Someone

He had tangled himself up in reasons he did not know.
For the things he had done hath marred the flow
Of life and love and everything that used to be so sweet
To him, to all living things around him.
He let his beauty be blocked by hurt
A costly price to pay for nothing in return
But suffering, a wound that shatters faith
To the end of his occluded divine breath.

How does one begin to describe when his love is lost. When it all starts at the beginning, he never expects it to end, but it all must according to the law of the universe. What goes up, must come down. But he never wanted to crash, to crater the earth and send shockwaves that would sine and cosine those he held near him, and as a result they would flee to safer ground. This is a set of circumstances. They make up the situation.

At thirteen or fourteen, he meets her, she meets him. They date. He dreams, he invests in romance and begins his wooing as exemplified by his brothers. He falls for her, and so begins the descent into the realm of love. Except that it blinds and misleads and suddenly there is a point where emotions become unequal and this imbalance between him and her and her and him disintegrates into an example of failure. He says she said his love was too strong, his emotions too much. The investment, that so looked to have paid off, shatters the piggy-bank and coins are fanned in every direction. Such is how the flood starts, and blood spills. And the rollercoaster of puberty sentences the next years to thoughts of suicide and being upset. A dastardly plan is hatched and is foiled by contact with truth. This paragraph is expressively vague.

Later, they reconcile their emotions and join again in union, to end again for another reason. Drama occurs. Up and down again. Then a separation that lasts 'til today. Strange, is this a story about love? They are no longer together. Yet they are always together, linked in some ways by sentiments that words cannot carry but merely point to in an attempt at understanding. Are these these words? No. The words in question are not written by me, whose heart is not amidst the conflict, but still within the perimeter. I know him. He doesn't know himself. Yet.

Every Point On The Line

Child, young, standing in this very spot,
Holding the escaped rebellious red ball
Looks wide-eyed at what could be th'end all,
The headlights bright, breaks heard but screaming not.
The son frozen.

"You're a legend, awesome, fantastic, the best,"
To the slaughter he now goes with all the rest.
From the white winter tops, right down to the basement
He's fallen; an abyss mirrors his replacement.
Watch and learn.

Those lessons he's receiving, to deduct the jealous,
Will purge him all of masquerading mind-made madness
For his fate is written-thus, that no self-made can alter.
With his secrets revealed, unhiding, the son cannot falter.
Be homeward bound.

No three, no four, none can claim a prize not to be won
When brothers all connect, correct and create as one.
It is forth that they must bring their minds and hearts
To unite their worth, meaning into a sum of all parts.
The lone fall.

His ways to complicate have been lost and failed,
The rhythmic contemplation, despair has sailed
Upon some wavelengths unreal, to mouths of fear.
The boy saved, has no need to run but be here.
He is returned.

What roads he has crossed, derelict, with sorrow,
Are lessons that remind him the lack of tomorrow.
He did not write himself into his being, but played a role,
An amnesia that he had to forget, to return to what is whole.
And he remains.

Watermark

Everything is happening now - that is how it's always been and how it always will be. Otherwise, you're lost somewhere else, somebody else.

A young boy is walking along the pier, half-skipping every other wooden plank. It's an easy task, legs being short, step being steady. Off he goes, further and further toward the mouth wide open, fangless (and therefore deceptively fateful). Ahead, the last plank widens and grows. The tiny feet ginger across the brown piano keys. Unheard music radiates with each minuscule descent of wood. The piece being played is one that the universe hears and is now harmonising to. It looks to be a lonely road, but no road ever is, having the company of pastures, fields, buildings, people, animals, plants, stars on each side. The young boy journeys, descending into the gaping maw destiny-bound. His pace the same, the melody joyful as it changes. The final note: eyes wide open, he bends down and there are two posts that hold up the whole instrument. The left is identical to the right, but they are not the same. See, on the right, over there, is a watermark, one that the other post does not share. A line that could easily be mistaken for an everpresent shadow that coils around the wood. Below is the lingering territory of the sea; above is within the pool of land, divided by horizon. The other post suffers dearth.

The boy's teeth glare out of his own maw as he faces the older, adult maw. Once, this was Poseidon. Once, this was Neptune. Once, it was Life. Once, it was Death. That moment - the same moment that the boy placed his belly on the planks and gazed down into two thirds of the world - the swallowing took place.

When Noah rode his ark, there was a flood to ride on, or so the story goes. Here there was no flood, but a pact. The decision made is today's remark, passed over and assumed. Land met sea and an exchange took place. Earth dove in the realm of water and learned how to swim as it penetrated the world to its recessive depths. After, either it lost air and remained at the bottom without the ability to resurface, or it meditates today, not awaiting anything in particular as we do. Water's wish was to rise, so it did, in the guise of a veil, a secret hymen. Now the sea and land are one, but they are magnificently and yet deceptively divided. Is the air that the young boy breathes not an ocean? When he swallows, he drinks. When he swims, he reaches touches land and honours the partnership, the union.

Where sea meets land, where mountain greets yonder, and where welkin touches the ocean, a great peace descends. There is no conflict, no fighting, no struggle, no strife, no defeat, no victory. There is a watermark, the place where the scales of balance stand now; a guardian of peace, never interfering, but always there to be witnessed, felt. Legs apart now, amphibian feet supporting him, the boy stands. Soon his melody is in reverse. Footsteps garnish the silent opera as it plays itself into a deeper quiet once more, where it remains.