Be not sad

Be not sad, young mind and even younger heart:
If time were a mineral, wear it like jewels.
Adorn yourself beautifully,
so that you may be worthy of touching those things that are truly grand.
Live by breathing hard,
enjoy this and it will make you come alive.
Then dance in circles until the moon is in this essence clad
and means nothing except for what you want.

Be not sad, burning soul:
Know that the most stirring things are those that happen in dreams.
But never forget the difference;
within dreams you can't feel your heart beating,
and in reality, the pain, when it is a true thing,
is felt both in spirit and body.
Though the heart will always move,
And deem the wound as ephemeral nothing.

Be not sad, strength that aches:
Avoid most things by others coveted,
and make treasures of the things you find.
For even a grain of sand,
for those keen of sight,
Could be like a star in the palm of your hand.
Come to terms with beauty,
it will leave you when it must.
For eyes, skin, and hair, being of man, decays.
Though all that is material and not of the body will remain.
This said, make precious gifts of your craft,
so that all beautiful things within you will forever last.

Be not sad, trembling reason:
Use simple thoughts to speak of complex things;
The most complex mind thrives in simplicity.
But do not rely only on the complexity of thought;
For what's on thought, stays on thought, and does not share its rewards.
Do cherish the complex paths of the heart,
their intricacies, their rhythmic solemn song.
Most of all, understand the riches contained within,
for what's on the heart, stays on the heart,
but does share its rewards.

Be not sad, young mind and even younger heart:
When words are stronger than the hand that writes them,
look inside,
there may still be joy from which to tap.
Do not look for sorrow to be your guide,
for pain may seem elegant,
But only to those poets that have yet to live their lives.

The seed of regret

The fleeting thought that I would detain would have read like this:

I wondered around, as if aimless, but still I observed

If anything had a reason to be imitated
If a tree cried out to be described
If the wind pushed stronger to be noticed
I feared it would never again be portrayed...

Still, I wondered around, as if aimless
and spoke of the elevated thought,
of images of courage,
of all things I have since then sought.

Yet never of things that were mine did I speak
Like the poet who is blind in the house of mirrors,
or deaf.
And thus no voice ever rose,
no hand ever struck,
all things would settle;
the ideal flame would sleep,
but all things after would finally become light.

A moving light,
as if walking into a chamber with a thousand fireflies contained within.
Beautiful beings, pieces of spirit
slowly becoming mine.

In this closed chamber, no longer full of mirrors,
as wings became skin,
and such bright beauty grew dim,
a new light emerged inside the room
slowly caressing away the gloom
and as patiently as the shifting inside a clock of sand
this newly formed light
seemed to shine from newly formed hands

No longer would a single thought be detained, and no longer fleeting, they read like this:

After that night, I wondered around, no longer aimless;
no longer did I sit by and observed.
For there are no trials I would ever again feel coerced into avoiding,
no boundaries that must remain unbroken for fear of death.
For fear should never claim that fiery passion for the unknown,

which most righteously belongs to life.

A moving life, the unhindered blooming of the most beautiful flower I have ever known.

Nothing

Of any other night I could have chosen.
Thinking of a thousand other places I could have been,
In this place where no other human would be seen
There stood I that night, gazing at that house, embraced by fear and coldness.

I picked up my step, and towards the wooden doors I went.
While, amidst the cold and the sweeping leaves,
A sense like dread came and went sounding like a hiss.
While with one hand I held my bag, and with the other my empty chest

I finally came upon the wooden doors,
opened them, and fled from unlit skies.
Then towards a deeper darkness I brought my eyes
as if being moved by an unseen force

There was nothing resembling dear life
Nor anything that this emptiness could delude;
this overwhelming nothing had my senses in strife

Yet I knew it was a troubled voice that brought this inquietude
This shapeless chant that in my ears cried…

It was the unspoken whisper from the ghost of solitude

The Sleeper, the Angel, and I

On this darkest hour,
of the darkest night,
when heavy eyes become slumber, and slumber becomes dream,
I find myself lost in thought.
A thought of dark and light, of black and white
where words become song
of beauty or sadness, of peace or madness;
to live within this cry, in this otherwise silent night, I long.
Meanwhile the sleeper dies
And will never again hear the music of the angel's light,
or its prayer of dreadful, unknown woe.

The sleeper, the angel and I
Bid me well fair night of nights
When each of us, as you cast yourself upon, must die
First the sleeper, then the angel, then I
Embraced by the dawn's eve shall be
When in acts of empty remembrance, gentle stygian night,
Wretched, tainted dreams we weave
And disregard unspoken words that make our hands unclean.
For this, we will forever grieve
And for its consummation we will wait forevermore

Still, this we ask of you
Recite only tales about the better days of ignorance
For the moment before angel's death, the sleeper's death
the evolution of thought,
is the last moment of bliss before the rueful moment when innocence is lost

And when I sleep or die tonight
As I slept or died last night,
Won't you cry the song of life,
and light my way so I can follow?
Be brief for me, cold night of nights
and I'll no longer pray away my sorrow

At least, until I die again tomorrow.