Sunday, 11 September 2011
With meaning lost there is little more than emaciated form.
Wandering into a found place that is also lost.
Come and watch the butterflies sing and we shall dance with the dragonflies under an orange haze. We will sip tulip tea and parade in the bountiful garden. The procession will always run to schedule with fantastic vigour. We have been granted knowledge that the real fairies hide by the waterfalls made at riverbank. Sparkling water turns to glitter in the air. We should run to shallower shores to befriend all manner of wonderful beings. Magic leaves a blessed mark on any living soul, after all. Eyes can widen at the sight of such magnificent evenings, flutter in the dusky heat and close in aura of peace. We could sit for hours in this private oasis.
Hiding behind images and twisting the truth, I shook at its core. I bend a life time so far into a shape more manageable to handle. It is cold and empty there. No friendly strangers to lighten your load or broaden your mind. Casting my spell and you would believe it is all part of story time. Sit quietly on the carpet and clutch your cushions tighter. Listen just so that little more carefully, catch me out. We're in the dead garden where life ran from long ago. No fires to kick start rebirth here.
Turn(ed) into a monster.
Can crazy run in the family?