Muffit
November 24th, 2004, 10:09 AM
It is the pinnacle of irony that we civilize ourselves out of those things we desire most. Our homemade stars of city safety pale in insignificance to the once gorgeous beauty of night that we have lost. The shimmering diamonds that once filled the sky, now clear cut like the lush forests of living trees we chopped down so we could live inside of dead ones. And if our pitiful arbors in sequestered yards reach any height at all, we fear their fall and top them, like guillotined prisoners bereft of their very heads.
Forward, backward, windward, leeward, which way are we really going? For me at least, my path is fixed on awkward, my inner compass robbed of its magnetic north, my dreams and goals like taxidermied dodos in whispered museum halls. Berated by those who say my gyro fails to find its balance, the very ones that stole its inner ear. How can I sublimate tangible hopes of treasured things, for ephemeral capital yearnings, bitter things the spirit leaves in the grave, too heavy to float to heaven with? Supplanting love of gold ringed kindred soul with love of foolish self, such like a doe that snubs its nose at yearlings, and drowns a vain Narcissus in its own vanity. I cannot be that spotted miser, fawning over lights' play on water, when beauty's tenderness can only be seen by eyes the heart alone maintains, outside not inside, and true.
This tipsy toddler stumbles through life on shaking toes, the wonder of the world still childlike within its tender soul. And scorns the menopausal womb of maturity, like noses turned by smell. I've lost my spacious home in quaint suburbia, but gained the grace of nature in its stead. A creek and forest for a yard, the sound of rain at last to reach my nodding ears, in lieu of fake machines I used before. What have I lost but loss itself, and gained but bright epiphany.
To realize that I was deaf and blind, and revel in the sight and sound of birth.
Fondly,
Muffit
:muffit:
Forward, backward, windward, leeward, which way are we really going? For me at least, my path is fixed on awkward, my inner compass robbed of its magnetic north, my dreams and goals like taxidermied dodos in whispered museum halls. Berated by those who say my gyro fails to find its balance, the very ones that stole its inner ear. How can I sublimate tangible hopes of treasured things, for ephemeral capital yearnings, bitter things the spirit leaves in the grave, too heavy to float to heaven with? Supplanting love of gold ringed kindred soul with love of foolish self, such like a doe that snubs its nose at yearlings, and drowns a vain Narcissus in its own vanity. I cannot be that spotted miser, fawning over lights' play on water, when beauty's tenderness can only be seen by eyes the heart alone maintains, outside not inside, and true.
This tipsy toddler stumbles through life on shaking toes, the wonder of the world still childlike within its tender soul. And scorns the menopausal womb of maturity, like noses turned by smell. I've lost my spacious home in quaint suburbia, but gained the grace of nature in its stead. A creek and forest for a yard, the sound of rain at last to reach my nodding ears, in lieu of fake machines I used before. What have I lost but loss itself, and gained but bright epiphany.
To realize that I was deaf and blind, and revel in the sight and sound of birth.
Fondly,
Muffit
:muffit: