The essence of time is in the wind drifting by as we watch the circus unfold entranced by the swagger of inadvertent tales of valor met with insurmountable odds bringing about the quality sought. Subservient thoughts all in toward the evident marker, without direction, is there an archer without a mark, there is not, then so as adversity wages its war valor is born if the soul may stand amidst the maelstrom. On bent knee he sighs as nature's furry beats against him, he rises and stands headlong into thee immense coral of confusion, is there an end and what will it be, he does not quit, he may slip, trip, and fall, but he will crawl if need be, this will end before he does before he even thinks of quitting, skin torn and eyes bloodied, hollow to the bone yet standing, the air is clear, calm, and refreshing, the end had finally come but he knew there will always be another, but he gets better each time. But there will be no crown, the crown is to be standing knowing that this is where you come from, that this is who you are...
About the Creator
Johnny Gerbrandt
Love lifting, love writing, love designing. My journey is a strange one but I love it. learning constantly.
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Expanse and Wisdom
Calculated cohersions of copteic corruption seeding the landscape with confusion touting knowledge of newly discovered landmines of understanding, even though the static is all encompassing, all enveloping, creating concepts of rabid understanding, maneuvering in dark places believing to have epiphanies in mirrors of silver lace with lulibuys meant to coddle soft minds, Remember the days of silent solitude, where nature mezmorized and fascinated when the static was not and clarity was manifest in the soul. Are our spirits not knit with ancestors of ancient days, is the connection too far or has the static destroyed all possibilities of clear correlations between the expanse and wisdom.
By Johnny Gerbrandt3 years ago in Poets
making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskar5 days ago in Feast
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