Moved Out!

So I have moved to another blogger space, you can now find me here... :))

...

for her the crystal rivers sing 

for her the sweet lover sweet tidings brings

for her the saffron clad heroes swing

for her the rainbow in a teardrop lingers

for her the colours merge vibrant red

for her the water runs into blood

for her the red teardrop dies in a stain

for her the anger, the anger burns...

unispired language
unfinished conversations she said...
the world around her disappeared
its only a painted canvas distraught...
stretched ahead a pathless journey
sparks of empty time and crowded space...
the twisted flames of sleepless nights
she tries in vain to sculpt herself...

I just read a series of letters written to a dead person. A series of letters written by a wife to her husband. A series of letters written by a loving wife to her husband who was killed by her own son. A series of letters that took me through the goriest recesses of the mind of a blank boy, his blank mother, and my own blank self. For a moment or a few more I would rather dismiss all of it, the world itself as “horseshit”. Kevin was not sure of surety a few years after the sordid Thursday became the Thursday. A stack of unaddressed envelopes with letters that explore and force to explore is what I found surrounding the emptiness around me. I will not name the book for fear of taking an experience away from the incidental few who may read this post. However, if the fictitious few who read this post have also read what I just got done reading know the hurt from an arrow shot from the bow of shallow consumerism.

I will write more on the subject once I have recovered from the initial blow of Lionel Shriver’s attack.

psyche

quite random....but i like what came off the randomness.. :)