The Garden of My Mind

In the garden of my mind,
Fruits of fancy flourish,
ripen, and fall, baskets fill,
Until I discard my very will.

But the little men of the trees,
Dance amongst the leaves,
Tipping baskets, Picking fruits,
Slipping them into their sleeves.

Again fancy frolics forth,
Freeing fortified finites,
Breezily blowing baser ideals,
Into the garden’s heights.

And the little flowers of imagination,
Broken at the stem,
Laced in a garland,
And thrown away on a whim.

Clouds of dreams foment and foam,
Pouring torrents of terror into the trees,
Giving fright to the little men,
Frightened fancy turns and flees.

Too often, the master of the garden,
Is called by name, Fancy and Whim,
But it is beaten back, again and again,
By the sinister dreams within.

 

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The Words in the Wind

The man pulled himself up to the top, looked around, and did not care for what he saw.

He saw a world trying to hurry and rush, who knows where other than its own eventual end. He saw what others all saw, but refused to acknowledge the inevitability of it all. Misery was there, hand in hand with apathy and ego. No life seemed to matter, life itself seemed not to matter. There was a lot of energy here, but little purpose to it all.

Sighing, he settled down to meditate on what he saw, hoping to find a solution to the mystery of life. What was the point of it all, what was the plan, was their a plan? The man pondered these questions and all of the myriad questions that sprang forth wherever his ponderings led him. Age crept up upon him like the evening shadows, caressing first his skin, then settling in deep to chill his bones, and yet still he pondered the questions of life. As the sun set on his life, the shadows of age became more rapacious, springing up suddenly and seizing him in a cold dark grip, squeezing the very last drops of his youth out of him. Ravenous, age drank all the life that spilled out, lapping up every drop like sweet honey.

Finally, the last drops fell out of him. Age had consumed his very flesh, which now fell fully lifeless, hollow, sallow, and wrinkled to the ground, there to shatter into dust and blow away on the strong winds of time. At last, there was no longer any trace of the man, and the very memory of him was forgotten by those still rushing around in the world below.

And yet, as his lifeless husk fell to meet the ground, there could be seen on the face of the man, a serene smile. He had thought of a solution before he passed. He had solved the mystery of life. Every so often, if you close your eyes and listen right, you can hear his ashes whisper it in the winds of time, laughing softly.

The Shattered Ones

In the minds of the shattered ones, there is not but despair. In the halls of the shattered ones, there is not that still care. At the behest of the sacred ones, the shattered ones do stay. With the thoughts of the sacred ones, the shattered ones do say,
“If you go upon the road the darkened ones did tread, the light of the darkened ones, around your feet will spread. The lives of the darkened ones, ended so long ago, amongst the path you tread upon, and amongst your feet do flow.”

In the morn of the lightened ones, the shattered ones do sing. In the dusk of the lightened ones, the shattered ones do bring, to the halls of the shattered ones, all the things they lose. With the will of the sacred ones, the shattered ones refuse, those that seek the sacred ones, gifts of wealth to bring. In the morn of the lightened ones, the shattered ones do sing,
“Whilst you go upon the road, the darkened ones do wait. Watch out for the darkened ones, their teeth do gnash and grate. Run away from the darkened ones, their claws do snatch and tear. Your flesh for darkened ones, in their claws will snare.”

In the halls of the shattered ones, the winds do twist and claw. In the minds of the sacred ones, all thought is made law. In the ways of the shattered ones, all but not is true. In the dance of the shattered ones, there is not but all to do. To the lands of the lightened ones, the shattered ones can go. In the lands of the lightened ones, the shattered ones will show, to the sacred and the lightened ones, the things that will entrance, the dancing of the shattered ones, and thoughts they left to chance. As they dance the dance of the shattered ones, the shattered ones will pray, and in their prayers to the sacred ones, the shattered ones will say,
“On the road of the darkened ones, protect those who tread, protect them from the darkened ones, else they will be dead. Guide them to the end of times, the times that never end, that they may see the lightened ones, and finally comprehend, the will of the sacred ones, hidden from all but few, that life is but one long dance, all but a few steps true.”

In the halls of the shattered ones, many are the lost. In the halls of the shattered ones, few know the cost.