Forest of Shadows - Sleeping Death

Bleak silver streams

the light of many a star

born from thrones in dark heaven

and swept in the suns demise

bleak silver streams

the radiance of eternity

paint the meadows in dismal shades

as sleeping death seep though the clouds

I stand motionless

and marvel with empty eyes

like a portrait of bliss forsaken

wearing the colours of loss

I stand motionless

like a grieving graveyard statue

and I drape my face with my bare hands

as sleeping death seep through the clouds

I felt a dying embrace

a soft breeze of weary winds

singing silent lamentations

a prologue to a tragedy untold

clad in the cold breath of October

the stars fall from their thrones

and my last gleam of hope fade away

In this crestfallen orchard where

the final chapter lies written

dressed in a robe of shattered dreams

as the flower withers

in this crestfallen orchard

where fallen leaves lies dying

I kneel down in solitude

as sleeping death seep through the clouds

I stare into the forever night

and I travel beyond the fallen stars

I sink into oblivious twilight dream

where my sleeping beauty

lies sleeping with the dead

Part One: Anguish

The morning was bright and frosty and the grass crackled underfoot. The air was full of the sounds of birds drifting through the trees and from somewhere the soft sound of a flute could be heard. Among the flowers which were opening for the day, bees buzzed about their work. A fox hurried through the undergrowth on some errand followed by a rabbit a few moments later -coincidence surely.

The trees were discussing something among themselves -you could tell it was just a casual conversation by the way they dreamily whispered. The sky was looking very beautiful dressed in a rich, deep blue and scattered scantily with small, white, puffy clouds. Some distance away from the group of trees -you couldn't really call them a forest for there weren't enough of them -the fields were also a buzzing with bees (I have no idea why for I couldn't see any flowers) and the wind caused ripples to run across grass, much like water. And down in the valley was a small river -or creek rather, a few ducks swimming around in circles and ducking their heads under the water (I do wonder if that’s how they get the name) and some geese stood on the bank honking at them like New York taxi's.

Suddenly a small bird flew into a tree and fell backwards onto the ground, it flew up and off then circle around and flew at the tree again falling back then hurling itself at the tree again then again, and again viciously throwing itself into the trunk. Each time a small flurry of blue and white feathers fell to the ground, again the small bird its feathers spotted with blood, hurled itself at the tree and this time it fell to the ground and flapped around on its back; it had broken its wing.

I had been holding my breath for the last few moments. I approached the bird which was still writhing around on its back, my heart was pounding and I had no idea what to do. It was after all, a small bird and couldn't hurt me so I knelt down and leant over it, I noticed that all sounds had ceased, even the tree's had become still. The bird was lying still now apart from occasionally twitching its wing, I cautiously reach out to touch the bird, it took no notice of me. I wiped the blood off my hand onto the grass and I felt in my pockets and looked around for something to pick it up in when I heard a strange sound. The bird seemed to have moaned, I knelt closer to it and it did it again; A strange high pitched moan unlike anything I had ever heard from a bird before; it was almost human like. This time the bird cried, a spine chilling wail. I jumped up away from it and my blood run cold as the bird started to to scream. A horrible, hideous cry that echoed through the forest. And then the bird became silent and the forest returned to normal.

Scenes From An Old House Facing West

In the corner a grand old fireplace sits, and on top talking to it’s old friend
gurgles a burnt black kettle full of dents and a broken handle.

A large pot of hydrangeas on the table stands, and a trail of ants lead to and from a forgotten plate of toast and jam.

A grey and white tabby lays motionless on the couch, and down by the skirting board a mouse is on the lookout for bits of food laying about.

On the wall is a painting of a trees in a field by John Constable, and on the coffee table lays an old leather bound King James Bible.

The old house faces west for reasons unknown. It catches not much sun at all, but tis warm inside which makes it a home.

Up on the ceiling a spiders cobweb catches a ladybird for dinner, and down by a grand four poster bed kneels a tearful sinner.

Behind the door a coat rack stands, full of fur coats, scarves and a selection of hats.

In the roof and in the walls the copper piping taps and rattles, and in the kitchen a jar of tomato sauce falls off the shelf and splatters on the floor.

A love letter lies unfinished on the desk, and down on the carpet the pen bleeds ink in a dark, unsightly mess.

At the kitchen door beneath the stack of firewood a snake awakes and tastes the air, and in the garden a group of hens search for worms and bugs.

Ivy creeps up the west wall near the sun room, and overhead a flock of ducks fly past in an unsteady “V”

On the table “An Essay on Criticism” sits open at page fifty-two, and the key to the back door hides patiently under the mat.

The Wise Man

This is Mr Browne. He's tubby and moustached and smokes a pipe -well I say smoke but he forgets his matches so it mostly hangs in the corner of his mouth unlit. Mr Browne thinks cats are the most amusing creatures in Gods creation. He once had to be rushed to hospital after nearly suffocating from laughing at a cat playing with string. But I'm taking you down the garden path, let me return to what I was saying. Mr Browne is a simple, honest and thoughtful man, I often go to him for advice and for his opinion on this and that. "Tell me Mr Browne" I often say "What do you think of steam engines?" He looks upwards to the side and takes a deep breath "Ah well, they're magnificent." We both nod for a while "Magnificent" he'll repeat after a few moments and we'll nod some more.
Mr Brown works with a shovel, if you have a job for a shovel then he's your man, yes sir. He works around the city and in the parks. "The problem with the country" he tells me "is the animal farms, and what do animal farms have?" I shrug "Mud?" He shakes his head "Poop, lots and lots of poop, mountains of it. I don't think so many animals should be locked up such small areas." I think he has an opinion for everything, I think I'll ask Maggie about that, she has a newspaper and flower stand in the plaza. Mr Brown and Maggie are good friends, I think they fancy each other but are too shy to show it. "I say Maggie, do you think Mr Browne has an opinion for everything?" She pursed her lips and frowned (she does that when she thinks, I find it quite amusing) "I dare say so," she says "I dare say so..." She blushes and brushes her hair behind her ear "Sorry what?" She says, "I didn't say anything" I reply.
One drizzly Autumn afternoon I was wandering down by the river, the ground was thick with fallen leaves and sure enough I found Mr Browne shovelling them away. I walked up to him "Afternoon" I said, "Good afternoon mate" he stood up and stretched his back. I nod toward the river "Looks like the river's nearly full?" Mr Browne pointed to the bridge "see the black marks around the pillars?" I shook my head "Can't say I do" Mr Browne bent over and started shovelling "That's 'cos they be under the water, all this here rain has swelled the river." "Will it flood?" I asked, "Nay, she'll be back to normal by next week." Mr Browne took the pipe from his mouth and tapped it on the shovel handle. "Do you believe these stories in the newspaper?" I asked, Mr Browne hung the pipe on the corner of his mouth "I take everything with a pinch of salt..." I nod "A pinch of salt." Mr Browne repeats. As I walk away I glance over my shoulder and smile. Yes sir, Mr Browne is a wise man, a wise man indeed.

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Regaining consciousness is like waking suddenly from an intense dream -but the other way round. I gasp and gulp down the cold, musty air. The skin in my head feels like it's gone tight. It's completely dark. I can feel my body now, I'm sitting on a chair I think. My arms and legs are tied. I can feel a blindfold against my eyes. My body is wet, I try and think. My mind races and I have no idea why I'm here or what's happening. I strain at the ties on my arms. I hear a door open and clunk shut. Footsteps come toward me. "Sir" My mouth is dry "Sir where am I?" My voice seems unnaturally loud. I failed again. A stifled scream escapes my starched throat as I'm flung backwards and plunged into cold water. The shock is unbelievable. My heart races and my mind feels shattered. The air escapes from my lungs and panic grabs me like a huge spider, wrapping it's legs around me. I need air, I need to breathe. My mouth  involuntarily opens to gulp in whatever it find to fill my lungs, I try fighting it but my natural responses overpower me and I choke down water. This causes another panic attack and my mind spins like a jet engine. The feeling of breathing for air and choking on water must be the most hopeless feeling in the world. My mind can't handle this confusion and I feel my body go cold as I start to pass out. Blackness races in and smothers me.

Strange Day...

Drinking coffee, I hate coffee. This slice of cake was $12. It doesn't rain, it pours. Nobody is smiling, I like that. I've not made eye contact for 72 hours. It's Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring all mixed into one. Listening to David Lynch on my mp3 player. Browsing shoes, I ended up buying a silver bracelet. I also have a bright red umbrella, I feel awkward holding it. I have a shoulder bag with Audrey Hepburns face on the side. With my special edition Alice in Wonderland book inside. I broke my fingernail. This day seems to be everlasting. I can't remember waking. I'm going to spend the rest of the day photographing graffiti throughout the city...

Paradigm Shift

I used to love the door because it was a symbol. Now I hate the door. It confuses me. I thought it used to protect me, but now I don't know any more. It hasn't changed, so maybe I have? I think not. Perhaps the world changed around us. Answers have become questions. The door hasn't changed but it has caused me to see everything else differently. I sit silently trying to think back to when the change happened but I cannot. There was then and now there is this. One simple thought. Which is the right side of the door?

Labyrinth of Dreams...

Once

You were king.

You were naive.

You were foolish. 

You lost. 

You had nothing. 

You were depressed. 

You were desperate. 

You believed in hope. 

You were let down.

You were deceived. 

You acted in anger. 

You were exiled. 

You were alone. 

You dreamt. 

You built a city. 

Then.

You were king again.

Jill Tracy - The Fine Art of Poisoning

Fear and Denial

My  footsteps were silent in the plush red carpet. The gas lamps that lit the hall cast strange shadows against the dark, exquisite wooden walls reaching up to the enormously high ceiling. Apart from a moth hurling itself against a lamp, there was not a sound to be heard. I looked back down the hall, it was very long and almost disappeared into the dark before it turned a corner. I heard a creak, it's strange how old buildings do that for no apparent reason.

A thought started to form in my mind, or rather perhaps, a creeping fear. But before the fear materialised, I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Peace my friend." came the rich and comforting voice of Julian. I turned and smiled with relief. Julian put his finger on his lips, "Change is good, but only when one is ready. Otherwise it will result in chaos." I nodded and Julian motioned with his hand, "What see you?" I peered down the hall and squinted "There must be a thousand lamps. I see red carpet and a hallway that disappears into the dark" Julian adjusted the black leather glove on his hand "It is well perceived, you note the light before the darkness. But there is more then meets the eye, my friend." The moth stopped flying at the lamp and fell to the ground motionless. I looked at Julian, "Will I become as such? I'm losing hope and I wear fear as a coat."  Julian's eyes twinkled, "Things will get better. Every ten minutes you'll come to a door. This probably doesn't make sense to you. Probably you'll go through life feeling like it's the inside of a huge concrete dome. But it's not. As I said there are doors everywhere. You can't understand until you can see, but if you can't see then you'll never understand. A paradox? I can't give you the answer because there is none. Everyone must make up their own mind about this."

I was alone in the grand hallway. The gas lamps shone against the beautiful deep red wood walls. I gazed at the designs and ornate cornices. The ceiling was almost hidden in in shadow, but I could see it was full of designs and symbology. I turned around and around, the red walls and red carpet glowed. The antique musk of the ancient building made my head spin, I saw faces laughing and screaming at me through the corners of my eyes. Then I saw it; a door. Only the slightest chink of light could be seen coming though the jamb. Suddenly I knew all along that there were doors. The memories came flooding back all at once, worlds within worlds, dreams within dreams. It left me feeling bewildered and my cheeks were hot. I felt out of breath and paused with my hand upon the doorknob, to let my heart slow, before turning it.

Forgetting Confusion

In the darkness and the cold, 

A voice like the wind bitter and old.

Cried out rebuke and brought to tears,

A naive young child of so few years.

"You lost the piece of the mirror you stupid boy." It all began to come back, the voices, the accusations and fighting. The child did that double sniff that happens when you're almost crying. Then I felt bad that he was crying. He had nothing in the world and now he'd lost the piece of the mirror... So anyway move along. Move along?

Uh, that's a little inappropriate don't you think?

Who are you? "Rose. I'm called Rose." said the girl. She had short, curly blond hair. The Moose took the pipe out of his mouth and snorted. "Rose" he said dryly "We're not in the fifties. Get a haircut..." A few bystanders nodded in agreement. Rose put her hands on her hips. "Which hair should I cut mister?" Everyone laughed and cheered and said things like "Good one." and "Women's rights." and "Why is she talking in red?" The Moose who was a musty old gentleman, tapped his pipe and said. "Now then young woman, shouldn't you be in the kitchen." "I hope someday you'll join us. And the world will live as one" A Rastafarian said whilst walking past. This proved to be too much for the Moose, "First there's women taking over the world, then these -hippies, I can't keep up."

"Chaos..." On the mountain far away a boy tumbles a stone of a cliff. Destruction follows. He is now a man.

Now we come to the scene with Jacqueline, she has red hair and she's rather mean.
"Take your umbrella, then you can use it as a shield against the thorns when we go black-berry picking." Of cause it didn't work. Brooke is such a master of bad ideas. The thorns just tore through the umbrellas. She should go jump in a brook. Haha good one.

Okay, whoa, stop. I thought that was Jacquelines idea. So why did Brooke get the blame? "Because she's weak." Said Jacqueline. Brooke started crying but no one noticed her tears becuase she had just jumped in a nearby brook. Life's not fair and that's all there is about it. Just like the boy who lost the mirror, he's forgotten and alone and nobody cares about him. You can only go so far, some things can't be forgiven.

The tunnels were laid by another generation thousands of years ago. No one knows why or for what purpose. The mirrors on the walls are always a puzzle because glass wasn't even invented when these tunnels were dug. Life had become like a black and white film. We ate porridge out of handmade clay bowls. We forgot the blue sky, yellow sun and green grass. Once something is forgotten it ceases to exist.

 The tunnels went on and on forever. We tried often to remember something we once knew and loved
    but it was gone from us. Had not our emotions gone, we would have panicked or become scared.
        Time became irrelevant. We only talked when we needed to. Sometimes we would stop and
               try to think, as though it was important but the moment escaped and left our minds dry.
                       One day the Moose came into the tunnel where we were resting. Every day we 
                              followed the tunnels until we forgot why we should do so. Our faces we 
                                    blank always for we forgot how to smile and frown. One day the
                                         Moose turned to us, he was smiling. "I remember" He said
                                               and pointed to a door in the wall, a root had slipped 
                                                    beneath it. "What is behind the door?" we just
                                                         had no interest or curiosity and had never
                                                               opened any door we came across.
                                                                    The Moose opened the door
                                                                        and we were back in the
                                                                            Library. It was over 
                                                                               and we forgot it.
                                                                                   Like a dream
                                                                                        it faded
                                                                                          away.
                                                                  

"Pass the tea please." Said Rose. I picked up the teapot and poured her a cup. "I had this strange dream about a tunnel" I said. "Sounds boring" said Jacqueline. The Moose looked over his newspaper at me with an odd expression. The Moth sat down and wiped some sweat from his brow with a shower of sparkles. "Oh my word" said Sally looking at the mirror above the fireplace. "It's as though I were trying to remember that I was trying to remember something but I can't." Jacqueline put down her book and stood up and put down her book and said "Poor child. Something odd just happened, but I can't put my finger on it." The Moose sniffed the air. "I can't smell anything, apart from tea and no biscuits." Jacqueline put down her book and stood up.

"What is my purpose in life?" queried Sally. Silence... "We're out of biscuits, I'll get some" She left the room. "Found it" Mumbled the Moose.

Smoke rises from the valley as the sun sets. The boy walks down the mountain with mixed feelings. More unsure of himself than before. Even the daisies don't cheer him up.