Destinations: Poetry, Pros, and Creative Writing

The Lake of Creation

The Lake of Creation

The Lake of Creation is a destination created through universal means. Driven by the eternal existence of space and time. Developing into celestial minds through periodic dreams.

The ripple of our words flow through the lake of creation leaving echoes of ideas.  The lake serves as a breeding ground for our existence and ideals.

The hand of power stirs the lake with ease, not to cause trouble but to please.

The Lake of Creation is the string that links our minds to our soul. Our consciousness exceeds the banks of the lake. It shouldn't be called freedom, escaping from the waves of control.

The balance of fate and individuality rests on the lake of creation. Although our existence was developed in the swirling lake, it doesn't mean it should be our final destination.

Ethereal

Why us? Why here? Why now? How did we become? Why do we deserve to be here? In the grand escape of the universe, a few quintessential beings strong enough to survive the deepest and harshest environment turn into blooming and feverish life. Mysterious life at that.

A speckle of existence in a timeless loop of eternity fully vacant of breath.  Then all of the sudden, without a single sign, life blossomed. Interest sparked the minds of beings across the galaxy. Interest filled with endless strength. Interest filled with endless things to be feared. Interest filled with endless fallacy.

The galaxy became full of movement and static. Static that became overwhelming but somehow poetic. That poetry turned into a new relic.

Somehow out of all this commotion there is still an ethereal being. A delicacy that is too pure for this universe. A harmony that contradicts the universe's dissonance. Something so powerful that it's able to drift against the all powerful, and yet seems so out of reach. But for every chaotic chirp of the universe there is a spark of ethereal peace.

Delicate Peace

In death you'll find eternal peace
In life you'll only strive for peace
The universe is delicate
A butterfly's wings are delicate
If you touch them you'll leave a crease
The human mind is delicate.

Butterfly

The chaos of the winds are evident tonight.
The howling and screeching pierce through the wall.
For ordinary beings they elope in fright.
Lost beings shake as they crawl.

The next morning's destruction lies evident.
Habitat and corpses decorate the earth.
Somehow existence feels even more irrelevant.
Chaos surrounds as a being sits on a hearth.

Tears flood the eyes of this being, as everything is distraught.
Silence alludes to the tragedy of the circumstance.
Yet somehow in this catastrophe a lesson can still be taught.
A lesson that at first felt like a trance.

A butterfly flew past the destruction.
It seemed lost in another realm.
It seemed its presence needed no introduction.
Its delicate body survived the qualm.

It stands to be believed that the only true foe of chaos is peace.
The butterfly is fragile but strong enough to survive chaos.
The world will need to heal piece by piece.
It will take time to retreat from the pathos.

Gold Stars

Golden stars fly through the minds of those who are in fear.
Their eyes catch the brilliant glow and fill with tears.

The dust specks land on their skin.
The glory of the moment makes them lift their chin.

Seconds fly by but it feels as if it's an everlasting moment.
The cost of the moment makes them lament.

The gold star falls from its glory.
It's decent may leave the scene gory.

The onlookers' eyes are entranced with the might of the gold star.
They fail to see that they will soon be a scar.

Crash.

The gold star fell from its home.
Into the place the onlookers called home.

Distracted by the awe of the moment they forgot to be in awe of themselves.
Now all that is left is their shells.

Echoes

I don't believe in ghosts, only reminisce of fissures from the past echoing into the present. Billions of light years away the dinosaurs still exist to observers we have yet to meet. I can't comprehend death, not because I'm confused but because it's an experience I have never lived. Can you live death? Is death an experience or is it a destitute delay of time. Will my death echo into the future once I become the food for the crude crawling coin sized creatures? Will the observers live long enough to see me trace the footsteps of the unfathomably sized lizards they witness now. My time is limited. If time is even limited. And if it's not then my time is even more irrelevant than it already is. Ghosts aren't real, not because I don't want them to be; but because if they were I would already be one. A washed up, self indulgent, irrelevant, psychotic, figment of time. That's what I am. That's what my echo of existence will carry through the limited time. But only if time is limited.

Darkness

They want to say the universe is endless. However the only thing that is truly endless is darkness. Even in the brightest bright your shadow will appear and darkness will bloom. Light isn't always found in darkness and that's why the world is hurled towards doom. You may as well embrace it. Before you become a victim to the endless intuition, that darkness eclipses eternity.

Dream

A dream is the only thing that keeps nightmares from passing from minds to the physical realm. Civilizations grew and thrived from the actions of calculated, creative and cautious minds. The unlimited power of thought guides the universe's meaning. Without dreams we'd be floating on a sphere of influence through a void of universal diversity. In lacking thought actions would have no meaning, just consequences. An absence of nightmares breeds nothing to fear. Fear sparks aspirations and dreams to be better. The greatest gift the universe has given: is a kind that isn't limited. Rather it's unlimited with its thought.

When the stars stop moving

The stars have forbidden to move.
Every season it's always Orion and his belt.
No fading of the stars in sly droves. Maybe attention hasn't been paid enough to witness the stars and the texture like-felt..

Waiting for the constellations to form into a gasping hand.
Scooping up their universal coexisters.
Clenching and dropping the young and old stars upon the land.
Burning the forests into ash and threatening the sisters.

Falling from the heavens they vibrate and whistle like a tea kettle pot.
Warning all brothers and sisters away to avoid the cataclysmic rage.
No discrimination for the stars destroy every spot.
Omnipotent lifeless clusters erupt in eternal pain, like the magic of a mage.

Orion wields his godly weapons to resist the galactic collapse.
When it all comes to an end no god can save existence.
Mt. Olympus will crumble under the gravitational pressure.
While mother earth's churning heart will seep through the mantle.

When the stars stop moving.
The living cease to maintain living.

Milky hazes cover up the heavens.

As the Milky Way lays brittle and broken in her casket amongst eternity.

No seasons will be left to determine the speckled night sky.

No minds to conjure constellations.

For the sake of the existence; all that are living should pray to the gods they idol,

And ask that the stars don't stop moving.

For even Orion himself couldn't resist the collapse of his galactic sanctuary.

That now bleeds like hell.