Inspired by Dia...
Perhaps, in my soul...I'm just a poet.
a wordsmith, one who fashions his heart and mind in ways to move words in ways to communicate what was once just random thought. I try yet perhaps will never be the most successful or best of these...poets, but that is what i am, in my soul.
words...
I once overheard two voices in my head...one a wiseman, who i believe may have represented my logic and common sense. He had a face that was always lost in thought, and his brow always heavy. He gazed deeply into everything and walked as if he cared the very world on his shoulders, he knew my concsience and dwelled in my mind. The other voice was that of a poet, his voice was perhaps the most familiar of all the voices in my head because, he was the closest to my heart, for he dwelled near there and wrote the songs i sang.
They spoke of many things, they wiseman and the poet, they spoke of and philosophies and memories...they brought out images in my mind that no man will ever see, that is, apart from myself. I've tried to fashion many of these thoughts into words, to no avail, but they always saw the images and knew them well.
On one occasion, these two, the poet and the wiseman found a picture of you in my mind, a beautiful memory that we once shared. they sat with this memory in hand, contemplating it's dementions, asking themselves was it happy or sad, deep or shallow? after a few moments, which was normally the case, for he could not stand the silence, the Poet spoke up. "Nothing in this memory is of any worth, the smells, the sites are all useless...except for this face. We know this face for this face is my muse. It has been in our dreams and our memories from our beginning. I will fashion words into a poem in honor of the muse, and the muse will favor this poem." "Words?" the wiseman laughed, "words are meaningless, they are but shells, never opening enough, never revealing enough to find a thought or the depths of this heart. you're a fool to think, boy, that you could ever give the muse this...this gift of words. You will be mocked and the oracles will speak to you no more.
your words, mere poet, are nothing to this muse, for the muses can see through your eyes and peer into the soul, why spend your life in agony simply looking to give in return....these meaningless words."
the poet sighed and in his reply rang the tones of my very soul, with heavy conviction, he replied..
"we are but a shell, meaningless, void, deprived, without joy...
these words are but that very spirit of emptiness leaping from my tongue for if i am just a shell, then emptiness is my song. I am but a man that knows nothing beyond this life and yet looks only in that direction. these words are my gift for this, my muse, for it knows my emptiness and in these words the muse may see that I have been given hope and the spirit now fills this void"
after a few moments, we all went our ways, the poet to heart, the wiseman to thought and i fell back to sleep.
Perhaps, in my soul...I'm just a poet.
a wordsmith, one who fashions his heart and mind in ways to move words in ways to communicate what was once just random thought. I try yet perhaps will never be the most successful or best of these...poets, but that is what i am, in my soul.
words...
I once overheard two voices in my head...one a wiseman, who i believe may have represented my logic and common sense. He had a face that was always lost in thought, and his brow always heavy. He gazed deeply into everything and walked as if he cared the very world on his shoulders, he knew my concsience and dwelled in my mind. The other voice was that of a poet, his voice was perhaps the most familiar of all the voices in my head because, he was the closest to my heart, for he dwelled near there and wrote the songs i sang.
They spoke of many things, they wiseman and the poet, they spoke of and philosophies and memories...they brought out images in my mind that no man will ever see, that is, apart from myself. I've tried to fashion many of these thoughts into words, to no avail, but they always saw the images and knew them well.
On one occasion, these two, the poet and the wiseman found a picture of you in my mind, a beautiful memory that we once shared. they sat with this memory in hand, contemplating it's dementions, asking themselves was it happy or sad, deep or shallow? after a few moments, which was normally the case, for he could not stand the silence, the Poet spoke up. "Nothing in this memory is of any worth, the smells, the sites are all useless...except for this face. We know this face for this face is my muse. It has been in our dreams and our memories from our beginning. I will fashion words into a poem in honor of the muse, and the muse will favor this poem." "Words?" the wiseman laughed, "words are meaningless, they are but shells, never opening enough, never revealing enough to find a thought or the depths of this heart. you're a fool to think, boy, that you could ever give the muse this...this gift of words. You will be mocked and the oracles will speak to you no more.
your words, mere poet, are nothing to this muse, for the muses can see through your eyes and peer into the soul, why spend your life in agony simply looking to give in return....these meaningless words."
the poet sighed and in his reply rang the tones of my very soul, with heavy conviction, he replied..
"we are but a shell, meaningless, void, deprived, without joy...
these words are but that very spirit of emptiness leaping from my tongue for if i am just a shell, then emptiness is my song. I am but a man that knows nothing beyond this life and yet looks only in that direction. these words are my gift for this, my muse, for it knows my emptiness and in these words the muse may see that I have been given hope and the spirit now fills this void"
after a few moments, we all went our ways, the poet to heart, the wiseman to thought and i fell back to sleep.
I cannot express the boundless joy that I feel reading this exquisite outpouring, and feeling the depth of sincerity of your profound soul-searching, questioning. You have succeeded in your goal. You have found the marrow of life. You have talked back to the wiseman. You have been the wiser man for it. In your post, I see that what is meant to prevail, life itself, the core, the plasma, the blood pulse of the cosmos, has prevailed.
Now I have no words for you, for you have said them all yourself. You have leapt without looking, and have won. Kahlil Gibran himself would be beaming. I know I am. I am so proud of you, so proud, beyond these silly words, I'd have to show you with my eyes for you to even fathom it. You have given back. Don't fear. You have given me. Faith. Again. And it's not that my Faith ever falters, I always knew you had some very special creature living underneath the prison walls of your fleshcage.
I read this aloud, to remind myself of what beauty was, and then I did it again and remembered again and again. Did anyone ever tell you you were beautiful, and really, really mean it?
Angel. You. Walking. Through Dreams. That spill back into life, like an angel's dreams do, for the dreams of an angel are the fire of the sun and the thing that is awake and is God and is better then God.