Lost Souls

Where evil becomes the predator, forever driving a Rolls Royce onto a highway paved with the innocent. Is there any redemption for the lost ones? They move through the shadows plying their deceptions, creating the pain, eating at the corners of our existence. I truly do contemplate. Forever seeding my dreams and my realities....
Darkness permeates, and moves like a mist of affliction, taking us like a black plague, in their actions and with the debauchery of their cold existence. Having no true consciousness.. We shall overcome, and in our ways endure the on slot, forever the light. Forever becoming the talisman of our destinies, and the soldiers of our existence.
Within the dream lay the reality of human nature, the back laid bare from the whip, every lash trading violence and roses. Continuing to take what is not theirs, demons all, tearing at the fabric of the soul, only so that they my indulge in greed, lust and the harbinger of deceit and violations. Fight soldiers so that you may dream and live within an existence of pure thought and of pure love....Reaching the threshold of your own existence in peace.

The Harbinger Within

All I remember is moving through the river’s course, eyes searching the deep blue sky, which was only broken by the occasional branch of a low hanging aspen slipping through my peripheral vision. It had seemed like ages since this river had taken me on its loving journey through the canyons of my dreams, reflecting against the silence of my own heart, the beat becoming the sound and pulse of the dark water which cradled me in its cool comfort.  

I am truly at the center of the soul. The two no longer struggling to become the one, floating along the outer edges as the sun casts warm fingers across an ageless primordial landscape. My eyes close for a moment in pitch black, and then the sound of singing filters though a clouded warm mist. A reflection of my weathered face gazing at me from a broken mirror, a reflection somehow distorted around the lines of light and shadow…. Fading, then back again to the river moving ever to gently across to the other side.

Marilyn’s Soft White Slippers 

Looking behind the mask that is the city of angels, it moves through your veins like a bad drug. The soul caught halfway in diluted hallucinations and the other half in the distortion of living. It often brings up the question’s that drive us to madness and eventually to a death….. But isn't it preordained in a sense?

The bedroom was flooded in darkness and soft moonlight with the latter shooting through divided curtains and casting a white blue glow across her pale blond features.  I lit a smoke and studied her for a moment, lying beside her among the disheveled bedding. Her life interrupted streamed through my mind’s eye like a moving picture in sepia celluloid…. For the first time certain angst caught me in surprise, traveling like a spirit mist through a timeless dark landscape that was Norma Jean. 

She stirred slightly as the last few warm breaths expelled. Her soul no longer in turmoil.

Beautiful child within the dream, fragmented for only a brief moment.

I stood and walked softly to her side of the bed, crushing my cigarette in the glass ashtray next to her bottled prescriptions on the bedside stand, touching her softly with the other hand and coaxing her soul into flight. 

I reached down onto the floor and took her soft white slippers into my hands and brought them to a cold cheek, feeling the last warmth of the living…. But that warmth slowly dissipated as her essence now stood in the black shadows of the room, eyes gently incandescent, knowing.  I extended my hand to her as I dropped the slippers……… We both walked together along the void and into the night, guiding her towards a distant pinpoint of light.

She never looked back.

Lost Horizons

Within the dark center of us all resides a paradise lost, the place we desire to be, and to some never obtain.... It only lay to the horizon, close, but it seems to move forward ten miles as you only advance one, forever. I sometimes dream of my Shangri-La... It opens to a vista of forests that seems to disappear in the distance within a clouded mist, only the presence of shadow permeates the essence of its existence. The dark forest, the place of solitude, where angels seem to fly through the broken sunlight keeping the balance between good and evil.

Then ends with me standing in its mist, close, but yet again so far....

I moved through the traffic calculating the distance between vehicles, passing, moving through the crowded city like a wisp, projecting the surroundings like a devil on steroids, heading for a destination we all call hell.

The corporation.... The bleeder of souls.

What in the distant future will reside in its existence, the power to enslave, the power to induce nightmares. Only to the ones caught in its web...... We, the minions of its dark machine, greed and gluttony...Like zombies forever feeding on the flesh of society.

Needful things.  

The rationalization of thought and indulgence.

My path in this life is guided only by the left hand that lies at my side, the one that points 

indiscriminately in any direction. Not unlike a faulty compass pointing northeasterly today but also pointing south tomorrow as if that is the earth’s magnetic pull within my reality or dreams. It’s my own private enigma. I truly am the slave to needful things, and am guided to it's eventuality at any given time.

The art that drives and feeds us to the center of the soul. It may be spiritual, or an object of 

creation in paint, metal, mechanics, clay, nature, or the eye candy of certain motion pictures, 

light, dark and the endless shades in between. 

 My pen scratched along the white paper surface, the dialogue stark and introverted 

mixed only with that single sound. I hesitated for a moment and read the written words, then between them in their vast nothingness. I threw the paper aside and began to sketch out my 

thoughts…..The ink pen no longer scratched at the surface as if telling me this was now and in

 this moment the time to express in idle doodling. Pen and ink and the occasional splash of 

water color.