Mirror Hill

  Mirror Hill 

  Today, I take myself to the edge of Mirror Hill. It has been a long day, a day where I feel lost, dropped from my path and left to wander with idle wrath. Fighting to keep myself from breaking into million different parts. Only to end up as a broken as a doll on a shelf praying for the aging girl to pick me up.

But times change and I must accept that I am no longer the hot toy of today. So I must work, change, find myself a better me, a better way, adapt to that which will give me praise.

 And here I am, ink and page, sitting atop Mirror Hill, where it leaps to the bounds of the clouds and is found to be the place of quiet sounds and inspiration. Do not get mixed that this shall be thoughts of rhymes, I merely took trap to my own often annoying scheme to rhyme.

  So let us begin, let us drive our eyes into the thoughts of my aging bones and fading mind.

  There secretes this bitter taste of lemons from this open view. I sit with ghosts in my hands as I hang them from the branches of my heart. They sway to the quiet melody of the winds as I kiss my wounds with supple lips.

  But strings of the dire catch to my jaw like tar. Stringing with malleable ease but hot to the touch. And so with frantic fingers I pry this viscous substance from my flesh. But it pulls and pulls, tangling itself upon my hands like webs.

  I am stuck with my hands covered in blackness. In shadows and desperation to be free. My ghosts howl in the whisper of the night as I look up with tears. Tasting their lonesome presence like the crispness of fall.

  A shiver cox my spine, I shake. I begin to weep and cry out, "Oh why do I do this, why do I play in the dark and sob in the morning sun? What wicked hold has taken me? What somber curse was I given? Am I of something other than this, than this agony, or am I what I am? A silhouette of these swaying ghosts? 

  I confine my thoughts to these dark episodes for, forever, since I can remember. They have been my company since young age. Like scars forgotten of their incident, they remain. But the memory of their touch is forgotten.

  So they plague with an unanswered and tedious existence. My soul is tattered but these ghosts give no voice. They speak only in tones of soft misery. But how beautiful be there bitter softness. Like a sad song in the most depressed of times. A strange comfort, a comfort that should not be, but is.

  This sour taste never leaves my mouth but in my sleep. So I rest when I am heavy and quietly slip into the abyss of the unimaginable. Creating a vision of lucid lines tied to loosely held narratives. It is the only place I find peace but it is quickly shattered by the waking of reality.

 I wake to the aroma of a dead summer. Where the scent of decay lingers like rotting apples against frozen blades of grass. But I am fond of it in a strange way, why?

  My heart as it holds these ghosts, I take up my pen and design. I write what falls so easily and pluck with rage what resists. And often what is pulled from force, from the angered grip of my hands, ends up being the swell of great thoughts.

  It may at times be ladled with misery and swaddled with the callous flesh of despair. But they sprout so well once taken from their grave. Their violent grave of erupting tragedy, like stars dying off in the distance.

  My heart races with pleasure from these graves as I find the words, the echoes that need to be heard. I take to them like a painter to colors. They call and each stroke finds meaning, purpose. Each brings something the next cannot bring.

  This open view, beneath the tree of my heart, I look with solemn eyes but this time I do not weep so uncontrollably. For these ghosts are not here with resolution to harm, but rather give meaning to that which is still growing.

  So I take my ink and press it tightly to the pages of my life and write. The sun is cresting over the caps of the mountains but I do not fear its blazing touch no more. I find all shades of life to bring glory to design, to thought, to soul.

  Let us all not forget the misery that beseeches us but, do not let us forget the grace that will welcome us.
What are your thoughts in the waking for mornings? 
What ghosts hang from your heart and what purpose do you give them?

Take care the heart, it is the only one you have, A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words

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