C.S.Lewis Photography

1 Corinthians 13:12

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face.

please don't keep me

your humble arms, like an awakened tree, are my faint wings' asylum.
your cradle exposes desperation.
my face sinks to the bottom of your heart.
lead fused eyelids are sleep hungry.
melancholy ringing love,
as gossiping walls dull like a theater's bow.

raven

she has a mother's face
and a child's elite delicacy of trust.

window shadows and stars bathe
and echo her chocolate face.

her eyes - rivers of peace -
caress tears.

guilt disassembles her delight.
she does not know why she cries to me.

and i do not know why either.

dear mommy,

you've breathed into me
a seed.

an early tickle - a surge of life

writhing in growth - snapping my veins

excruciating firming of roots

soft lace nourishing blossoms

tsunamis echo.
but i have mommy here.

Wisteria is my Wine

Planted piano keys - trees -
are parted like ocean waters when
Lady Sun bashfully spies from her corner.

She undresses slowly, innocently
from polyester work garb to a
hazy sunflower ball gown.

She is radiant,
passionately swaying.

Her balm spills to awaken kindred earth's
rapture.

Wisteria is my wine.

Drunk with beauty,
I am pupil of whimsical Sun.

She flushes pink from her secret lover's
soft kisses and carassing voice.

Rose, she accedes him,
and reclines
as she lays until waking.

vicarious

perhaps it (the untouchable all-comprehensible infamous life or time or state of existance etc..) is better to dwell alone. why is it we feel acomplished upon non-existance of sleep for reading? hollow pregnant romance novels (better yet, romance novels involving vampires) or significant works of cannon - no matter. i exist vicariously though memiors of those who claim misfittedness. i then rotate in my swivel chain to write my own personal memio of this personal nobody. i'll hand myself the ragged truth on a platter that will do no good unless used to end my life and shout that we're all simply blundering nobodies attempting to be beautiful and feign adventure.

will you carry me away on an eagle?

my adventures are composed in sweet invested books. i let the words write themselves on my face, scrawling across with each thought of attaining (and excusing life to attain) that insurmountable something.
a'gape. peace. red.
however, "first art will imitate life, then life will imitate art, then life will find its very meaning from the arts." - unknown
that is why memiors are so uncomplicatedly genious. they allow me contentment with my own mundane, for, if they can see the beauty (or at least sound poetic and profound when discussing life and death) then so can i.

right?

Loving and Devouring are the same

Tis' better to love not at all,
Than to love perversely with crooked spine.
My stor'ge will devour the both of us.