Uma Experiência Nas Palavras; Tell Me Where It Takes You.

"In the silent, silent night
When stars have put themselves to bed
Beneath the clouds, and I rest my head
For the long-drawn dream flight
I talk to the air, or is it you?

A sin or an action?
Of morals, or God?
By the silence, or a nod,
My confessions found in fractions;
O, what compels these ghostly words?"

"Some unexpected love arriving right on time is more welcome to the ill than penicillin."
-Rod McKuen

And now for the musical break, (Please listen for at least thirty seconds)

Moving forward>>>> ...

Severely shaken,
The adolescent lamb
Climbs gently through the tangles
As the grass surrounding,
Higher than a farmers knees
Softly rolls with winds
That sound as if carrying
Some distant, violin driven
Dance of death. Deeply green,
Sickly so like a ressurrected
Sea from depth not meant to
Be found,
And the little lamb climbs
Fastly to the tangles
Beginning woods away
From the heard below.
When lighting strikes,
He shudders, crazed.
When thunder sounds,
His legs give way and
He falls to the ground.
Quicker he runs,
Into the dense dementia
Of the sinister fingers
Rising from the ground,
High brown, all around;
The little lamb lay
Daunted in peril's icy breath.
-The storm subsides-
Light rain falls steady,
The air is calm.
The trees, only standing
Straight and tall
Absorb the fall of drops
Atop the little lambs head.
He rises to run,
Merrily along the woods;
Lamb has known such things before
As rain and trees and nothing more.
The rain resumes its slow decay,
And soon it will have passed away.
The lamb is brave
And walks with ease,
And eating some mushrooms
He feels most pleased.
After a time
Thirst is dragging down
The smile of the lamb
Transforming to a frown.
Luck is better still
When timing plays its part.
The lamb discovered a hole
Filled with something cool and dark.
Bending slowly down
His nosed touched what was wet,
And pushing slightly downward
He drank all he could get.
The little lamb
Walked all around.
A home for whom?
A home he'd found.
And so he took
To drinking more,
Then the thunder sounded
As it had before.
The little lamb
Shuddered and froze
Next to the water
No longer in repose.
The thunder was quiet,
Not quite like before.
But the lamb never moved;
For a sound his heart could not ignore.
It came frightfully close
And then it died away.
The lamb still lay there still,
Then called out in a panic
As if someone would hear.
Someone heard that little lamb,
A moveable thunder
With a hunger in demand.
When the lamb called out
A second time
In the mouth of the wolf
Was the lambs last whine.

*Pausing for assessment as to whether that was a complete waste of time or not...

What for more else in the sickening silence of night do we men and women decline the constant offerings of madness on a pallet of mere regard? Wherefore do we find ourselves complacent and how may we ignore the deafening silence of our own measured minds?


I. Have. Nothing. To. Give.


Ok, finally being serious for you, I am going to just say that its an off night. Nothing coming out of this bearded brain of mine. I listen to maddened strings and pianos together in an intimately deviant dance that fill me with something- but something to which there is no directly filtered product to display. Perhaps my dreams will enchant some extroversion of my latest perversions of the mind. Until then, you melancholy froth-spoons, goodnight.