I have been nothing but a small child playing with the alphabet carved into wooden blocks making up worlds and stories to ease my own troubled mind and comfort my own lonely heart as a way to deal with the pains and lunacy of love and life, while counting my shallow breaths knowing each one exhaled brings me closer to my death.  And in what end can I see a value to the days behind me as I find there will be no more before me, to what star in the sky will my passing bring a tear of grief, a prayer for redemption, a kind memory of what I had done with the time I spent walking through the pastures and desserts and ocean floors of this dying world.  Will there be any such star for my memory to be more than dust and light and wave or will I fade from time quicker than my flesh and bones decay?  Will my mortality be the end of me?  Will there be no light, no dark, no gods, no demons, no devils?  Is what I believed to be a soul no more than illusion and will it disappear with the last flash and pulse of electricity that exits my unmoving body as the earth grows through and reclaims my corpse.  Is there nothing more than this life alone, is it no more than a single flame that burns away to end in embers and smoke and then dissipate into the dark void and then is never seen again.  What then should I become within the remainder of my days, what should I strive to achieve, what line should I walk between the ideas of good and evil.  If I am destined by nothing is that all I can become or is there more to achieve outside the illustrations of heaven and hell.  Does life then become full of impossible possibilities and dreams of unimaginable proportions, if heaven is no longer a place above us and hell never existed below us, are the blueprints of divinity found within the chambers of our own hearts and are the horrors of the ****** only a place that burns in the depths of our minds.  Are we the makers of our cages and prison cells, doing nothing but sleeping our lives away with the key to freedom under the pillows we lay down our heads.  And if there is any truth here, who will take up their keys and walk free with me and recreate the world with words of love and kindness carved into wooden blocks and live out the remainder of our days with easy minds and full hearts and play as children do.

I am a failure and a fraud, I have yet to live up to my imagination, to be the courageous child that can laugh at god and play with the devil, I have spent more time doing less when I should have been doing more, I can smell the autumn winds and see the darkening grey skies of what little years I have before me, so quickly it has gone, the minutes and hours and days and months and years and moments, small flashes of inspiration crushed under waves of the indifference of tomorrow's, love has always been there but not always tended to, lost and found, burned to ash and risen to flame, cowardly ignored and foolishly rushed into and still it is there always in reach of being out of reach, I am not particular good at any one thing, I have not studied as I should have, I have not been practiced or well disciplined, yet I pretend and continue to lie, with pencils and lines and pens and words and clays and shapes, I have no idea what I am doing yet I find I do it anyway, sometimes at least, not as often as needed though,  my future sits on my desk and in my sketch pads and it is right there in front of me and yet somehow I manage to ignore it and just go through the motions of living, hoping for what... I don't know... I do not fear death but I do hope that she is far enough away that I will figure out how to live with failure and how to be a good fraud and how to use my imagination to the best of its abilities and mostly how to be a courageous child

She had the air of beauty in her smile
and the scent of something seductive followed close behind
my imagination was taken over
by the desire to know more than her name
I could feel the change in the rhythm of my pulse
and I could hear a storm of thunder pounding out of my heart
I was swept off into a dream
made of honey and flesh and lust
I was paralyzed by the hypnotic stars
swirling in the cinnamon color of her eyes
my thoughts where tangled
in a web spun by a mad lunatic and
I was robbed of the ability to breath
I was drowning between the bottom of the world
and the end of eternity
my soul was ripped from the time of my birth
and my bones crumbled beyond my last days
I was left with nothing
of mind or body or ghost
I was less than dust and wind
I swam there in the ethereal charm
of the fire burning at the end of her fingertips
lost and found and forgotten
beyond the ability to live
out of reach of the kiss and embrace of death
helpless like an infant gazing with unspoiled wonder
at the divine charm of the calm soft heaven
that was infused in the cream and skin
of her gentle face
It was here I felt the song and vibration
of the silk threads of the fabric
that wraps itself around
the true meaning of love