Lingering labor of love, but a distant memory - a jaded, faded dream

Spreads particles of regret's remorse, scattered sand in a desert’s storm

Reverberating aftermath taunts, haunting with no chance to redeem

The wistful weep of ebullient emotion that will not be conformed

Let it lift to drift on the wind, scatter like sand amongst the ruins

For no stone edifice lingers here save residuals of the deepest frown

Love was nothing but deceitful dreams spun in idealistic illusion

Scarred shadows of a lascivious love are all that lingers to be found

"Castles made of sand...

Slip into the sea...

Eventually." — Jimi Hendrix, Axis, Bold as Love

My reputation is built on granite

Solidly planted

One with the planet

Never recanted

Its spires reach to heaven

Its turrets defend my realm

Defying repossession

And refuse the overwhelm

Yet aspirations are wicked

And circulate through pipes

And rise and fall, as liquid

To rot, below, the hype

Granite is not forever

And castles suffer disorder

When acceptance of whatever

Is used for brick and mortar

No castle is perfect

Even one built on stone

We allow the cracks that reflect

To show what we've become

"Nothing is built on stone"

It is a concept.

A perception of sorts, where we perceive this idea of a place where we stand upon a platform of stand where if we dwindle long enough, it might become a paved road beneath our feet.

Tromping through places where feet press into watered grounds,

you might hear your feet sluck as you try to trudge forward,

sinking further into sands that looked stable enough to hold us.

Here it is for certain that I must tell you that no platform is built upon brick, stone, or any other form of concrete material.

We must depress out growing sentiment that we can pave the path before us.

Build the bridge from stone to stone, and use the wood in order to traverse between it.

That is what they tell you in your youth, but that is the lie that is to be sold.

That is the lie in which you might become obligated to an expectation that would drive you to anxiety, desperate to rebuild any crumbling stone platform sitting on sinking sand.

Splitting on loose granules that give no rigidity to the place you aim to build your foundation.

For who are you but one in many, building your dreams and hopes upon a platform believed to be hardy.

Building up with your twig-like wood on a rickety scaffolding set to fall when your neighbor might plow through you.

Yes, toil.

Toil away.

You are one of many.

Another who "must build as if the sand were stone" and that anything born from that might become your home.

The sky shone vibrating across the meadows, molten solid, from the fermenting, the rotting of the plants, the silent shrieks of the land fills the air, ever suppressed by the nauseating, choking, overflowing presence of light. The rays, like mercenaries of their home, in a mad suicide attempt to pile their bodies so high so thick, so intense, as incense, that no cry, tears or sobs may escape their invisible tyranny over the land. Suffocating, peeling their very beings off their core so as to be able to take it home, yet leaves it both, on the ground, like a used towel in a brothel, their truth but a scalped, skinned soft shell lying on the ground which itself is but burnt skin, ever drying, fading, like a dementia patient, experiencing the gradual decomposition of their own mind and conscience. And the core, lifeless, less significant, and alive than a stone, by itself nothing, only an integral part of something, but alone, abandoned, only potential, unrealized, never fading, always nothing, a whole world cries. A world of cries, never to be heard, so as not to be, the sun, always, ever forward it rains.

From my cave I watch, as life strangles life, into death, it embracing life into the lifeless as life itself never would, how strange it is, life’s love of itself, it’s continuation and propagation, this is cruelty in its essence, not just towards others, but towards oneself. The sun sets, now, all those in pain, may find respite, calmness in the dark, all the dead, may calmly feed the sickly pleasures of the scavengers of the night, but finally, lifelessly, painlessly, a state life never allowed them, a luxury, life does not permit.

Consumed by thought in the entrance of my cave, I noticed not, a living curse approaching, beautiful to the eye, on others, I scream in the silent calmness of the night a beastly curse, of terror, of myself, of the moon. Insipid rays, illuminated for a moment, my body, myself, leave me alone. In terror I jump back and start running through the caverns of my cave, like a wild beast, the moonlight invading ever further into the caverns, I bleed, I hurt, I am beaten by the chandeliers of stone hanging from the ceiling, yet whose light I can tolerate on myself, I run on and on, only to be finally somewhere the rays won’t ever catch me. I, in my confidence, like I did not just act like a beast of the woods, not that I would say I am not that, yet I would prefer, hmmm of the caves perhaps, in my faked confidence which I fake to myself to keep finally from the wretched fact that it touched me, the violence of the sky, take my steps slow and upright as never before. But fall on the ground and start vomiting, the light, it touched me, there is no me, I do not exist, It, with its touch poisoned me, cursed me to exist. No, I will disappear again, it won’t take long, I’m sure.

The urge to vomit, the disgust of being, not the reality of the outside, but me being a part of it, the outside bothers not until it tries, ties pervasively, perversely. Digs into the flesh and soul, with the confidence of a god, so nature does to nature only itself, itself.

Out of frustration, I start walking slowly yet submerged in thought. It will only take a minute, I will fade away again, everything, only is as not alright, as it used to be before. In a stormy sea of calmness, without a moments notice I fall, I could not see a thing in the darkness of the caverns, which only seems to darken. I might die I thought in that second, right before I submerged in something other than my thoughts, suffocation. Could I simply drown in this place? Evermore comforting than any place in my mind, the silence, only intensified by the distant sounds of the underwater tunnels. The water seems brighter now, almost like a ghost, irradiated by a silver light, I open my eyes to the horrific realization that the moonlight somehow seems to reach into the cave. I look up to the ceiling, the chandeliers of stone, now, instead of water droplets dripping from them, something ethereal seems to be flowing from, through them, as blood from the wounds. A silverine liquid, shining moonlight, and shone it did, all over the cave, infecting each and every part, each and every single thing was its domain now. I submerge and scream underwater come up for oxygen, unbothered, like nature is to us, like our galaxy to our sun, and our sun to us, indifferent, incapable of its consideration even. I most certainly, insufferably, am. A cloud gathers in the cave, a silver cloud turning into a vicious smile of a round face. The face of the moon that is, smiling, like a bear with its prey, even as alive, a certainty of possession, this is what a prey animal sees right about the time of its death. I wanted to drown, not drown in myself, in water and not in a demon of the cosmos. So great as to be completely empty, I am, most certainly, trapped. Resignation, to float to bask in it as a game, its lights, simply because you must now. To drown in a sea of nothingness, in a strange cave, in a strange way, consumed purely from the inside. Despite all else, now, happily laughing at it all, it will never keep me locked away in this prison, of myself. Soon enough, all will have mattered not for me. Clearly, my role will be that of a terrorist of the mind, the cynical, actor. It seems all the rivers, are simply here to be dark in their reflection, always at night, so that maybe, one accursed day, someone drowns therein for no one to see. The moon like lava, flows cold into the cave, in its frosty light of madness, there is no place for calmness. Desolation, the defining feeling of being so conscious, of being so alive, all to the highest degree, not as a choice, but as a must. As an outside being forcing you into this state, all appears even though on the inside, it is not an act, a non-act, of being, being outside, the outside as you, as you experience it. Fragmented, I fall to a corner, horrified by my innards, and horrified, of my awareness of it, with almost loving, dying eyes, a stare at the moon inside the cloud, in its disgusting nakedness all around me, flowing ever onwards, inwards, now permeating me, as the real me, as the me outside of me. Horror of being spare me, calmness and death comfort me. Not even the thought of nothingness gives me peace now, even these old, conquered concepts, slayed enemies, identity, form and thought all collapse in on themselves, everything of me illuminated by awareness to the point of making them invisible, revealed as nothing to be illuminated. I flow, with what, I care not, my body never resting, my mind never ceasing, to scream in pain out of an unlocatable, all-encompassing pain and discomfort. They screech so distantly from the other side of a tunnel filled with heavy gases, alive, before though formation, all of it lived directly without narrative, without cure, so distantly, hauntingly claustrophobic, this pain, a prison inside of which my castle stands. Or a hole rather, a cave perhaps, how ironic, a microcosm of mimicry, or rather the truth, the essence of life can never be escaped. Drowning, how ridiculous, by now I have drowned a million deaths, yet here I am, ever feeling, ever fleeting, ever in pain, forever may be. Now half dead, floating dazed, in the sewers of this cave and my mind, drifting ever away, into a nothing as a most radical being, formed but formless, mouldable yet always the same, a drift in my own winds, in my own clouds, now the pain is gone, I open my eyes, and see, all around, I am bleeding out, the ceiling a starry night beyond comprehension, in which the moon floats dark, in its place. As my blood, spreads around, always calmly, in the darkest nights, yet now, on the face of the water, a reflection of the sky, in its dark and light all the same, around me, a flower of blood, the stars shine red, and radiate the rot. The beauty of rotting, the only true growth, the world a reflection, a giver of shades. The shade of this existence, nothing, but a shade it is as well. To act out your death, as an actor to yourself, a banalization of death, as well as life, yet inevitable, like all else. I notice I start sinking, in my blood, a carnivorous, blood thirsty flower of beauty, through my blood, and in its reflection, the labyrinthian maze of mirrors, the self, itself is but a grotesque, radiating its light in incomprehensible ways that seem impossible to even conceptualize, my previous dread left perhaps, only in fear of its master’s arrival. This, being, as a state seems to take pain only to see if it can carve a new one into you, deeper, with a better knife, meat is but, all, that signifies its disappearance, corrosion or corruption. In the garden of nature, which it created in its vast madness, reside the most peculiar of cemeteries, some of which almost seem to create death, only so that it may suffocate another one. Infinite graveyards, expanding, always by their very nature, from their old stones, new ones are created, from their own dead new life, forever to be hunted in a new existence, on the eternal hunting grounds, the gardens of nature, peel themselves to the core, so as to satisfy, and entertain their mad ruler.

Nothing builds itself...

likewise,

nothing stands

to reason

on solid foundation

...the rubble of us

non absolutes unified

whose work and bones

are crushed to bits

by the mortar and pestle

of the Nothing that sits

over the headstone

09.10.2024

"Nothing is built on stone; All is built on sand... but we must build..."

Challenge @dctezcan

People say I’m mean.

My mother, my siblings. My father doesn’t know me well enough to.

My most recent boss said such, too.

I coughed it away in some semblance of a laugh.

Me? Mean? No.

I wanted to date someone mean when I was younger. Tall dark and handsome.

So it happens I’ve become that mean individual. I hear myself as I speak, and flinch at its vitrolity. I can’t stop it though.

So much scar tissue will build a surface, no?

Strong. Like the barracks of a castle. Formidable with heads on picks.

But when I am such there is an issue. Because I’m not a building with prosecutors leading the charge behind it.

But aren’t I?

After all, sand- beautiful and golden, was once jagged rock, cast aside and thoughtless. If it is ground up enough, you get what falls to butter between your fingers.

Hot when you so need it to be, to keep you from feeling awkward,

moldable otherwise.

So what if I am opposite? Soft and then hard?

Sand. The pinnacle on which we establish

the fullness of our measure, suspended,

is nothing more than uncrystallized glass

and we build, momentum, burnt, of

excess heat, from plaintive need, to see

the reflection of our limitation, mental,

as dullness of unsharpened metal, and

the self-condemnation, of which we are

Guilty

in the end, our becoming,

building as if we were stone, and hatchet

we don't fly in, like birds, shattered, no

we love our windows, as favored seats and

preen ourselves before the confines, of

our mirrors, having learned the shadows

and telltale highlights, yes, we profess that

sand is built on sand, and stone is

every bit just that and nothing more,

in the quake, Earth and pebble, both,

are space debris, and we polish, till sore;

Satisfied, that we have, gracefully, fallen.

Unsteady foundations, a result of an unstable upbringing.

Yet this is the hand I've been dealt,

No complaints will change that.

So I resolutely set about forging the blueprints to a happy ending.

Heavily influenced by societal standards,

I invest into my education, into my financial status, into socials.

Believing, hoping, praying that I'm choosing the right path.

I painstakingly work up the base,

Trying to find sturdy bricks that form some semblance of stability.

A strong support system, a steady career path, a solid educational background-

All of which are difficult to cement,

Even more so given that the mortar has already been contaminated.

But without a stone establishment, even a minute tremble threatens collapse

For the threadbare outlines of the life I've built for myself.

A slight tremor disrupts the sand,

And so it crumbles.

No time to be cautious, no time to predict what lies in the future-

I charge forward blindly,

Ignoring the shaking architecture and fallen structures,

Stubbornly rebuilding what has already been destroyed.

For I am not allowed to give up, to give in

As desperately as I may want to.

And I must continue to build-

With a foundation where one misstep can topple the entire network-

As if the sand were stone.

The hourglass whispers where

one unfurls his wares

Shh shh, tick tock

Time to settle still

A stone may be a throne

but only for a little

The hourglass is fickle

Speeds up in sunshine

Slows down in winter

Shh shh, Tick tock

A mouse runs up the clock

A mansion for vermin

The hourglass sounds shimmer

Along a winding river

The bear grazes berry splendor

A skipping stone of stars

Shh shh, tick tock

A start from a jack-in-the-box

Shh shh, tick tock

Shh shh, tick tock

A conscience despot

Paves a grand palace

Which does one day

crumble and decay

to Humble sand in vain

I knew a guy

who applied

to be a

police officer

six times

went through

six rounds of

training camp

to be told

he'd failed

and he wouldn't

become a cop

after all that.

I could tell you

he was five foot five

skinny, nice as sunshine

but what I remember

about him

is that he got up

five times

after failing and

kept trying.

Five times

of being at

the bottom of

his class

and still wanting more

of what lay ahead.

The only question

I had for him

was why not

make it seven

and he laughed

at that

said he knew

when he'd finally

been rejected.

I think of him

when I fail

and I don't know

what he'd make of that

but maybe

he'd like that he shed

a little light

that he'd succeeded

at least, in that.