We are not in the Sun anymore. We excuse ourselves to be in-between realities, so we can escape what we are facing.
Feathers and wine, and of course confusion that slowly makes her own way into my thoughts.
As wine runs through white feathers of gone beards, you run through me. And as pages of ancient words of hidden languages, a book opens itself. Some things will never change. Uncertainty’s not forever. One day you shall see me as I see you since we walk on the same paths.
And one day you shall see, that I and you were never separated, it’s just an illusion, made by the lens of perception, as Michael Jackson says in one of his poems.
Time dies. Some periods don’t always pass the bridge of existence… so they turn into dust. Moving into the sequels of time as some of them fall and some of them transform opens the path forward. Lost can have a meaning and an address.
We ain’t always lost in the mists of denial.
We ain’t always in the cold. Because there is a time for the cold to die. There is a time for forgetfulness to die. There is a time when the rightful God sits on his throne, holds the mirror, and recognizes himself.
Time holds still. The seers saw this coming ages ago.
Time holds her breath.
Love not as an untouchable romantic feeling but as the Truth manifested in our days and nights branches through the soul.
“Love is Truth” – the Moon whispers, “Truth shall take you home, but first, you need to heal”.
-“In reality, not in illusions formed by a thousand pieces of broken mirrors”- I think.
When all poetry is gone, the void is left behind, without ashes. Insensitivity. Loss of music. The loss of words. Denial of the senses. Denial of the being.
Out of the denial we try to sit, aching for truth. He who once was a warrior now stands in front of the cold face and glassed eye maiden, in the very absence of his voice. The Moon sits above the sky.
As the Latin word Pessum.
Love isn’t always sweet words, cherries, and wine. In times like ours is at war with the cold inside us. And the cold denies what we feel. It denies me. And it denies you.
– It’s only walking with your eyes covered among unknown words. We both have walked on corpses, sometimes they talked and owned faces. Other times they didn’t. Touching each other gave us numbness. But now it gives us a walk through our senses.
Numbness and void and madness once were three sisters which came to dance with me in the midst of the Great Forest. I met them, I danced and left them where they were.
This is by guest author Ina Gjata
Ina Gjata is a Moon lover, journalist, art critic, painter, life lover. Passionate about the wild feminine and wild creatures. She doesn’t do well with system rules, regulations, and lies. A born rebel being, she believes real truth is inside us all and that writing is a piece of the great truth, meant to be told, and manifested.