Live-to-Write

She sparkles brightly much like the twilight shine cast upon her. She spins and twirls like the beckoning sway of a mildly salacious saunter. She has no life, but has life inside like descending spirits of the dead. Her evident perfection can only be seen to those who are not ill-bred. She beams with light — sometimes with dark like a man who battles his demons. She gives us light, but we cover her body with sex, lust, and semen. Everyone knows her…we all do, just as we know ourselves. She's been beaten and rapped again and again, but no one can ever tell. We've all done our share. We've each had a turn like an amusement

This lifeless canvas begs for resonance, beckoning the elegant strokes – the touch and feel that it has long since forgotten. Dare I play God…to bestow life unto that which is stationary? This canvas speaks with words heard only in silence. The smooth texture and seemingly white color is somehow different in comparison to all others, though how long I've had it. THIS should be different. I refuse to ruin its benevolent quality with the common hues of old. For it to remain as such a blank sleight seems to be most pleasing. In this sense, it states, "Many have wished to paint me, yet none could bare it." Why? What makes this ONE

The land of forgotten memories, of forgotten hope, of forgotten dreams. Of a silence that reigns eternal. Of an eternal bliss that shall never be broken nor disturbed. A place not only time has forgotten, but so has life. A place many go into, and none come out. Yet death is not the end. Only the beginning. Yet if death is not the end, what is?

With only the stars above me And the clouds below the moon by my side keeping me company. And they said flying wasn't possible.