Jul 2, 2012 / 1 note

All things yet to be shaped

in From These Hands (music by I’ve Lost) released by Heart and Soul Publishers


As the air becomes solid
A glimpse of perspiration
Envelops the surface in the dew of morning 

———

The incomplete self stands tall
Lungs filled with thick air
And hands firmly grasping grains of sand
Made of steel the dandelion
Embraces it with gentle arms

 

And not even daybreak
Can stop the stillness of the lovers’ dance
As if motion was nothing but an illusion
Sold cheaply by the merchants of dreams 

———

The absence of the heart is nothing more than
The illusion of the beating 

———

We sell dreams of satisfaction and dismay
Like ships that sail away

 

We offer reveries like twinkling glasses of wine
Crushed by the strength of the enthusiasm 

———

I gift you this desert
So that you can grow your luxuriant garden

 

I show you my crossroads
So that you can walk me the path

 

I guide you into my night
So that you can again show me light 

————

As the black of glass become milky
The veil of night overcomes the notion of movement
Leaving nothing but a faint perfume of skin 

————

It begins again
A gentle gust of wind lifting the body
Like smoke rings within a soft spiral
Surviving undercurrents and upper turmoils

 

A chance to become what has been lost
So many times before
And yet again

 

Like a dandelion made not of steel but cotton
Dressed and then naked
Over and over

 

In the open urban night
There is no pulse anymore
Only the deepest frequency
Of each passing ghost

 

That shatters the dandelion’s heart of steel

 

And the bare figure
Incased within four walls
Finds itself alone
Amidst old pictures and dust
Faint representations of what could have been
The alienated past 

———

As lips touch the forefront
The electrical sweat discharges
What little was left of power within itself 

———

In god we trust
Our nature
Ourselves
Lost in translation

 

Trying to transduce smoke into solid rock
As if from our own fingers a figure takes shape

 

In ourselves we trust
The work of creation 

———

I am the unfinished figure and the dandelion made of steel
I am the merchant of dreams and the ship that sails away

 

I am all things yet to be shaped
A grain of sand yet to become a desert
A drop of water waiting for the storm
A spark of light at the tallest hour of the winter night

  1. subterminal posted this