Split Personality

These ancient pathways I walk,

The directness of them.

The evolutionary stages of my kind

The indirectness of some.

I'm wont to become the Wise man

I was in previous lifetimes

So these questions in my head

Could be answered by him.

He could reason with the animal in me

That bays only under cloak of drink,

Scars the rest of me

And disintegrates my entire being, slowly.

ーーーーーー

I wish for once in a lifetime,

That profoundness and clarity

Came to me holistically.

Trembled the inner branches of my tree.

Silenced the animal that speaks to me.

So that the locus of my soul,

Could form my own personal ideology.

I'd never bend an ear in the direction of suggestion.

I could rely solely on the whispers

Of the eternal me.

Blended into the cosmic light

Bathed in the truth of sanctity.

It's easier to divide this lifetime into infinite lifetimes 

And separate yourself to many forms, to give answers.

Yet, by being undone, we miss that which is.

The clarity of simplicity,

Cannot be temporal ecstasy.

Can only be

The bellow of infinity.

Born Adventurers

I've heard that we are born scientists.

With an innate and discerning curiosity for the world.

I've heard we are born artists,

whose dreams reach far into the unknown.

What about the born adventurers?

Those whose sense of curiosity and dreaming

launch them so far,

that the body has no choice but to follow.

We cannot be one with anything

but the slow progression of our travel. 

We see the world as a sphere of possibilities,

incorruptible, yet so very fragile.

Fear is merely a door into which we must pass 

to understand the real beauty of a moment.

Fear reinforces our courage, makes us stronger.

It possesses the moment with such severity,

that in it, our minds are brought to a new level of awakening.

To see life in this way,

with such a sense of oneness and clarity,

is what adventurers crave. 

We are molded into the feeling of wanderlust,

with the smell of thunderstorms,

the rumble of earthquakes,

the touch of early morning sun. 

It's more than the meaning of life style.

It's identity,

a craving,

undying,

and up lifting.

The fulfillment which culminates 

into a new sense of wonderment.

Veni, Vidi, Vici.

 

Marble

Life,

Up to this point

Had been a constant struggle

Of what I dreamed to become

And what I became.

But along this path

The dismal earthquake,

Of my reality

Brought out the slow temporal beauty of all my deep dreams.

Reality is tricky

It's beauty is abrasive,

It's light in nighttime cities,

And oceans from home.

Dreams are elusive,

It's seeing the potential of things,

And watching the wonder of your choices unravel before you.

Is there nothing more beautiful,

than fighting the hate of your reality,

Only to witness the slow grace of your dreams unfold?

The real test is taking advantage of the blessings of a lifetime of dreaming,

Not trampling your choices underfoot,

And becoming what you always imagined you'd be.

Jewel of Indonesia.

These glimmering lights,

So new. 

Everything is new, 

I want the skyscrapers

And the walking populous.

The lion city,

The jewel of Indonesia.

So jagged,

So hungry for more.

I've seen the women of little India

And felt the brush of fine Chinese silk. 

The American dream persists. 

It becomes something finer,

And yet I hate it. 

It is me

Or perhaps the sign in between.

Am I elated because of my freedom, 

Or because the beauty of this jungle 

Takes my breath away?

Tell me,

Where do the lights and glamour end, 

And the history of this country begin?

Where does it stop being an American dream?

And start becoming a symbol of human dreaming?

Sea of Trees

Imagine this,

A forest;

Gnarled floors,

Fallen branches, 

stillness that haunts the ear.

Among this place,

Demons roam.

This forest is rife with legend.

Older than the western haunted houses,

I'd taken for granted.

Her beauty is slow and painful,

But the peace she has, cradles the dead,

Gives them their last breath of life.

I walk this forest,

A tourist.

She knows my kind,

The kind who convince themselves

They understand death without being dead.

She moves her branches, 

and let's me crush my foot on her earth.

She lets me venture deeper into her twisted beauty.

And me, thinking that it will be all anticipation

And hints of those who have passed on,

Mosey with elation.

Then;

Through the trees,

She reveals herself to me.

She is resting...

She is dead.

She couldn't be,

The stories are all visceral fantasy.

I have fear, I have sadness, I am terrified, and disgusted.

The blood rushes,

And I brace terror,

She mixes with my blood, and runs it cold.

The stillness, an ever-rendering sobriety.

I turn, as does my stomach,

And I walk, while her trees

clasp at my limbs and beckon me back to her.

She Is disgusting,

She is beautiful,

The sun rests on her skin, and gives me a temporary peace,

As the realization washes over me,

This is what I wanted to see.

I came hoping 

for her beauty to tell

A grim tale.

The forest opened wide before me,

I bore her unnatural beauty,

And let it dig itself deep into my heart.

This is the woman who died in the sea of trees.

神は彼女の平和を与える可能性があります.