Wednesday, January 30, 2013


I miss the days when we were young,
Love flowed like honey on our tongues,
Things were simple, life was free,
Hours as long as we wanted them to be.

I miss the good times and the bad,
The lovely years we never had,
Eternal springtimes decked with flowers,
Peace to while away the hours.

I miss the days of faerie-land,
You smiled as I took your hand,
Love kept us warm through bitter cold,
We clung to dreams of growing old.

I miss the endless whispered talks,
Summer days and garden walks,
Flowers bloomed as we strolled past,
I prayed to God these times would last.

I miss even our tragic fall,
Evening sweetness mixed with gall,
Falling leaves and autumn light,
Empty day and lonely night.

I miss above all you, my dear,
Your presence turning grey skies clear,
But love can end and dreams can die,
And so they did with you and I.

Thursday, January 17, 2013

The Story Cycle: The Beginning

This is the prologue of sorts for a new (as yet untitled, except that this part is called "The Beginning") thing that I'm writing... I can't call it fiction or non-fiction particularly. It's both and neither. But all that can be said at the moment is that I'm extremely excited about it, and I hope this isn't a waste of anyone's extremely limited time. After all, the world spins so quickly...


Prologue: The Beginning

If I were you and you were me,
How long would it take to see?
Hold me near and listen well,
For I have many truths to tell.


Are you paying attention? Do you know what's doing on? The world is small, but there are so many people on it. They move in circles, repeating the same motions day after day, age after age. Time flows on, empires rise and fall. Nothing really changes, but nothing stays the same. Everything gets older.

Except for me.

I do not grow old, fall, or die. My perspective on the world is an eternal one, and I do not change my mind. The world flies by in a supersonic, motionless blur, and I see all of it at a glance. I sit in one place and see the turning of the spheres, the clockwork repetitions of nature and man, the stories that tell themselves over and over. And so I tell them as well.

A young man meets a young woman and falls in love. A son murders his brother and is forever haunted by the ghosts of his own conscience. The philosopher finally and wholly understands the universe, only to be forgotten in his own time and buried under the sands of the years. An old woman cries out in revolt against the death that she knows will inevitably come to claim her. A new religion rises out of some unknown corner of the world, explodes like a firework illuminating the universe, then fades just as quickly into obscurity. People live and people die.

People live and die not for what they believe, but for what they feel. They love one another and hate one another, and that is why they care so much about how and when they live and die. All of their stories, all of their love and hate, flow together, echoing and repeating but never ending. The story goes on forever, and only I can see it being told.

And if you will pay attention, I will share the story with you.