Moonspell

Moonspell

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Now with time the known distance a great rage becomes power

The light in the valley of spring made by the dawn in summer

A sea wave pulled from shore to stormcloud by a thousand oars

As rain on the land behind the sun rising against mountains

A rage of thoughts a glowing in wicked sight of dale at twilight

Of latent night sky the rising dark against lightning from absent sky

This earth and stars meeting with flash against the moonlight shadows

A vision escaping from ground where arclight escapes the fertile earth

The fire of life tearing thru echo to dark heaven thunderous back

A sky of towerous mountain valleys of moonlight attack the thin air

In rake paucity instincts wrecks ancient blinding light torn in two

As soaring wings evade detection separating directions travail

As bashing pads of brutish bears contest disdain their foes avail

As snakes moving surely slowly growing farther with iron scale

The veil seams and gate armor of glowing fog thrown open aside

A world brightened by original glow covers unknown always infinite

A blanket of magical illusion binds the truth of faithless uncertainty

A sea of tranquility drowning the oceans of timeless adventures

With thunderous echo trees of the stars crack and fade into clouds

Then brightness spreads over a world without darkness or echo

The fearing glow of eyes blue in a wave glaring bright within

If a swordsman cut half a mountain to see the ocean from the sky

As dreams of artists painting mirrors made of ice in cerulean dream

To a petal of lilac flying thru a field of tulips in the madness of spring

A soulshield of energy radiates the mysteries of the summer sea

The magic of day is sound of life as air from some nearby ocean

In ways that skies make rivers on mountains that find other waters

In days where sun on snow makes cotton clouds and warm winds

Embrace of the three faces and the song in the land sower name

Tide of time drowns safety in this endless daylight domain aground

These steps of forgetfulness and thoughts between stepping forgets

The dreams from poems about flaxen strands and masks informality

In patterns of ivy the mind reaches over broken mountains once castles

Waves brushing painted breezes made for trees and the chosen one

Lost in braids and clues on winding search of first or final light and dark

So that each step seems missing steps in the land between shadows

Surreal sight creates nature as thoughts are powerless fundamentals

Counting crows to wait for foes like premonitions in memories distant

Unable to read what present illusion confronts with animalian fears

With every move the steps erase like the snowblind rules of dreams

Approaching the guardian where silent hill rises from the dark mist

With the warmest night of summer the vision of dark mirage unwit

With rising dark mountain half and sunset sinking from sunset view

With cold spine on mountain winds whispers and eyes on the summit

To the ancient height without answer and endless chosen question

At the hour, roth and stage faced and standing with the dark monarch

Robed arms and hooded eyes darkened by the earth-surfaced ash

Light on skin within the woolen cloak ruling their moonlight shadow

Time becomes life and breath becomes night in all futile resistance oft

In aether rising flit in light with fiery eyes of a thousand darknesses

|

The Other Way Around

I found a device that finishes my thoughts if they're mine. Tho it could be my first conscience, my thought comports recording myself more, but could be my subconscious coping with what can't be told without sounding crazy. Antagonistic lizards from space, hyper-intelligent koalas from the future, and the sound of nature as a secret code to shine a light on the shadow governments of the world, thank you ever so.

Sixers, six act short stories, two will be written per day and the other will be posted here, so if you'd like to unsubscribe before January 1st it's now or never. When I post/schedule Dec 31 I'll add the day it was written to knowing how long it took me to do it. Replacing and timestamping the occasional post with some other projects. After that, whom knows.

Dekm'Hetnos.Was gift years ten for me now, On have learned nothing to me,When becoming days years how,Become growth of summer tree,In winter trees never will bow,From spring a decade's roots climb,The seeds with potential to vow,Sunlight searches all of time.Dekm'Hetnos.

I'm about to hide morals in stories and quandaries in poems for 366 days, but I'll leave this year and decade with a contradiction that can't be countered because it's a question as every answer.

The tree waves it's leaves at the giraffe, the fruit at humans, and the thorns at its thieves. Bears with honey and sharks with blood. The first newspapers attracted buyers with headlines to improve their printing press, the first blogs gather eyes with clickbait, and arguably we all cherish the truth for what truth can be, or at least what doesn't split our wigs and russell our jimmies. Is appearance clickbait, does it mirror our truth, can our opinions even be changed by who knows the truth or who doesn't?

Sing a song of the past and study the future. Not the other way around.

/

And we have killed him...

So many assumings that nature has rules, when there are rules and then against all laws there is this magic too fast for me to write, something true to emotion and the echoes blending together, where anglophones see oddly difference between empire and expire. It would be a farce, protesting contesting by the roles reversed, and yet almost there are none in the lunatics. Searching for thoughts and somehow a need to strafe and launch, above and below. You do listen to songs, and somehow music is larger, antethetical, perithetical, postthetical, the self important poetry, and already there are despots who can sleep, not so much as a matter of ethos or logos or pathos, but mythos, for o how many times have the laws and songs and poems wrote of despots who never woke. 

Difficulty is an instance, not an infinitive. 

Sikar / Springtime

Sikar / Springtime

I can’t believe this traveler,

A year ago without travelling,

My future is welcome,

Not the source of the light,

But I would go once,

The quickening shadows,

And it was good for me,

My brain was emotional,

Unaware of new beginning,

Sight of the great darkness,

Forgotten breath of time,

After myself began again,

Remembering the ways,

In fantasy of many times,

Helping from the well,

Pulling shadow from star,

Hair with the subtle light,

In subtle sound anon,

Without memory pains,

Lucky to battle myself again,

We blink each eye,

Are we happen and stance,

Behind our own eyes,

Certain without power,

Building for a purpose,

Insight of better self,

These stars immutable,

Thru nights of sleep,

Reflections connecting,

Over glittering ocean,

Break into the better,

In this ancient place,

Where we now stand,

The air in your veins,

Blood in bones ancient,

Brighter than the sun.

Yuk-Tor, (Vulcan 1)

kuvor-tor skek-nash-veh 

nam-tor wehk-figlazhau yel 

tvai ugelik wilat au

boshau dular div svi'run 

sagana vah tular ka'a stukhtra-veh

nam-tor tehnesaya maut-zungor

rik katra-ha'gelet

bek-tor yuk wilat

Geni Vas Laco

At the sunset the horizon fills the sky, for the tides of thought are the breaking waves together and many, I dance in the center of light and feel pulled in all directions from the truth of all wisdom toward the hearts of infinite desires.

Our hopes are the tide of wit and joy tearing apart mountains of aged certainty and despots of our time, unable to bridge the lights of the dimensions with gateways of minds or echoes of truths, as are gone from the timeline of infinite loss, unable to remember what has been taken because it is not a memory of action, but yet a charge against our willpower mercy and tireless fight amongst the warmth of others.

It isn't known if this the vanishing truth is the only one, or the fading darkness is the custom or the cost, without knowing if circumstances are predictable in the shadow of itself or the causality of usual things, trusting with the fear of a young soul that it had not happened in waking dreams.

Riots of rebellion in questioning existence or garnering favor all in the existential questions, demanding more from the fountain of youth and staring at the stars, to where it is now another reflection, from this side of the dark mirror, of the living infinite, and the terrible question.

The negative space unbearably wasted, the impenetrable unknown that wanes with the loss of so many, that waxes with the ignorance that comes with incapable excuses at this egregious moment, in the world of the living, where now they bow to matters that must not take any reality for granted, to honor those that traveled on the surface of time and lived with infinite balance.

"Too much sanity may be madness and the maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be."
~ Miguel de Cervantes

Verily, I

“If you don't read the newspaper, you're uninformed. If you read the newspaper, you're misinformed.”  #MarkTwain 

It has come to my awareness that I am a sentient being, in all its wonder, glory on the surface world of light and memory and existence, all things being equal would mean all things are the same, when we all know that's not even true in the mirror half the time.

I'm sorry I haven't been posting a lot, I've been off world. 

So let's get thru the indigestible part. Being outside half the radius of the galaxy, in the podunk outreaches, altho less likely than at its center, there's no doubt in my mind that you've met a psychic, time traveler, extraterrestrial, remote controlled exploration clone, standard clone, humanoid in a human suit, or any combination thereof. It's not that hard to imagine, they see the errors of our ways and either excuse them from familiarity as a universal constant of sentient life, and/or, laff their collective asses clean off. 

I do the same, from time to time. 

This humane revelation becomes me, but there's always that notion of conformity to the evolutionary participle, the survival mode that in our species' early stages or our potential shared by the sentient around the known universe, here and there, to improve the situation beyond the scope of improvisation and into capability. 

By this I mean the wandering idiots. 

I speak of the people who still speak for others and have no thoughts of their own. I would say do not listen to 'this' or 'that' and you would, perhaps even in anger, taking time to defend the source, they couldn't be wrong in your empty mind, the change from talking to me scares you, or the chance of being wrong confuses you to anger. 

When I was your age.

Those who speak without improving silence, defending lies in good faith, even if I give no fucks that day, infect others that would cross my path, my very essence devoted to a sacrosanct expectation that explanation of fact isn't required, and I'd even go as far to say, I share this with you now, not of my opinion, nor my society, but my planet you threaten with heavy lies. 

The unlikely beginnings of individualism.

It all begins with somewhere a dilettante, a person famous for being famous, an expert renowned only for being known as an expert, decides to swindle thru life, then when that warmth dies they sacrifice an unwavering moral principle to the proverbial fire to stay warm. If there isn't a problem, they make one. A news outlet reporting on riots they began, the self-liberalized protester banging on the table hoping for Uncle Sam to uneasily make them stop to prove that uneasy things happen, has proven that poverty is the great equalizers, idiots love poverty, and liars love idiots. 

Going too far with 'the message'. 

I mean, when you protest the heroes, it makes no sense, and I want it to stop. I get so confused, some countries have a plethora of political castes that share interests with simpler systems, and in 'the states' it seems that even the two party system has the same goals, but without generalizing one side or the other, i don't even have-to really, the correction escapes everyone because of the terminology and the flaws go unnoticed because of the idea that there is another side to things. There are no sides anymore. You're on a planet. One, lame, planet. An island in the stars. With no amount of certainty I can say someone is going to take what you take, or don't take (seems more accurate), for granted. Everyone deserves a chance to help, if you refuse to help, then let the truth fade away while reality bites you in the lazy ass. The vents are open and i'm closing them, but I just want all to know, one of the few things I can promise in this universe, if you go looking for an enemy, you're gonna find one.

Si me buscas, me encuentras. 

~mjbanks

Shapeshifter soul

Mountains do not reinvent themselves, they are torn by vine and rain and the living. Matter passes thru the circle of existence into the next stage of reality, and when the mountains fill the oceans and the world turns on itself, the depth of the earth will lash at space, the burst of rage at the cold silence like waking sleep and blind memory. If each seed of the world bows to the next, then each plant fears no man, by series of progress only the obstacle can become the path. 

-----

A human opens their mind to the divine, standing still among many and among none, This is the nature of consciousness, subject to definition as a perspective of either lifeforms above us or below us, distinction reserved for the observer. Begin your world anew.  

A mind seeks identity, overlooking themselves for illusions, distrusting their reflections and replacing success with demise. Begin yourself anew. 

Seeing others, peace becomes the only refuge for those in danger or in madness, we find enemies when we look for them, and they find us just the same, if the enemy insanity the manifestation reciprocates. Begin your trust anew. 

Finding ourselves as the form which society allows, an individual contrasts itself to entities of commerce, tradition, and mere laws, until it begins to reject problems or become them, rejecting culture until attaining individual thought. Begin your search anew. 

It finds nature as all life, holding onto reality until rejoining the river of time, which time is the great wilderness of all ways, by and from each individual construct of eternity to every remittance of immortality in the fires of reincarnation. Begin your life anew. 

We can enter the spiritual plane, as endless echoes of memories does consciousness allow hidden worlds and unknown magic of the afterlife, where the reflection of sound meets an emotion's energy, dreams are easily thrown into a storm when reality is incomplete or undefined. Begin your dream anew. 

They doubt the singularity, fathomless contribution and unrequited identity, which rain drops cannot reverse quantum weight in vapor, countless systems of innumerable elements minuscule aside vacuous celestial spaces, as lightning having a singular direction, the compression merely a portal of the ethereal world, as fire flees embers to seek the cold, so does the plant reach for stars, as light among infinite supercilious energies, so does perpetuation destroy itself. Begin your day anew.