contemplates whether his ability to prevail so tangibly in her existence is due to them having a love that stands the test of time, society’s notion of reality and reincarnation itself. This is the thoughts of a woman ” Stuck Outside the Dream.”

Faint as a memory, vivid as a dream,
That’s how I remember him.
His hands firm, ironed to fit the concaves of my weathered skin.
His love vivid, shaped to illuminate the shadows of my being.
He was a soft vision, only unlike any phantom I had ever seen,
For I had felt his touch.
His hair always smelt of plucked roses, a soap given to him on our 20th Anniversary.
His lips, provoked by the beat of my heart, were always filled with the vowels of kings.
But at times, when I’m awake, I can’t help but wonder, hath my senses played a trick on me?
Am I interwoven inside the womb of  my own insanity?

 In love inside two worlds, I, we, both were trapped.
A communion derailed by the coming of the sun and the yawning of the moon.
In my sleep and in his awake I am found.
My life with him permeates of promethean heat, of longings quenched, of  rapturous immortality.
The pleasure of his skin stacked upon my soul only deadens my being when I arise in the day.
For empty is my bed and I just a mere lump of clay.
Alone, it is intolerable, for one cannot function & absorb the torture of blocked possibility.
So I have chosen to live in sanity.
For what’s  a dreamer to do when trapped inside their awake,

but to bridge the gap, rescue the dream from being lost, at stake.
The origins of this life that exists inside black lids, I know not of.
Perhaps a love, so benevolent, a man, a spirit  so prodigious, that no conceivable birth from nature, reincarnation itself, can interrupt.
Conquered, our breath hath focused its way through time.
Pillaging the process of winter, summer, spring and fall;
We decided upon inseparability through any means at all.
And now, his reality is my dream.
Expired are the days of wanting,
As he remains surrendered to me, I shall remain my feet off ground my heart in heavens, un-yielding to my awake.
Varnished we remain, I  clinging to him, like warm bark upon a shivered tree.
For is it not in our insanity that we are truly free?

....beautifuly accepted.  -Mrs. Art

Bright Lights (1925)

Alone. S)

Love this <3

dance

Black and W.H.I.T.E. by shelley

Simple and elegantly SEXY! Black and W.H.I.T.E.

Melancholy …by Iliko Kandaveli. S)

Busby BerkeleyElephants. S)

Cotillion! #blackhistory #society

Your time is now !SilhouetteRenowned Chinese dancer, Yang Li Ping, taken during an actual performance in a theatre in Kunming, China.

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Frozen in high winds?  That's some ice palace Photo by Thomas Zakowski

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Be Happy!!!

July 7, 2013


2 THINGS: If it makes you happy, do it. If it doesn’t, then don’t.

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Her Speech

April 4, 2013

By: Magnolia

Her lethargic breath was rooted in the cave of a cumbersome heart.

Standing a foot the blank podium, tethered by opportunistic strings,

was the birth of a whisper

ascended into what became, a cataclysmic thought.

Like spiraling stairs with no beginning nor end, she spoke.

“Ejected from the gorge of emotional destitution,

I have realized that I have ascribed form to an existence that is but a shadow,

if not a dream.

And while I’ve remained fixed upon my daily deeds

I have abandoned my internal needs;

Misguiding shapes inside a living tomb.

I call upon the earth to fissure beneath my brain,

To thwart an arrow into the chasm of my heart,

and to pardon this lump of clay’s weary ways.

Soil and ice, no longer will you replace permutable fog.

For truth, a concept whose doors are not open for interpretation,

alas,  has made the journey through pore and rushing blood and found its home

upon electrical wires  breathing life into a paralyzed heart.

I say, empty handed and fragmented from a self-induced illusion,

that, that which is, is not a at all, and that which is to be, is to exists inside of me.

Compelled to create prickled shapes that would garner me the world, while gazing upon a blank wall, all at the expense of my heart beat.

Fair exchange it was not.

For I have spent most of my clock devouring the irrelevant, in hopes of quenching a parched soul,

and merely numbing it in the process.

But now with exhumed vision and  frail valves,

I have but one thing I want to do, and nothing else.

With the elegance of life’s exoskeleton bewildering my eyes,

And with the seed of creation rousing a previously unemployed  heart

Through inspired skin and  resurrected possibility 

from below me and above,

my only purpose here,

is to love.

 

I can’t help but think storms are beautiful.

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“Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history.”

Plato

“Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of love, every man becomes a poet.”

Plato

“According to Plato, we don’t learn anything. Our soul has lived so many lives that we know everything. Teachers and education can only remind us of what we already know.”

Misty – Diary by Chuck Palahniuk

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Through inspired skin and  resurrected possibility 

from below me and above,

my only purpose here,

is to love.