Crickets Me Calling

Crickets me calling, the river by,
To a betterment which that,
Of transience is born

Here tears are fragrant,
And a song shall be sung,
To her, queen that weaves my dreams

Memory it peers, takes form tangible,
Knifing its way,
Into my deepest fear

Only you to answer, in roses I drown,
When shall I enter?
My home, prepared!

Saxophone leaks down,
The creator’s tears
Wounds to be washing,
To never bleed again

Pass must all wit,
Into the silvered waters
Of a flowing love,
That a gift of blindness

Screamjack

A Fading Afternoon

At times, it's difficult to handle sorrow. You assume you've figured it all out, and you drown in the greater assumption that you've learnt how to swim through this great ocean of surreal thoughts and emotions. I feel like I'm lying beside large speakers emanating sounds of this entire generation that is mine. I lie there, almost dead, not just in the physical realm but in that of the soul. I feel empty, and do not misconstrue this to be the blissful emptiness that all those sages talk about, this is a miserable emptiness. A craving emptiness, craving to feel something, to feel anything, even pain would do. Nothing remains to excite my mind, absolutely nothing. No rose-flavored drink or psychedelic drug can understand me. No bearded mystic who forges phenomenal breakthrough techniques of meditation can help me out here. I don't blame them, they only preach the truth. The issue is that truth is of relevance only to them. I'm yet to find my truth, I haven't even found the correct thirst for it yet. This is not a complaint, it's simply a release for every freedom-craving thought that swims inside of me. Slowly, I look at the ceiling and make an effort to draw the slightest amount of positivity from these mysterious feelings. I'm restless still. I keep taking walks down to the riverside with my earphones on and a couple of cigarettes, hoping some sense of enlightenment would click. Nothing, just moments of inspiration that fade away into the deafening distance. So now, what remains? Just God. I open the Bible, the same texts that have pierced my eyes in the past do so again. But I don't wish to be cynical about the Bible, it is a joy for me to admit that nothing else in the world has helped me or expanded my thinking as much as The Bible has. Tremendous book, I do believe it truly is the word of God. You can call me a fool, I am one.
I can never come to deny the divine essence that surrounds the Bible. It instills a kind of eternal purpose in you, that is more than just comforting. That eternal purpose can lift you of your feet and place you in the sweetest most colorful meadows of salvation you never imagined could ever exist. I guess that's the power of God, undeniable, inevitable.
I seem happy now? I am happy. These are fleeting moments of my life, passing me by, and now passing your eyes. Imagine me, I am you, and you are me, we live the same life. Miles apart, hearts with different shapes and minds oriented in complete different directions. But still, the life we live is the same. That is the magical oneness of this existence that never ceases to enthrall and amaze me. All the sorrow drifts away into a distant void that is beyond my concern. I am in love, with life and death, with hope and hopelessness, with joy and sorrow, with you.