An Order of Chaos

Wish Have you heard what I have in the thoughts propelling the flights of my sleep? As mist will settle softly over still and gentle waters, it is the white noise that whispers delicately. The flower petals of a virgin's rose blossom slowly with the sunrise and rain, both thinking mystical thoughts in their requests for power from the deity of passion and the lord of war. The other side of the living speaks to Chronos, and they want us to know! However, what the message seems to be is lost in translations. How unfortunate that the son of days clears the waters only for me to find that I have forgotten the Lord's Prayer for those fallen due to the undercurrents of transition between unconsciousness and being aware. The murk is still and peaceful between the crashing tides meeting the shores of wake and the depths of rest; these are the currents of a sleeper. I find I am somewhat uncertain in regard to the stimuli that jolt through me as I travel the Land of Nod: a constant, steady vibe of energy, a pulse of white light that allows this temple, the breath of life. In the winds above the water, you can hear the past whispering in the ear of forever. The captain of a sunken ship, I have seen the incarnates of all worship dance together through the bottom of an empty bottle; they swirl and waltz a holy dance of intimacy and acceptance for one another, while we war over the scraps they left behind long ago. Somewhere together they weave the fabrics of remembrance for those gone through the door of divine understanding. A breeze from their spindles gives featherlike wings to seeds of all that is beautiful amid the nostalgia. Pictures and words in hard drives and servers, the archives of achievement we seek to give immortality. Therefore, we place a razor to the arteries of a more perfected organism. Though we are willing to murder her, we feel no remorse in calling her our home. Somewhere up above all this, a mother sings a lullaby for a newborn that she promised she would protect and love unconditionally. Then, comforted, it quieted and drifted off on time's oceans, spinning softly in the warmth of her beams. Weathering troubled meditations or an adversary’s rest, it sleeps. The chart of the depths of temporal is within the exhale of infinitum. Upon the firmament, the shy and meek spirit is inaudible unto thy ear. Yet the soul has a much more advanced way of hearing. After the pressure of creation lifted the inner being from the forge, it evolved into the spiritual sanctuary within. The silence of a friend shines as a beacon over the harbors of communication. Even after the inlet survives Ragnarok and Armageddon in a two on one grudge match, a bird may sing the song of freedom until it grows too heavy for its wings and, like humanity, becomes bound to the earth. May the ones I love perceive and truly understand the celestial music of life before a time for all things such as tears and sadness wounds them. If only the dance of lovers would never end, or fall fatigued and weary before the crowds who stare, instead of being washed away by love to foreign shores of fated glory. Perhaps, alas, to find the white rose that gives its discoverer a wish. Evermore, let such hearts beat in unison, counting the passing of momentary happiness as something of fantasy to which corruption and evil spawned inside their twisted imaginations. Desire has fallen at my feet, as the leaves of tall aspen trees or those beautiful silver birch do on chilly autumn days. Passion and dreams pass in my every thought like the winds that blow across the wheat fields of the prairies. Sweet Chinooks, you are as revered and holy as the shroud of Turin, which is something one must constantly guard in the basilica of the heart. Life is fleeting, so mark the years accounted us, humanity, and the Earth. The enchanted rose is a gift you are given, to give away. It is a chain letter or pyramidal wish that only the most exquisite creatures can unburden of its prize. Still the white noise sings its spell to my unconscious mind while I sleep, flower pollens that tickle my sinuses with allergic reactions to the incantations of possibility. Who is wise enough to hypothesize every avenue down which a wish might take them? Magic flowers are as delicate and fickle as the rest of life, I suppose. Why would the granted prayer be any different? For a prayer is but a wish: fertilized with intelligence, wisdom, and love, it can grow in the hallowed places where the winds bless wishes, spreading the seeds of such holy roses and thus ensuring their survival in a world that no longer has faith in itself!