Uninspired (A Tragedy)

Photography (all rights) by Mike Dempsey

“The art of being wise is the art of knowing what to overlook”.-William James

We are but dust for what I see, born into life at times a tragedy. With sounds and signals from energy. As above so below in me. When this life has been set free, I will know not this vanity. I will know not this vanity. As I came, so will I leave. Uninspired.

I could write about inside dark hedges, and perhaps someday I shall, I could eek out a verse or two on sly daemons and how my future they foretell. I could take you down hidden staircases to the bottom of my wishing well. Take your hand down naked backsides to the secrets that no ghost will tell. Still in the efforts of all my verbiage from the secrets that I would spell. Craft I find brings me no lifeline, I am undersigned, uninspired and my thoughts, they have expired. Not the sight of a war-torn glory, not the sky split now in two. Not the chance of a personal story. Happy or tearful, I am not even blue. Just a shame no words come new. Though my lips are not breathing at the most tender part of you, I find I cannot write a canon or express my point of view. I am, uninspired.

I but for my breath am uninspired.

I start the story graveside up, of an old friend in my dream view. Saying words, he says to me, tell them now of you. Still with visuals spinning, inside the seal that witches use, I cannot even make a rhyme to tell you all I knew. All I knew. Even though I faced a dry spell once in past or may be two, I am tired inside and there’s so much left to do. I can write about rays of sunlight, tempting time travelers, and perhaps someday I shall. I could stir words by the feet of angels, in the lower pool where the lame were made well. Incite the verses by incantations of passion, taught by the sons of G_D in hell. Know that I think of the lyrics of all fashion, but then again I think, “Oh well”. Then again, I think, “Oh well”.

I but for my breath am uninspired.

We are but dust for what I see, born into life at times a tragedy. With sounds and signals from energy. As above so below in me. When this life has been set free, I will know not this vanity. I will know not this vanity. As I came, so will I leave. Uninspired. – 05.21.2019 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Familiar

Familar

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Touch me when you feel relevant once more.  Come into my heart when you are healed and play like a child again.  With difficulty I let you go, and like a hard habit that breaks my back you raze my bones and then you float silently away.  Snowing on Saturday and cold, this wilderness I am not sure I can take.  Yet, a word similar to therefore or however, there exist a possibility that with the release of you as a disability I find my way.

No one needs to hear about burdens, there are too many heartaches we all own.  Self and longing belong to the same god, a dogma that beholds the sinner to disbelief.  Candles that are self lit die in just a little shade.  I have to fashion new familiars that will help the exhausted want to wait.  Please give me black liturgical entanglements of words that limp then dance on a minor score that’s played.

The word that brings ideas to the criminal, the word of nothing that creates the end of decay.  No longer must adjectives describe, sounds they must utter, glory exalted in play.  Is there a need to describe harmony, are not the sounds you want to read in the chaos of what you falsely believe you cannot see.

Is this private pathological conversation with my familiar leading others to language that will help them find their way?  What psalm glides in silence across my paper when I choose not to obey.  This writer bequeaths his freedom to a stranger he thought he released yesterday, a noise filled proverbial that diffuses and threatens to take my sanity away.

Touch me wanderer, you feel relevant once again, paint my crooked sky with confused signs of magic, so that I might write and charm a familiar that leads others to play.

A good writer has a familiar. In truth that familiar must be released from time to time to help the writer maintain his or her soul.  It is known as writer’s block!  The reunion with a writer’s familiar upon his or her time in purgatory is filled with dark magic and deeds, and it is in that reunion that the most wonderful words are released.-Daniel Swearingen 02/01/2014