Victors Heart Chimes

Dear boy, I have seen you rise despite the tides washing over your head I have seen your rise when a season of silence had brought great distance between you, your family and friends, A season of silence that tried to steal your voice To make your own voice strange and other. I have seen you rise out of graves, march through mausoleums, because you yourself knew time wasn’t ready to forget you. Dear boy, still you rise still you rise and furthermore you will rise until your lungs quit.

 A floating spirit wanders over the village, wandering in and out of glints of the silver streaks of moonlight sneaking through clouds. The spirit once tethered to something or someone snuck free of it’s inhabitance. The spirit soars in large banking circles, a wild freedom beneath its ephemeral ethereal form. Free of any proposed daytime duties, latched attachments or backseat silences, this spirit wanders through the sky in slow moments of movement. It doesn’t appear to be doing much and it’s a beautiful scene. An amoebic shape in the sky rapt in it’s own consistent uninterrupted motion. I stood in my place watching it circle over and over again, mesmerized. I wasn’t sure of quite what I was witnessing, was the spirit stretching it’s legs after a time, a season of dormancy wherever they reside. Was this just a nightly ritual I’ve not been previously privy too? Is this an every night affair? Is this some dirge or elegy to a death, a death of spirit? Is this spirit of new origins...

  The wind weeps with a poisoned sense of peace. Boreas bears down with his breath biting ravenously at determined and meek travelers alike. Boreas’ breath bears across the strong silhouettes of every man, without prejudice.   Boreas breath hits with an altering chill Leaving in its trajectory a stilling effect. Mighty strides, mighty soul momentums, Marooned. In the violent shiver vital life force is lost. The energy gained from breakfast shunts Forth from the body, cheer and bright spirits emaciate.  Boreas breath burrows at the heart To still, to shelter up, to seek refuge, Yet with the cold coagulation of blood, To proceed forward is to wish about A personal torment, but dare to see What lies beyond the insufferable May be ruin, may be much more the Same sharp monotonous shivering, But may lead to warm substantial sun rays of Dream or bright horizon Nourishing enough to make this cold Hell with screaming through stride sweet Enough to keep in stride.

When my mind fires and takes off Keep my breathing steady. T hawed from a long, dark winter Of discontent, Of night eternal, The night has stilled And I have steeled myself Of dream and sweet memory no More. Like falls fallen leaves Who prune themselves, who rot, who under  the trample of feet And minds cyclical Worn rotations  Decompose After repeat seasons of this Rotting, pruning, my mind fires Takes off, my breath steadies  For sustained seasons of sun may next come, or perhaps  This decomposition will further  Erode away at sacred space.

He started the day as he usually had. Upon gleaning at the quality of sleep the night before and passing judgment rather it was restful at all, or if it would be a day of playing constant catch up, lagging behind a pace or two. This quick judgment of the day rather helpful or hindering got him moving in two totally different rhythms. A restful night meant the day would come and the strength and dogged determination of Atlas would imbue him, despite the hardship or hindrance in the way, would willfully attack the day. The opposite rang too on an equivalent occasion. The night filled with the standard human jarring of a sleep unfound: an inability to find the right position to drift off, a pillow too flat, a room too hot. Sometimes, too, the night filled with haunts and horrors of past and present that rend at his sense of self-worth, sense of belonging. A voice not all his own, but looked and sounded similar enough to his own that these words were accepted. Aurora roared across the ...

Something serious brews in the way of change in the sky of today.. A feeling emanates inside of me, but I do not know what it is what it’s saying or where it’s pulling me. But something deep is roaring to life inside of me. It is a mix of Gabriel’s trumpet, Thor’s Lightning, It is a soft spot struck that would send the leviathan fleeing. Something serious sets upon the moon this evening. Today’s nicks, scratches, thrashes, and gashes bathe in the silvery stead of the moonlight.. I do not know how any of this day’s chaos will be of any use today or any other day, but a sneaking suspicion quickly sinks in, that it will. The suffered slings and arrows of today are kissed by the moon and come back tomorrow in different form. Some went away. some smoothed over, others sag or brood.  Returned from the world of dreams Day breaks over my freshly altered figure. I am mostly intact though through the night The rivers Styx and Lethe Careen into me.  Light of day reigns forth beaming off ...