Grounded

It's only just begun, it'll all be over soon.
The seed's been planted and life has taken root.
The network of veins, searching for water,
and with each turn of the hand, the pulse starts to falter.
But somewhere underneath there, its tiny veins feed,
out of need, and unaware that some might call it greed.
And the hands still spin wildly, perhaps much like a time lapse,
with respect only to the moments and points,
like the carving knife used to mark a memory,
a flash in the pan, a shot in the dark, a dream that won't let it be.

That dream, a random nest of debris, rests in the head of that still growing tree;
speckled eggs, gorged with the blood of their captive stillborn, don't shake or hatch.
Patience wanes with the moon as mother tries to detach herself.
So she whistles while she waits, too little, too late.
And she wonders if there's fate, or just faith.
Does either denote her as predisposed to detonate and explode?
She feels exposed, her empty life, her empty nest where dreams erode
is all she has to her name.
With the worms sleeping in, the alarm's been reset
and the bones of that mother bird are beset upon by the sun,
pouring through the tree's green grasp, outstretched like beggars hands,
and when they brown and decay, they bury the day,
like shelter from the coming rain.

Bitter is the swans song; a mocking requiem
that fills the tree with embarrassment and shame.
That skeleton tree rankles in the wind and his dream falls apart,
dropping like bombs, and with each thud of each piece,
made of twigs, clay and mud, the earth shudders and sways.
And when it rains, cleansing the mortal coil, the downward spiral,
the muddy soil gives way to a torrent of white wash horror,
the fall of the forest empire.

The tree begins to lose it's footing with nothing but nothing to latch onto.
The wind lays into it, soothing as a scream,
the tree's brown leaves are swept away.
It holds its breath, anticipating the plunge into the depths of the swelling river
and as long as it takes, there's no telling how long it will hold.
Its veins exposed by the failing land, hang free like toes
from the holes in the boot of a poor man.
As the sky continued to cry and light crept into the fog,
it realized it had survived while every other one had died;
those that bore fruit and life had failed to remain alive.
The forest floor, now a battlefield of fallen ones,
forever more a barren field, now that the storm is done.
But as the fungus and moss dissect the loss, did the tree reminisce on the fun?
If only to mourn the passing of those days which expired like the flare of a match fire,
or the flash of lightning whose bloom lasts for an instant before wilting in the black sky.
And it asks why must its desire be like the tightening of a noose,
keeping its distance, like day melting into night.

The Details

In a world beset with distraction, it's easy to miss the little things; the details that were once the focus of sonnets are rapidly becoming the nuances of a race bent on self-destruction –all but forgotten traces of what makes us humans. And in this confusion, love breed's hate; faith breed's contempt; morality breed's spite; individuality breed's conformity.

What makes anyone special anymore? What makes friends from enemies between two people who've never met? Who draws that line? How is it understood? -All details overlooked.

People think that there are answers to life, that like any test you might take at school, every answer is clearly right or wrong. Should we expect life to run like anything that comes with instructions? Through various parables, sayings and proverbs, I'm led to believe that life provides lessons –it's the lessons that provide answers –and the answers are not always black or white. Our guide through these lessons is our conscience and the advice of others. What compels us to weigh right from wrong? What compels us to care? Where we invest more faith and under what circumstances is often an individually learned trait, but faith has to be placed or we become slaves of habit, doing what feels good, or normal, or safe, or familiar because it is simply that –familiar.

People need eachother. It's an interesting aspect of the human condition, which is to say that for the series of biologically determined events which are common to most human lives, some of which are ineveitable for everyone, at it's very base, the ongoing way in which humans react to or cope with these events is the human condition. To imagine more about life beyond what is needed for survival is a trait shared by all humans, and humans alone.

Choose now to either die immediately with your loved ones around or live alone for the rest of your life on a deserted island in the middle of nowhere. Which is it? There is no wrong answer, just a revelealing look into who you are and how you handle things. Why did you answer the way you did? What are the expected consequences of your choice? Who do you think your decision will impact? How will they be affected?
We're getting back to the details now, aren't we?

When someone is in need, why do we help them? Why would we not? Is it because we expect something in return?
The helpless aren't helpless if only they look for help. The hopeless aren't hopeless if only they have help.

I guess I'm in a bit of a "mood" at the moment and I should take some time to let this sink in more thoroughly.

I Pressed the Button

It always starts with a bright burning light; a veritable star surrounded by the shifting shadows of the non-important. There's blurred movement and colors amid the glaring light, and the sounds of laughter and idle chatter seem to fade in and out like the sounds of children at the public pool when submerged underwater. Theres a sense that time is passing by rapidly and I dont give a thought to trying to slow it down because as it passes, theres still enough to remind me; the smells, the voices, the ambient murmur of the crowd becomes white noise and the thoughts and feelings I had back then become charged and active -an archaic machine restarted for the first time in nearly a decade, yet running like four decades had elapsed. Dust and debris is coughed out in bursts and it threatens to collapse, yet continues churning to a clicking hum reminiscent of an old film projector. Theres a swarm of snapping lights in my face, each one an emotion shared -laughter, embarrassment, excitement, anxiety, sorrow, self-doubt... love?

I opened my eyes and stepped away from the device for a moment. My eyes took focus and the emotion sickness washed over me and I became cold. The light from the machine flickered some and after a few uncertain moments it blinked out completely and in the dark I sat. Helplessness overshadowed the already gray room, and I felt my head sway as would a stone perched on a twig. Dizzy and nauseous, I reached out for something to grab a hold of, but my hands fell short of anything.

I then noticed the faintest sound of music. I could not identify it, nor could I pin point its location, but for a moment my head was clear and I could concentrate. Through the darkness I crawled until I discovered a pinhole of light peering up at me. I pressed my face to the floor and let my eyes consume its tiny light. I then stared for countless hours, debating with myself if the light could be the source of the music I was hearing. I finally brought my fingers to it and found that I could pick it up. As small as a grain of sand, yet brilliant for its size, its melody was sweet and calming. I gave the light a name; I called it Purpose.

I held onto my Purpose for a long time, trying to share it with others, but not many could even see its light, or hear its sound. So I kept it with me, and it became a primary component for each new machine I built throughout the years. It acted as fuel for them, and I found that the results were pleasant, if not unexpected. As I built more machines, I obtained rooms for them all, and with my Purpose, they all had meaning, and became personal treasures, each in their own right. They are a testimony of a decent life, full of memory, but for every new machine that is built, the rest seemingly became burdened by the weight of their own intensely deep meaning without the foundation pieces of my earlier works.
I realized that for all of my machines to sustain themselves, I would have to wire them to an active machine. I walked back into the gray room, solemnly, my Purpose illuminating the room. With it I was able to locate the same machine I had tried to operate years earlier. I attempted to start it, but instead of grumbling to a start, it let out a wheeze and I heard something inside scrape and grind to a stop. I immediately tore the outer plate off and I found that I was able to extract from it many things I didnt realize could be salvaged. I pulled out a whole component piece made up of hundreds of moving parts that I called Friendship, and a funny shaped piece that I called Destiny. I found three working cogs that I named Wisdom, Understanding and Experience. These should fit just fine in the new machine Im building, I thought to myself.

I installed the older components alongside the new ones but it wasnt until I placed my Purpose, which was now quite sizable and weighed as much as an egg, in its cradle, that the older pieces began to move. I then noticed something most troubling. Not all the switches in the Friendship piece were moving, and I surmised that their separation from the old machine had left them inoperable. To make the machine complete, I would need to reconnect those switches directly through the new machine -neither they or their memory would survive outside of their original box without some reconnection. I then pressed a button, and after a few tries, I found them to be working quite well, and I have no doubt that more will wake up soon.