Memory revision 1

A memory is supposed to taste sweet;

As a plump berry recalls ripe noondays

Full-blossomed in snug evening rendevous,

So a memory's fragrance should speak warmth.

Yet winter consumes all, deafly, mutely;

Her cold facts cloy bitterly to the tongues

Of men who'd speak but dare not remember.

If the frost taints, is a draught worth the dregs?

But mutely recalled (if at all)

A memory is supposed to be sweet;

Like a plump berry tastes of ripe noondays

Full-blossomed in snug evening rendezvous,

So a memory's fragrance should speak warmth.

Yet winter consumes all, deadly, deafly;

Her cold facts cloy bitterly to the tongues

Of men who'd speak but dare not remember.

If the frost taints, is a draught worth the dregs?

Exercise 2

I write to you expecting nothing but

More of the same and exactly what

I suppose you've pre-decided.

But how could you stare and sit idly by

While Romans burned and trampled Trojans died

Under Your condemning silence?

Now my heart pounds with the hooves of Life's cruel horde

Who light slow fires, dedicating to their Lord

The fattest of my best desires.

Plans

I want to study rhetorical progression - how disparity of knowledge drives a narrative. Exposition.

Answered prayer

Frustrated.

That's me.

Perpetually. Inescapably. Increasingly, unceasingly - frustrated.

Life isn't full of dead ends; it IS one. You only end when you're dead. In the meantime, you just helplessly endure each and every roadblock which spitefully interrupts any forward momentum you might have gained since the last one. Wall; wall; wall. Stop. Stop. Stop. (Blank-blank-blank). That's life.

Still, as I take yet another tortured whirl round the mulberry bush, I can't help but notice a little star twinkling. As the dust and debris clear, I (still spinning) see a new bridge emerge - faintly illuminated in singular starlight - from the ashes of the fallen one. Yes, as the bloody bush and broken bridge blur to become mere coffee-stains, my fair lady stands atop the celestially-crowned archway with arms raised and clearly pronounces to its sole hovering lamp: "Thou gem of unexpected beauty and happy circumstance! Give us light beyond life that we, like thee, may guide others into love and truth. Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy."

Now I lay me down to sleep. I sell the world my soul too cheap.

Aphorism 1

A lighter which burns

To watch its flame glow

Soon burns itself empty and dark.

A writer who yearns

To make his fame grow

Will yearn himself short of the mark.

Today's Forecast

"The radiant winds of heaven blow eagerly earthward, to catch each facet of some full-budded tree and set it warmly stirring in emeraldine shimmer."