Sunday, March 25, 2012

Wanderer of Dimensions

Mother had told me that I was strong. She had told me that I would learn many things and be able to withstand any terrible, dire circumstance. I was a dragon, and of course I could withstand any terrible and dire circumstance, correct? I would certainly be able to beat everything and everyone in a fight and laugh at them. I would certainly be able to rule the world with my godly appearance and personality. Am I not correct? Of course, what happened to weakness and doubt? What happened to emotion and failure? Mother was wrong. Even now I still wander about between worlds and visit different places. She had said to me that I would rule the universe. It was not only words of encouragement she had given me, but a command.
Mother had given me everything, taken me everywhere to show off my talents of writing, music, visual art, and intellect about the physical world, and even went to the extent of selling me to the all-powerful king of justice and truth and peace and what-not. I enjoyed all of what she did for me then. Perhaps my growing mind began to understand that it was all some trap mother had guided me through. When I became two-hundred eighty years old (only fourteen years old if you think of it in human years), I escaped from my mother. I left no note and no sign of where I would go.
Why had mother done all of these things for me in the first place? The answer for me remains unknown. She had always told me that she wanted the best for me and everyone to respect me because I was a "Nothing"-- neither male nor female. She thought that everyone would stop teasing me. People only teased me more because my mother did no much for me, and they thought I was the most spoiled dragon in the world. It was true, until I ran away to a different dimension.
I currently lurk in the Eighth Dimension of Sooted Star. It is a fine place-- a nearly unspoiled world where there are no developed cities or technology. I do not write, draw, or create music anymore. My only creative hobby is making little things out of sticks or rocks or whatever there is to find that is natural. I am content now. I have recently turned three-hundred forty years old (seventeen). My mother has not found me yet for her revenge, but I certainly predict that she will find me one day. That will not be in years though.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Grey Sonnet

What color for a color is love than grey?
No more than a shadow of the past
Waving at our spirits living upon the sun’s ray
It is nothing more than chimney smoke outcast.
There is a bit of red I see in that flower
Blooming upon my grey, emotionless lea
And I hear your singing, pleading at this hour
Filling this blank, pumping organ of mine with glee.
A newborn lion never knew it could love
Never did I until so soon a time
But still, for you I cannot be a dove
I can only love you with my unworthy rhyme.
Longingly singing along with your distant voice
My heart is grey, yet my love for you was not my choice.

No Life to Regret

There is nothing to do now.  Nothing.  Listen, do you hear the cormorants calling?  Do you hear the bellow of the fog horn as the fog clears away revealing the stars?  I hear it all.  It is fading.

Look at the ravens-- a pair of living beings just like you and I, mated for life.  They do not regret like you do.  I do not regret.  Soon there will be none of those feelings left for me to convey.  Look at you, you are crying above me, holding your pen and paper, thinking about your regretful letter and how to start it.  But you do not know what to write, for suicide is what you intend, and how can one put it into words, right?

Look at the ravens.  They place their beaks together.  Why will you not do the same with me?  You and I are still living, aren't we?  Even if I only have a few minutes of breath to spare, we are still living, aren't we?

Look at the ravens.  One of them flies away.  I know that I must fly away from you forever, but you will still live for me, right?  Why do you sit in your dark bedroom with a knife?

Look at the ravens.  Now there is only one now.  I am long gone from life.  But you are taking the knife, ready to thrust, with your tears salty and your eyes black and drained.  Why do you hold that knife?  Don't you hear the cormorants calling, the fog horn bellowing?  Your crying matches its tone.

Your mother will run into your room the next day to find you dead.  She will blame herself for everything.  Then your peers will find out.  They will blame themselves as well.  The world will be infected by emotion, and it will spread so violently.  Will you not look at the raven?

Look at you now, you are finally putting down the knife.  Your tears are deceased and you are sighing deeply.  I am so proud of you.  I know I cannot be there to show it, but I am long gone, but I wish you to live on.  So look at the raven.  And look, there are many ravens filling the sky.  You are not alone.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012


Oh those humans lumbering along

Conceiting per usual, walking in their strident way

Some are short, some are oblong

They fill up the night and day.

There is no room for me

I am just a creature of death to them

They stereotype me and make me pay fee

For all of nothing unto their thick stem.

And never will they soon understand

I fly above them, black feathers unnoticed and clean

Their uncaring society so very bland

They will pay me in return for they have done too much mean.

But for now I will fly away

And hope there will come better day.