solisis

Write my eyes dead.
Theyve turned to fogged windshields by this point. The haze of imagined tears drawn from an acute inability to procure actual collections of salty discharges. I think I have to now since the world turned to stone. It gets a bit too cold at night nowadays and I miss the feeling of clutching a breathing pillow as I drive myself to trance through the sounds of a velvet inhale. I never actually slept when I layed there watching her eyelids rest closed, wondering what images of ferns and castles entertained her unconsciousness as I extended a finger to brush her mile long hair from her face. She was- and is- an operatic tune to me. An underlying voice instructing me to watch the cracks as I walk over the shells of already broken eggs. Every one of them another who wishes to be collected and fastened to their home by a prince in a dark lined coat.
Do you know of a ghost? Something in the past that never really leaves your blood, but never really stands before you? Kind of like a contracted conscious that refuses to allow you to live your life with the freedom you once had? We all have them, I suppose. We all choose to have them because we all want to feel important to someone. If its not there entirely then we make ones up for ourselves despite the feasibility of the situation. All for the excuse, I think. At least for me. I am one to draw off the fictitious un-reality of a world of ferns and castles. One I can make with the right person. One who can hold onto the glider as we push it over the edge and ride the crest wherever it takes us. I know how to flytrust me. Just dont ask, please. Its not where were going or how we get there, just that we are together when we fly through the waves of cloth and rose pedals.
Someday you will know your prince again. Someday you will meet him.
Theres the floor again. My new friend of a few years. Weve been spending much time together lately as I rock the gloom from the counter in a vapor of dreams turned to ice. Every one of them already a memory to me as it is a reality in the mind of an angel. I held her hand as I jumped the bridge at a hundred ten miles per hour. We laughed a smile full of teeth and eyes of crystal glass, then crashed through the gate of grapevines and into a thousand mile wide field of sod. Was it only tomorrow when we laid on our backs in the grass and stared at the stars in the middle of the day? Was it only next week when we looked each other in the heart and watched a simultaneous rhythm dance the empty halls of a world of two? Sad, really. The things I craft from a wooden man, that is. I miss tomorrow, really. I miss it enough to never cry again.
Theyre shut now. I forgot how to open them. My eyes, I mean. Theyre shut. Sometimes you cant escape what haunts you. Sometimes you know whats wrong but you cant bring yourself to make the changes necessary to pry the lid off your own coffin. Sometimes it takes two. Sometimes you cant take it with the vision of the future in mind. Sometimes it takes a while to make the remedy work for you. A week, a month, a year who can tell how long. Never fair, I know, but the things most precious in life are the things worth waiting for, are the things worth working for, are the things worth dying for, are the things worth living for. Eventually every castle will fall to the bed of ferns below. Hopefully though, in that time you will have been taken by another valley of ferns, and another castle of angels wings and crystal eyes. The ones that helped you escape the last burning disaster and stayed there to nourish you back to a livable condition. Its the hurtful cycle of life, my dear. The one that pains us all without exception.
slow to close, they rested in anguish. gave their final exhale and drifted to a world lost inside the chambers of an infant. there to give home to cob webs and echoes of cupid's arrows. my vision stained.
Dead, my eyes rest. Written.