Love Letter

The lives of people seem so ordinary, so pointless. We sit here on this giant rock we call earth, for maybe 90 years if we are lucky, when even 100 is too short. We sit here, 6 billion of us, each lost in our own lives, in our own meaninglessness, in our own pointless being. Proving only that there is nothing worth having or doing. Whatever we do, how can one person make a difference in 6 billion? And then there are billions in every generation. Thousands of years we have existed, thousands, thousands each with their billions. We are not the stars, we are the spaces between them, such is our inconsequence. I am not a star, I am the rock that floats aimlessly in space until I burn when looking to touch something, becoming no more than dust. Even less now than I was before, spread out amongst the heavens and the stars that shine so bright that no one sees me. Such is our status in this world, in the history of time, in all that matters. So I sit here, at a café, writing something that will someday disintegrate into the ground, when your hand drops it by a dusty road and I am less than a memory.

Why waste pointless time on a pointless story, when the point is only that there is no point in anything? Because and only because I choose to believe the worthless are worth something in each other. There are things in this universe that would humble the wisest man, shock the most intelligent, and yet all are rendered even more dumbfounded in something so simple – each other. What is a life worth… nothing. Some are lost without any value at all. What is a life worth to you? That is all that matters. What is anything worth to you? The comet is meaningless in this great expanse, but the expanse is not meaningless to the comet, and in this paradox, this distinction, lies the beauty of the stars. They are but burning fires so distant that we would confuse them for gems scattered across the night sky. Fires burning themselves to extinction, until we weave them into necklaces for those we love. Nothing means anything and everything is pointless, except in each other. We live through others, and in our disturbance of their lives. I only exist because those that love me say so. If there was no one that was moved by me, I would be that rock in the sky that shall never be seen, or felt.

Our time in this world is short. We have days and hours to appreciate beauty, to taste it, to feel it, to experience what it feels like to feel. Waiting is the hardest part. Not because I am not patient. I can wait as long as you ask. Waiting is unbearable because time is short, precious, and we waste it in games, in laziness, in being unsure, we all ask for time and all the while, like water through our fingers, time slips by.

We are only alive because we can feel; because we can smell the flowers, because we can feel the water, because we can taste the sweetness of each other, because we can hear music. Nothing exists until we love it. A star is just a distant fire, the moon is just a rock, fountains are just concrete and water. Everything is plain and without reason. They only exist because we see them and are made beautiful when we are moved by them. Never forget that only a heart can bleed.

Ramblings

I died today. In a bed, alone, watching my ceiling, white. No blue sky, or a blanket of stars. No dreamy clouds or bright sunshine. Just a white ceiling. Comfortable, slowly slipping away. Like the tearing of a shroud from a rose bush, tangled up in the thorns. A trickle of blood weaving down the stem, dancing around, feeding the roots, the petals shine more red than before. A white stained by love, and yet loving from here alone. Seeing you against the white canvas I look up to, without raising a brush, I paint you with my eyes, against what I have left. No strength at all, but my mind still enough, to paint you in the last, that my final memories, should be a photograph of longing.

They will scrub it clean long before you see. All the better, for today we fear love in all its forms. Play the game, lust, we all long for companionship, all fear being by alone, but not for the sake of love. Lying with virgins I am unable to touch, I keep looking your way, and find my soul tangled in your long black hairs. A mad man, let madness seep in, what sanity do lovers need? Drink of each other, I’ll pour my soul into your vessel, inside you we swim as one. I leave myself behind, though I have yet to know you; the seeds of love are carried by the bees of song. I see my words nestle between your petals, and taste your bud when I close my eyes. Such a feeling it is to love. Sitting here watching the sun sheathed by the clouds of separation, yet lightening won’t strike. What would it feel like to touch my love, despite myself, beside myself, who can I be but myself?

The Odyssey

I pray this world

I found you in, is round.

That no matter where,

The winds and waters may carry me

All efforts to take me away from you

Should bring me back to the harbour,

Where I imagine you remain.

I hope, that these men of science

Are wrong, and my heart’s baseless belief

Be rewarded, if only because I cannot be

Without you, without hope.

That I should have seen you,

When running from myself

At the pier, unknown

Except that I saw you, and you me.

No longer guided by the North star,

I look to shore, and chart my course

The waves have been made redundant,

All winds but screaming demons.

I am deaf to all temptation,

To all longing, senseless

Lost, lost and now found

For such pain is a fortuitous blessing.

I watch the blood trickle

Across the lines on my palms

Knowing they travel the same destiny

That I find myself bound to.

Again and again I make myself bleed

If only to see visions

Of you in my arms, of dreams ordained

By these Angels of Love,

That protect me in their wings…

Be gone! And protect the one

For whom I bleed.

My faith alone will return me

To a fate decreed,

I feel it pulsing throughout me

The heavens’ routes clear, and meaningless.

Bring forth your storms, monsters,

All ailments,

That I should be tested,

As I am immune to Death himself.

For whosoever has loved,

Knows it is immortal,

All journeys from her,

Will bring me home.

By Haemophiliac…

… finished 13/08/09.

The Mermaid

In a river, of mud and dirt
Of waste, and drowning dreams
Amongst the glistening reflections
Of heaven’s rays,
I saw, per chance
A mermaid.
Between ripples, within mediocrity
And the pending onset of darkness
Meaninglessness, and the still birth
From which I was spared, to be.
I never was, more than another birth
An inevitable death, till that day
When I was, and death though still inevitable
Will not take just another, amongst so many others.
Her tail, as clear as the sun in the cloudless sky
Reflecting the radiance of the crystals
On the water’s surface, silk scales entombing
Legs slenderly entwined, as I long for our hearts to be
Till they are one.
Her hair, black as a starless night
Strings of that harp, I hear deep into the night
Though I hear none else.
Her skin, pale as a pearl
Reflecting the moon’s meaningless light,
Itself a reflection, of the sun’s burning love
My soul alight, our fire ablaze.
Smooth, though I touch it not
But my eyes can feel, what the hands daren’t
For so many times I have reached out in my dreams,
Only to wake.
A smile, that cut a man in half
Breathless, though I fight to breath
Kneeling, though all God’s denied.
I stand here now,
By the river, where no legend foretold
Of the mermaid I saw, of the woman
I am helpless to love.
At the end of life’s ledge, a faithless man
Hears her calls, she saw me once
The divine in our hearts,
for I cannot swim.
Naked, I reveal myself,
Beneath the surface she waits,
Let go of life, realised or not
For living is in the fall.

By Haemophiliac…
… finished 11/08/09.

Anatomy of Art

I do not know the anatomy of my art. I am not able to discern the bones of grammar from the flesh of words. The sinews of sentences, from the muscles of paragraphs. I cannot differentiate between the blue emotions of veins or the red passion of arteries. I do not know the anatomy of prose or verse; I am not a doctor of my art. I am but a lover, of the body in its entirety. The science is beyond me - the texts all unread. I have no diploma, an artisan of little, a pauper. I am ignorant amongst luminaries. I love the whole and the uniqueness of each one - as a woman. She is my art – in her, all words are one. A fool in love. Stones on the river of your choosing, amongst pennies tossed away. All wishes unfulfilled, I see them lie beside me. Ignorant in my love, and the only true artist of any kind. Where the ridges of her collarbones meet, clavicles in your texts, is the valley of anticipation – before eyes should meet, and lips gently part. In such a well I cast my hopes, and look up along her neck, almost a whisper. Beyond the cliff of her chin, how many times have I fallen, and towards the oasis of her lips. The nose dissecting east and west, a mirror of symmetry. If I have already made a wish in her well, then let her eyes be an ocean, willingly sea goers chased mermaids to their own deaths. The contours of her body, I've seen through the window of a plane, as I passed in the air on a cloudless day, gazing along her thighs, the moon in the distance, my hunger building to a frenzy. I could go on, but surely one would blush, for I closed my eyes and touched rolling hills, plateaus and ravines, a forest, and longed to plant my seed in fertile soil – a lush green land where two rivers met. In modesty I temper my words. What scientist, doctor, honourable though they may be, have gazed up from their books, and seen you as the gods do, as my ignorance compelled me to – from the skies, amongst the dim stars. I do not know the anatomy of my art, but my heart grows heavy at the thought of a woman, and etched in flesh, are an illiterate man's words, that even the blind can read. Come touch my chest and see. I do not know the anatomy of love, I cannot read or write, but show me a woman, and in the presence of your Moses, like Pharaoh's own blasphemous magicians, and the Fallen Angels of vice, I will create a fountain of love, from which will spring a garden in your name.

by Haemophiliac...

... finished 9th June 2009.