Enter the realm of the dark banner…
Here are kept the monsters of the mind, secreted in small pockets of dark matter. Penned anxieties are released into the wires, sprayed across the ether, resonating amongst the spheres. Innocence has fled this place, beware the only beauty you will find here are the Daughters of Sadness and Madre Lament. Keep them here where I can see them; where you can watch them and know me better for my imagined sins.
Let One Hundred Thousand flowers bloom.
Let the stars fall upon the beaches.
Soft is the whisper of the cooling universe.
Soft are the words…
Biographical and Historical.
Every morning as I wake, I find myself between two minds. The first still planted firmly in the feelings of the night, dark, fearful, confused and lost in fantasy. The second pulling into day; dragging with it all those fears that leave me hanging from the sea ledge, fingernails slipping in the dirt. Only after memories of this world win over do I find the courage to start again and learn to love the sun.
There are twin stories. Running in parallel through time unfolding. Guess which one is me.
Sometimes, when sleep is long and takes me past the gates of this world and beyond the veil of hidden shadows, stories whisper and boil inside me. Places unfamiliar to me swarm with faces, strange devices, creatures of the id. Dreams are processed, decoded, spread across the darkness of the screen, each word a nebula within a galaxy of sentences and paragraphs. Each story adds mass, increasing the velocity as we spin violently around the center of this heavy heart.
Soft is the whisper… Click here for Short Stories.
Please leave a vote for your favourite stories. Your feedback is valuable and helps me to decide what I need to improve and what I need to add more of. Feel free to leave comments on my work anywhere you wish.
The poems buzz and rattle in the wires, so much I’ve had to encase them in images to quiet them and hold them still. Now they stand in jars stacked neatly in the gallery. Open them and take a sniff, dip your finger and taste them if you dare. But when you are done, make sure you have replaced the lid.
They will spill and stain if you leave them open.
Over the years, there have been the seedlings of thought, nurtured and grown to become larger and bear fruit. Sometimes the fruit grows sour and when cooked it gives an intriguing taste that only leaves the wish to relish and explore again. Sometimes it sweetens and shows colour and promise beyond the bough it grows on. Others are shaken from branches to be turned in the soil once more, letting new seeds feel the nourishment again. Here you will find the trees of many words, each of which shines with the brilliance of stars. Let them fall upon the beaches of our minds.
Soft is the whisper… Click here for longer projects.
Supernova1987 
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