vox clamantis in deserto


I can understand the manic state that some writers enter when they’re desperate to put words on the page. It’s the only way to immortalize what you’re feeling or thinking at that exact moment in some tangible way, lest it be lost forever. These words I’m writing now are a product of a moment that was triggered by various external factors that could likely be replicated, but it’s extremely unlikely the mood would strike to write again, and odds are astronomically low that it would be the same string of characters. Because of this, I felt some desire for them to be saved. By writing these words, I’m immortalizing something– that’s for sure– but that something is not what I’m feeling in this moment.
I don’t know what that something is.
The best I can describe it is perhaps a symbolic representation of a moment in time. Both literally and figuratively, that’s what this writing is. It’s what all written language is, I suppose. I could use descriptive terms to describe my surroundings and even tell you what song I’m listening to, but that wouldn’t be interesting to read. Or would it? It appears boring to me only because it’s lacking in novelty. On your end, what I am experiencing in this moment is a sea of endless possibility that is given form only by your imagination and my scarce use of words.
If I’m deliberately not grasping for an accurate description of the physicality of this moment, then what exactly am I grasping at?
What is the most real purpose of this, or any writing?
Maybe it’s only to get the reader’s attention– everything else is interpretation.



My pale, wretched character
feeds off greatness;
sustained by an unreachable
ideal of who I could be,
but still the embodiment
of inadequate action.

I take a deep breath
and admire that greatness,
wondering if you see
what I see;
with inspiration,
I move towards the ideal –
but only a single step.

In these moments
when I become more than I am
by looking at you,
we are equal;
so quickly the illusion

Course of Dreams

I could never be the past me,
as of yesterday that ship sailed;
witnessable here are cracks, see –
once wondrous colors now have paled;
still, strength remains within the beams,
and atop the mast a flag flies true;
ever set on the course of dreams –
hard at work, this lonely crew;
seemingly endless exhausting toil,
held together by a single reason;
to finally set foot on heaven’s soil –
maybe I will arrive next season.

A Writer’s Soul

A writer’s soul is a blind battle cry
tempered minds attempt to quiet;
its blood burns with the sun
in depths of undiscovered strength,
dreaming private conquest;
extracting elegance from discord
to forge wings with it;
this is homage to the honing
of the destruction of silence;
witness if thou wilt,
our words echo of stars.

Black Sheep

Don’t wear his wool,
it won’t help against the cold;
mistakenly removed from a fool
who never listened to what was told;

defying myriad canines snarling,
shepherds hungry to box him in place;
guided only by purring starling,
searching for his own glowing grace;

repeating remarks in a tone of snide,
feeble attempts to carve at the core;
each insult quickly taken in stride,
aiding a journey towards something more;

still, misery resides beneath his coat,
cast it aside if found lying nearby;
unless determined to be worthy of note,
passing through darkness into clear sky.

Maiden of God

Beneath the shelter of your wing
was found a solace I once thought lost,
as if permanently forsaken;
longing for the light to touch me,
and to its glory I bowed my head;
watching the ribbon unfold,
and with it, I too unfolded;

revealing unique colors in a variance
of shade that stunned
the status quo;
transcending limitation,
but in the cacophony
temporarily torn asunder;

in your hymn the respite
from turmoil was brought;
a piece of me gathered,
the image inevitably coming forth.

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