Scarred fingertips and charred faces,
The sharp smell of acetone stinging your nostrils,
And everything is bathed in bright, blinding white.

I am wrapped in your thoughts.
You are bound in mine.
Sever the cord
And fragments spill out
On to grimy, clawing hands

Echoes churn.
Rise up and float
Like a bud, unfurling.
Pulsating, burning across
The sea of
Memory.

And no one called us to the land
And no one knows the where's or why's.
Something stirs and something tries
Starts to climb toward the light.

Sepia orbs.
Warps and wefts.
Streets and flashing frowns.
Atrophied memory lanes.
Whispered trials.
Wounded silences.
A memory that fades noiselessly.
Like the last note of a chord.

Something lingers.
Like the ephemeral fragrance of crushed petals.
Stained fingers,
And the chiming of an age long past.

Something beckons.
Like the murky shadows cast by a dimming sun.
Detached smiles.
And the echo of a discontinuous existence.

Something gnaws.
Creating patterns that recede and ascend.
Clawing gazes.
And the furtive dance of expectations.

You just slipped through my fingers.
And I've paid.

Sanity.

The mind is a wondrous place. Mundane lines to write. Probably written in dog-eared books, graffitied on walls, much abused by almost every orator.
Point of the matter being, either the human mind is constantly plagued by denial or an extremely strong urge for self preservation.

When someone has beaten the living hell out of you and your face is engaging in polite exchange with germs from the floor, you're probably lying there, tasting metal at the back of your mouth and thinking... "I should go to the opticians and get myself new spectacles. Pity these ones broke. I always did like the translucent brown. I also need a new battery for the phone. Do I have enough cash? Translucent brown... pretty. Like the colour of a murky swamp 'neath a sky painted fiery red by a sunset. Why do I always think about sunsets? Why not sunrises? Sun-kissed fields. Pretty, too. Like the strand of hair brushing against a woman's cheek. Ah.. people. So beautiful. So ugly. So orderly. So chaotic. So, so messed up. Slang again. Why can't I think in decent Victorian English terms? The English were sobs anway. Why do I care? Apathy. We live in apathetic times. So fond of passing the blame. We make these times apathetic. Great, so my face is half smashed up and I'm talking about society. *weird fit of self-deprecating laughter* Get a life, you shit."

Hope, coursing through my veins like a shot of oblivion,
The bane of my life.
The bane?
A tinge bruised purple.
Skin pops,
Warm, sticky liquid.
The pink of corals.
The red of gleams.
And dreams.

Hope.
Like slow spinning redemption.
Dangles from a string.
Hurtling, spiralling damnation.

The reason, for reason's sake, shall a reason be.

I'd like nothing more than to stand at the edge of a precipice and watch existence drift past. Swirling and eddying around my feet like wispy tendrils of a dawn, laden with mist.
To throw my head back and feel the wind whistle through my hair.
A noiseless, redolent twilight breeze.

Deep inside the silence, staring out upon the sea
The waves are washing over half forgotten memory
Deep within the moment, laughter floats upon the breeze
Rising and falling, dying down within me
And I swear I never knew,
I never knew how it could be...

Manic smiles lit by neon lights, flashing brilliantly fluorescent.
Dirty fingernails and gritty eyes, dimmed by filthy light bulbs.
And a song, worded tunelessly by paper-thin, parched lips.
Frayed hair and crescendos, built to oblivion.
Chipped nails and dapper paint,
Striking contrasts and similarities.
Brilliant shadows and fading highlights.

And it feels like I'm flying above you
Dream that I'm dying to find the truth
Seems like you're trying to bring me down
Back down to earth.

The lines that birthed the blog I own - gave it an identity, shaped, moulded and made it synonymous with the way I have begun to perceive a lot that goes on around me.

Variations
The still waters of the air
under the bough of the echo.

The still waters of the water
under a frond of stars.

The still waters of your mouth
under a thicket of kisses.
-Federico Garcia Lorca