Humans, much like flowers are surrounded by darkness. It’s up to us to continue to fight through the struggle in order to reach the light.
I write for myself, and the rest of the lost souls moving wearily through their blank existence searching for a remnant of truth in a world consumed with lies.
Being a writer is the closest thing to understanding how God feels. Like God, a writer creates characters, filling them with life and purpose. And just like God, the writer knows how the story will end, well before his characters do.
She possessed every trait a lost boy with the flaming mind of a man could desire. A woman who ripened the fruit. She wasn’t afraid to feed him on nights when his stomach was as empty as his heart, and his eyes stared off into the void; a familiar place which never judged his selfishness. She never asked if he was hungry, she knew he was. A man with a mind like his never thought about eating, only creating. The sizzle from the pan echoed against the four walls, while the cork of Pinot Noir (pop!) sang its song to the air, and what a beautiful song it was. They memorized every droplet of lyrics as they hummed the familiar tune. The sweet , but bitter taste of sin. Oh, so familiar. Oh, so forgiving. The melody danced on their tongue with a sweeping lull like a trumpet of triumph. Dakota often gazed into the holes beneath his brows and thought to herself just who he was, when did she know , where he’s going, and why she loved him so. “She’s a raven,” thought Francis, as a faint reflection of her smile pierced his eyelids, and with a sudden illumination of angelic innocence the flower in his mind began to blossom. All of life’s pain cried with radiance against her eyes creating a mural of tragic elegance. Her broken wings fluttered while tears, saturated symbols of pain, stained her skin. Yet, midst all of tragic glory Francis knew the paint could never quite dry on a relationship so tempestuous and singular. Two birds flying across the sky of life, and maybe these two blackbirds would die together he thought, and rest silently in the same grave to hold each other for eternity. Dakota’s perplexed mind peered into the void; the center which cradled his ink stained visions as darkness painted each crevice of the room black. And there is nothing more chilling than lingering clouds engulfed in darkness, Francis thought, as his mind gently drifted into the night. The slow stalking of the sky crept past the moons reflection laughing at all that witness, laughing at him perhaps. The moon is the light for the lost. The same way the sun gives life to the living, moonlight gives light to the dead. The sun slowly yawned over the horizon as silent slavery engulfed their tongues; holding words captive. Thoughts marinated inside their mind and poured through the gleams of their eyes, illuminating the enigma of their existence. It’s hard to determine the exact moment you fall in love with someone, isn’t it? It’s hard for one to tell you the temperature on the day they were born, isn’t it? but these two days are not so different. Love is a birth of uninhibited passion, and opportunity Like a pioneer placing two bare feet on a new land filled with promise and the Unknown. The flaming chill of awakened love burns the frost of lust. Trust sways as eyes dissect the truth of desire which bled slowly, underneath the moonlight’s smile. These eyes roared against pale glimmers, yet silently danced with an understanding which could not be put to words. The blushing Sunrise peered through the window of their morning serenade, and crept slowly placing its breath on their blooming lips. flowers of night turn to flowers of light.