Author: LabyrinthFlux

-Somewhere near the 37th parallel north, and a hundred and twenty seven degrees east, there is a mountain from which the chants of monks can be heard. To get there, one must walk along a solitary stretch of road, along a ditch. In the cold dry wind of spring, not a sound, other than the scratching, each footfall, digging at the dirt road, pebbles scattering under the weight. Somewhere on that mountain is a path that leads to a cliff, peace inscribed on the mountain’s side in stone, an image, immovable. Each step must be overcome, upward, along the ledge […]

-“My heart is yours,” she says in almost a whisper, as if, it weren’t meant, as if, the words had found themselves standing already at her lips, perhaps, they had waited long, they had been there, not intended, but yearned for, invoked by desire, and not by the moment, not by the presence, now standing before her.

-yearning to fade and become that which is not; the silent wind discerned at waking in pain and screaming without a voice in the obscure dusk when the darkness disappears under the weight of light yearning for each nail and cell of my being, to collapse to its becoming ash and of the ash, to make prints the kind that disappear at the breath of the wind without sound yearning to breath in cold and fill my cavity congeal the pulses and the throbbing of my heart

-Waiting for your return, I sit here thinking of nothing else You’re like the morning dancing in the light of day And I want to go with you Be lost in all the wonder

-The upturned crystal filled with crimson as droplets fall, lucid memories trickle down leaving latent stains pale flesh cresting at the thought a quivering continues the remedy, smoke slowly evaporate bit by bit by bit someday perhaps, a smile

-Love is an echo, only the dust survives wind sweeps memory, its colors fade and crumble fingernails become dark, scratching to hold on ashen remnants of the possibility of being those moments of heart swells pulverized and scattered at a loss, the vibration echoes as the heart pumps dust and hope…

-There’s the fear, it clangs within releasing echoes, vibrations of the soul, reverberations of the self. The solitude of the garden, the still air, the clamoring of loss, the clamoring within. It’s the only sound left, on silent nights, in the room’s darkness, after you have left. It awakens the scratching, the mice, trying to eat through the walls. We’ve built this place together and I fight them off, to suffer no more loss.