(no subject)
Jan. 30th, 2003 08:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
spokebleah. sick. something the munckins brought home, we think, but everyone's sick except them. why?! at least sis started on days today. they are at daycare, and she will be home to feed them and play with them and put them to bed and... all nephews thingies! (waves hand in air)
on the other hand, having read mention of listening to music while writing, decided to go make myself a soundtrack for the Mars poems i keep trying to do... :)
this might be working! or it might be the fever talking... but look! a sequence of events! somewhat.
landing
it is strange to be here.
this world, i never imagined
i would be amoung those seeing it.
though i worked as hard as any i know
to earn my place here. i suppose
i would not hope,
so as to never be disappointed.
still, what is stranger than my steps
leaving a trail behind me in the red sand
is the tales i have been told. more than
a world away, and across
unknown spans of time, the ruins
of a strange people wait. the stones
hold tales none can translate, yet the words
seem surreal in thier familiarity.
the storm gains in strength
as we depart for the distant ruins.
we are who we are, regardless of the stones,
and the knowledge sleeping in them... still,
all my childhood dreams are rising.
The Bones of Mars
Now we trek, across red sands
and slowly as we draw near to them
the pryamid-shapes seem familiar to me,
calling echoes of Giza summers, music
of the dancers, and the wind in tents.
at night i have begun to dream
of a warrior-king, of terrible battles
of fire raging to create the sands on which we walk
of the king as he stood on a balcony, looking out
towards or for i know not what...
As I wake I hear the voices of my companions,
who call to me to come and see the tomb,
the chamber of a royal burial, where lie treasures
strangely shaped to our eyes, and yet familiar to me.
he was wearing some of these in the dream.
what bothers me more than that
is the look in his eyes, tormented and filled
with self hatred of a depth i could have sworn
was not possible. it would serve no purpose,
and yet i feel such smpathy...
hunger
somethings are clear,
and others fade. they are a mystery
and perhaps they should remain so,
despite my desire to know. still,
sometimes i would know
everything there is to know
it is at times a need that would consume it all.
you see, it is the mark of me the shape of all i am,
and some story lying unspoken in these stones
whispers that there is more to know,
of worlds both without and within.
the wind itself is lifting stories
out of the sand and into my dreams, so that
even when the morning light comes to bear
the weight of the waking world down on me
still i can dream. drift
with the wind and the sound of brushes
the murmur of voices that pass instructions,
or speculate on all that we have found.
value, historical significance...
whispers
they whipser, since the chamber
was unearthed. of me and my health,
of me and my whispers and uncanny knowledge.
instinct, say the more generous, while i refuse
to even care as long as i can see the way.
there is so much more to be
discovered. even in the very shadows
of his death, i see thier lives; and the people
who followed the man that i was
have captured the heart of the man that i am.
this, then, is the essence of
all my newfound fascination, and shame.
if i am right in this, then how could it be,
that he did nothing to change thier fate?
is there no end to hatred, pain and fear...
they whisper, while i search
through valleys of dust and stone
for some word or sign out of the past.
what became of him, and why he turned away
from the people in my dreaming...
love comes
having become used to the dreams
it was a shock to have them change,
and still worse a shock the way. for all
that i have known lovers in my life, to think
that such a man as i was, was so blinded
by a lover that his world could fall
to ruin, and to war, and all be lost for that...
yet he shows more passion in those dreams
than i have ever felt, and i find myself
clinging to the memory of kisses.
this is surely the strangest thing,
that i have ever felt. my childhood fantasies
never featured me falling into a romance novel
however bizzare a setting it might have.
as if anyone in their right mind
could let such a thing occur. the world let burn
for a lover, indeed. of late, the others
cring away from my temper as i stalk through
the site in a rage. i do not care. they have become
of less importance than the dreams...
and love leaves
by twists and turns, i come
to a balcony. in the dream, he waits
to tell me of the war that is coming.
i tell him that i know and it is nothing;
he does not listen, and he leaves.
he leaves; it beyound
my comprehension as to why.
i love him. surely this is enough, that i
love him and would shelter him? it is not,
and my waking mind tries to reach the sleeper,
to tell him why, to stop him
from standing as our lover leaves.
it is not to be, and although logic tells me that,
it is still a dissapointment. he will go,
and already i know he will not return.
after all, i remember
that i will wake to another day
of sifting through the ruins of our world
for knowledge that everyday i care less for finding.
have all my work and dreams led only to this?
pale darkened eyes
i was the dream of wings
of wings and wind, and searing heat.
they cowered, all the distant common folk.
they no more to me than the wind. they
brought news, and a purpose served. no more.
somewhere, my dreaming self
notes that this is the way of the fall;
heights that take no notice of their support,
can no more survive that arrogance than
wings remain without the wind.
i looked to the south, to dying lands
while my concern consumed my reason.
there was no more word, nor any way to have it.
night was falling.that was the heart of my despair.
night falling upon the world of old,
letting nothing of beauty or knowledge escape
letting nothing i considered to be of worth
survive the burning of the world, while whispers
said the same of distant planets. all the hope
of existance itself seemed to be fading
i like it. still could be the fever talking, but i like!
could also be the fever saying there's subtext in Parasite Eve and a point of view series shifting between Aya and Eve/Melissa would be neat...
hey, if it is the fever talking, i like the way it thinks, too! ;)
on the other hand, having read mention of listening to music while writing, decided to go make myself a soundtrack for the Mars poems i keep trying to do... :)
this might be working! or it might be the fever talking... but look! a sequence of events! somewhat.
landing
it is strange to be here.
this world, i never imagined
i would be amoung those seeing it.
though i worked as hard as any i know
to earn my place here. i suppose
i would not hope,
so as to never be disappointed.
still, what is stranger than my steps
leaving a trail behind me in the red sand
is the tales i have been told. more than
a world away, and across
unknown spans of time, the ruins
of a strange people wait. the stones
hold tales none can translate, yet the words
seem surreal in thier familiarity.
the storm gains in strength
as we depart for the distant ruins.
we are who we are, regardless of the stones,
and the knowledge sleeping in them... still,
all my childhood dreams are rising.
The Bones of Mars
Now we trek, across red sands
and slowly as we draw near to them
the pryamid-shapes seem familiar to me,
calling echoes of Giza summers, music
of the dancers, and the wind in tents.
at night i have begun to dream
of a warrior-king, of terrible battles
of fire raging to create the sands on which we walk
of the king as he stood on a balcony, looking out
towards or for i know not what...
As I wake I hear the voices of my companions,
who call to me to come and see the tomb,
the chamber of a royal burial, where lie treasures
strangely shaped to our eyes, and yet familiar to me.
he was wearing some of these in the dream.
what bothers me more than that
is the look in his eyes, tormented and filled
with self hatred of a depth i could have sworn
was not possible. it would serve no purpose,
and yet i feel such smpathy...
hunger
somethings are clear,
and others fade. they are a mystery
and perhaps they should remain so,
despite my desire to know. still,
sometimes i would know
everything there is to know
it is at times a need that would consume it all.
you see, it is the mark of me the shape of all i am,
and some story lying unspoken in these stones
whispers that there is more to know,
of worlds both without and within.
the wind itself is lifting stories
out of the sand and into my dreams, so that
even when the morning light comes to bear
the weight of the waking world down on me
still i can dream. drift
with the wind and the sound of brushes
the murmur of voices that pass instructions,
or speculate on all that we have found.
value, historical significance...
whispers
they whipser, since the chamber
was unearthed. of me and my health,
of me and my whispers and uncanny knowledge.
instinct, say the more generous, while i refuse
to even care as long as i can see the way.
there is so much more to be
discovered. even in the very shadows
of his death, i see thier lives; and the people
who followed the man that i was
have captured the heart of the man that i am.
this, then, is the essence of
all my newfound fascination, and shame.
if i am right in this, then how could it be,
that he did nothing to change thier fate?
is there no end to hatred, pain and fear...
they whisper, while i search
through valleys of dust and stone
for some word or sign out of the past.
what became of him, and why he turned away
from the people in my dreaming...
love comes
having become used to the dreams
it was a shock to have them change,
and still worse a shock the way. for all
that i have known lovers in my life, to think
that such a man as i was, was so blinded
by a lover that his world could fall
to ruin, and to war, and all be lost for that...
yet he shows more passion in those dreams
than i have ever felt, and i find myself
clinging to the memory of kisses.
this is surely the strangest thing,
that i have ever felt. my childhood fantasies
never featured me falling into a romance novel
however bizzare a setting it might have.
as if anyone in their right mind
could let such a thing occur. the world let burn
for a lover, indeed. of late, the others
cring away from my temper as i stalk through
the site in a rage. i do not care. they have become
of less importance than the dreams...
and love leaves
by twists and turns, i come
to a balcony. in the dream, he waits
to tell me of the war that is coming.
i tell him that i know and it is nothing;
he does not listen, and he leaves.
he leaves; it beyound
my comprehension as to why.
i love him. surely this is enough, that i
love him and would shelter him? it is not,
and my waking mind tries to reach the sleeper,
to tell him why, to stop him
from standing as our lover leaves.
it is not to be, and although logic tells me that,
it is still a dissapointment. he will go,
and already i know he will not return.
after all, i remember
that i will wake to another day
of sifting through the ruins of our world
for knowledge that everyday i care less for finding.
have all my work and dreams led only to this?
pale darkened eyes
i was the dream of wings
of wings and wind, and searing heat.
they cowered, all the distant common folk.
they no more to me than the wind. they
brought news, and a purpose served. no more.
somewhere, my dreaming self
notes that this is the way of the fall;
heights that take no notice of their support,
can no more survive that arrogance than
wings remain without the wind.
i looked to the south, to dying lands
while my concern consumed my reason.
there was no more word, nor any way to have it.
night was falling.that was the heart of my despair.
night falling upon the world of old,
letting nothing of beauty or knowledge escape
letting nothing i considered to be of worth
survive the burning of the world, while whispers
said the same of distant planets. all the hope
of existance itself seemed to be fading
i like it. still could be the fever talking, but i like!
could also be the fever saying there's subtext in Parasite Eve and a point of view series shifting between Aya and Eve/Melissa would be neat...
hey, if it is the fever talking, i like the way it thinks, too! ;)
