Sword and Brush

The pen and the sword by their own sides, departed from previous hand, as like one finger that bends to play its own melody upon a stringed tool built from the fibers of a further removed planet, that with each strum there upon is elected a new series of indeterminable phrases. Now how to bring the two back to oneself, after having loosed them upon the world for such a cause as to incur the pains of a future whose shadow is the same shade a flame flicks into the sun, the latter which waves to life those terrestrially aimed plants that our hearts lovingly though with their respective private faults in minutes, to a life bound to a boundless glamor of guilt that one who has if having tasted storied blood can but take one step short from standing back on that sword’s edge that has proved itself sharp by each letter catapulted to the ascent of rancorous walls a vision once espied in its youthful wanderings, the very quivered trails that defined an era of emotions no longer but still defining the present one has lost in the that-much expanse of the appeal forwards into the past. It is as if the leisure one has gained in languor exercised by right of having done a day’s work of a previous days hollowed out demands, this totality of catch up that calls itself the work week thereby a whole unit of life is plotted upon a single hand’s single pointer that brings to a head thinking itself, insofar as it captivates meaning’s sight as if thought and a life were a stone that could be carved by any man, as it would be a mistake to confuse any man with any other man. In this identity of one and another, there the brush and sword sweeps their elaborate styles and all times are warped into one focality, before myself that sorts out his life not by any measure, but now by that pattern one can read onto the other, like a paper like an air.