a thunderous roar of silence

a thunderous roar of silence

tonight,
a sunset illuminated the cloud-laden sky;
as thunder rumbled in the distance,
generating illusions of grandeur.

the soul yearns for another place and time,
as birds dance amongst the clouds with purpose.

the here is nothing but a bad reality.

time is the cruel master of our existence,
yet we fear death,
all the while,
anticipating its inevitability.

but, we continue to argue over triteness,
fixating our being on today’s irrationalities
so the powerful can seek out the humble
in a sadistic ritual of dehumanization.

spring turns into fall;
and sometimes there is no time left
for the middle aged
to seek their dreams.

yet at the end,
at the end of our time,
our dreams, passions, and actions
are all we own.

our secular possessions are divided
amongst the living,
our souls placed in the hands
of the spiritual,
and our memory is locked into the evermore
of infinity.

the elders know this,
the middle aged are learning this,
and the youth have no f-cking concept.

the wind breathes silence.

we know not where we’re going;
nor where we have been…

silence
silence
silence
silence

my head is filled with the thunderous roar of silence.
it is both deafening and maddening.

EjG

Mistress

May the strength of three be in your journey.
Irish Toast

---------------------

Mistress

Sweet mistress
of my secular desire;
the black sarcophagus
envelopes your soul.
Your dreams
of narcoleptic madness
intercede
the complexities
of sensuality;
placidness returns
to my soul.
And yet
we still cry
amongst our demons,
angels,
and desires;
there is no sweet silence
to our end,
as trees whisper
their poetry
within the vernal winds,
filling the chasm
of winter’s silence,
as the everlasting silence,
encompasses the void
of an erotic soul,
throughout the evermore.
The unforgiven
curse infinity.
Time becomes
a redundancy of existence.
Dance, my mistress, dance…I taste your sensualities
Dance, my mistress, dance…I taste your sensualities
Dance, my mistress, dance…I taste your sensualities
Time is finite,
Heaven is theoretical,
And desire
is nothing more
than a wanton machination
of flesh
At some future point in time
yet to been defined…

EjG

--------------

And the Scribe said to Solomon, “What is your interpretation of this?”
To which Solomon replied, “The literal is misleading, the philosophical is deceiving, and the mythological is ideological.”
“Who’s your mistress, Solomon?”
“Hope,” said Solomon, looking at the sunset. “And yours?”
“Desire,” the Scribe said, reflectively. “Desire.”
Icarus said nothing.