he doesn't look a thing like Jesus
what if i really am just a sunflower, following you across the sky? what if all i am meant for is simply nothing? what if you burn me up? no, it's not everything i thought it would be; i thought it would be devestating and painfully so.
what if i am just some apparition of love in the shell of the world? what if i've missed my harvest? and who cares if we're not perfect illusions. i'd rather be a dirty, dead shell of a thing worthy of poets' infatuation, than absent of anything truly beautiful.
what if you're the devil and the end of the world and the wolf at the door all in one? it's the thing of fairy tales and bed time stories, plus i'd like to see the end of the world anyway. what if you're the railroad?
and what of the shadow you're casting? will i live glowing in the shade like some silvery moonbeam? will i grow weary and blind from the lack or the brilliance? or worse still will i thirst in the light, parched and dying from the heat of being too close to you?
will i climb the long road out of hell and stand beside you, the constrasted darkness in whose absence your light could not exist? i believe so. will i wax pale with jealousy and sweetness eclipsing the night and covering the world?
because without dark there is no light, without light no darkness. and the deviding line between the two if where we sell our souls. i believe you can't afford me. but if you're willing i'll make a trade. tell me is your soul for sale?
what if we're just dying in each other's arms and watching the stars collide in vehicles of the distant future? what if instead of souls, we steal minds? would you owe me then? would music taste so sweet or hate be so beautiful? would pain still be pretty... if we were young?
if you were...
what if i am just some apparition of love in the shell of the world? what if i've missed my harvest? and who cares if we're not perfect illusions. i'd rather be a dirty, dead shell of a thing worthy of poets' infatuation, than absent of anything truly beautiful.
what if you're the devil and the end of the world and the wolf at the door all in one? it's the thing of fairy tales and bed time stories, plus i'd like to see the end of the world anyway. what if you're the railroad?
and what of the shadow you're casting? will i live glowing in the shade like some silvery moonbeam? will i grow weary and blind from the lack or the brilliance? or worse still will i thirst in the light, parched and dying from the heat of being too close to you?
will i climb the long road out of hell and stand beside you, the constrasted darkness in whose absence your light could not exist? i believe so. will i wax pale with jealousy and sweetness eclipsing the night and covering the world?
because without dark there is no light, without light no darkness. and the deviding line between the two if where we sell our souls. i believe you can't afford me. but if you're willing i'll make a trade. tell me is your soul for sale?
what if we're just dying in each other's arms and watching the stars collide in vehicles of the distant future? what if instead of souls, we steal minds? would you owe me then? would music taste so sweet or hate be so beautiful? would pain still be pretty... if we were young?
if you were...
posted by lisa at 10:15 PM
2 Comments:
Mistakes are a rampant blessing in life. We all make them, we all make the same ones, time and again. We all grow up, we age, we wisen, we ferment, and all good things do decay. Life, is simply the way we deal with our pitfalls, mistakes, successes, and lost chances. Hitler thought the answer to life lay in constant aggression. Fascism was not politics, it was spirit. To be truly alive, to be truly German, one must be constantly asserting one's self. Pay no mind to anything you've ever said before, to laws, to edicts you yourself have passed, the life lays in the contradiction and the dispute. Other have said life is giving, life is the gift of self from one to another. I don't know, personally. I know tomorrow is gone and we will NEVER get it back. I don't want to think about all the good things I should have done. The roads I should have taken. All I can remember is the road I chose, all I can change is where I am at now, in this moment. I cannot be in the myriad of places I might have been. History cannot predict anything at all, other than the fact that people, their cities, their societies, their cultures, and their identities, come and go, rise and fall at the behest of unseen forces to numerous to categorize or even identify. We have all known hands, places, times, and emotions we will regret upon remembrance for the rest of our lives. But what good does that do? It is a waste of spirit. "philosphers until this point have only interepted the world, the point, is to change it"
my, how you weave your visuals ;-)
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