All of these make sense, but probably only to me.
The library lacks the owner,
The mansion lacks the prey,
The night lacks the tomes,
Where is this key to the knot of my desire?
If no one can hear you scream, are you really alive?
If no one can see your tear fall, are you really there?
If no one can sense your life fading, do you really exist?
If you only have yourself, is there a self to have?
The weeping caverns echo of hollow darkness tonight.
The submissive huntress,
The thirsting feline silent,
The sound of an open book.
These windows to her heart,
This senless self-opposition.
Facets claiming the diamond,
Each assured of her just cause.
Every time I open my heart,
Let my sadness flow onto paper,
The blame laid upon the sealing,
Pours it right back in again.
Keeping me trapped within myself,
To safeguard their ignorance.
Isn't it strange how many recent works of art which suggest we're all asleep?
Take control over your life; turn off your television.
I'm late, again, as always.
Why?
I met the wolf and the wolf took me. Conquering my heart he carried me to his den, releasing me of committments, taking me for his own. That night I opened myself to him and the morning after he stabbed me in the heart.
He then left me there to bleed. I bled.
Dear wolf, wounds that deep do not heal.
I met the teacher and the teacher led me. Capturing my mind he took me ever deeper, never ceasing, lacking the patience that builds trust. That night, gasping for air, I tried to breathe and a moment later he stabbed me in the heart.
He then told he might do it again. I fled.
Dear teacher, wounds that deep do not teach.
Two minds, two hands, two journeys ending in bloodshed. Twice on the same spot and it's a wonder my heart is still beating.
Dear heart; heal, close, hide and never open, ever again.
The withered buildings, the Grasping Hand, built to capture the memories of old. All in vain, all in vain.
You’re all blind. None of you see it, all that has been lost, in time.
I see it.
I see them, the empty, gaping hallways. I see them, the halls filled with emptiness. All abandoned, so very long ago.
Even the desperate, the heartsick, the nostalgic, even they gave up in the end.
I see them, the domes, now broken. I see them, the arches, reaching for the sea, pleading to the Home of old to return.
Just once more.
Just once.
Lost.
Sila was the second Velama, the older of two sisters, the other being Yana.
She had blue eyes and long black hair. She was quiet and introspective.
She left her siblings to wander soon after they were entrusted with the world, finding them too rash and shallow, more interested in the world around them than that within. After a while she reached the shores of the sea, and suddenly heard a voice speak to her. At first just a whisper, indistinct, a drizzle of water from far behind, it spoke gently in her ear of rain, of little pools under the canopy of the forest.
As it grew, becoming ever more loud and forceful, it began to speak of little rivers, running to mirror-surfaced lakes bordered with trees, and of the tiny lives lived in them. She could not see from where the voice was coming; it seemed to be all around her. Fascinated, she sat down to listen as it told her about the ways of the waters, of the secrets of the deeps and of the falling of the rains on mountain sides, of all the world’s oceans, rivers and lakes and all the multitude of life in them.
It was the sea that was speaking to her, the spirit that is all the life of all the seas, the giver of life. It told of the joy of birth, the adventure that is life, and the sorrow of death. The memory was still clear of the endless ages, before the Leya arrived, when it had been devoid of life. In the end, the inconsolable sadness from that time seeped into her, for ever becoming a part of her.
The drops of the oceans are tears of sorrow. The tears of Sila, for they are one. How we miss her, Sinassa so Yenda, Sesila so Neka, Onerana, the great teacher of the heart.
From the earth,
through the fire,
into the water,
cleaves the air.
It is my soul.
The passion of pain,
ever calling to me,
sweetness and promise,
its claws in my soul.
The kindness that cuts so deep.
The smile that sears the heart.
Her eyes pools of purest agony,
would I ever lose myself there.
Passion, always shifting, always pulling
Wonder, always seizing, always guiding
Sadness, always singing, always telling
Longing, always calling, always burning
Never ceasing
I am a slave to a most fickle muse
Forever captive to her latest fancies
I will always hear the call of the sea
Drinking of the voice of Sila Onerana
Grains of the teacher's salt in my heart
Closer than family,
Distinct as siblings,
Sharing our home,
Separated by taste,
United in friendship.
The treasure of each other,
at the price of moderation.
Peace through cooperation,
Answers through boundaries.
Sometimes you look so very serious,
harder than stone, tired beyond words,
as if you've already seen it all,
already been there, already done it,
and it doesn't ease the pain I feel,
that I know that you really have.
© elmindreda