My hand does write, not to scribe a mad man's words, not to tell the tale of a wise old goat herder. I run my hand over this page for me, just for my own personal fulfilment. My eyes fix on a star, far up in the sky, there are so many of those bright burning things, but this one ball of fire is my own. I stare and wonder, how can this thing be so beautiful, so marvelous, yet be so far, I want to ride it all over the sky and visit the old man who lives on the moon, slide on the rings of Saturn. But, now I'm home again. Back for a plithera of sorrow, can't I be that star, (guess not). If I were, I would shine so bright that the whole world would look at me, and children and romantics and desperates would wish upon me, and I would ask the Creator to bless and grant those requests. But, I am only a common man, in a common world. Creativity I cannot find but in the sky, ocean, and my mind. Oh how I long to live in my mind, realism distorts my world. It makes me mad, it tears my eyes, it rips my heart in little bitty pieces for the birds to pick at with their own dismay. One day I will meet with my maker and He will be that which I have longed for so many nights before I toss and turn, for rest does not know my name. Like a tree I'll stand and I will be tall and proud, because I will know Him, and my mind will finally gain use.
By Joshua Swodeck
darkness hath no path nor matterof touch.
blindly you walk in it hoping to meet no obstacles.
the further you walk the more lost you become.
you look back and don't know how far you have gone.
you look ahead you don't know how far you have to go.
you hear noises but you can't see anything.
you become afraid,
fear of not knowing creates panic in your heart.
for some reason you go on,
you hope there's an end a place of light,
a place wher you're not alone.
time has no meaning, but you hope to get there soon.
Unknown (found on the wall of an abandoned building)
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A cloud of dismal desicration desends deeper, darker, distant, finding itself among a crowd of witnesses. All of whom seek to be discovered, sought out, found to be unique, different. But to God's dismay, the images reflect that of monotony. We sing the same song, we dance the same dance, wewear the same dingy clothes. But there is one who's head rises above the sundering of gloom to reveal a radiance, a hope, a salvation from this pit of theatrical dispair. She is our Messiah, and she will ascend above us to the heavens.
By Joshua Swodeck
I see the sun far off begin to set, the mountains reach to kiss her. Tremendous antisapation, seems like it takes days. But I watch and wait, for like so many, I long to see the two unite in blissful majesty. The clouds surrounding turn steel gray, tired from a long day. They sit and wait for the sun, the king of the sky, the breath of life, to rest, to find sensual seductive peace in the bossom of the cold immovable earth.
By Joshua Swodeck
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