benpierce01

I just realized that I haven't added a single word to this journal in... ages. To be fair, I haven't logged into this account for at least that long.

So, here you go: words. One after another. See you in another year!

The Image on the Sand

 

A line and an arc,

Upon the barren desert sand.

An image drawn of dream and dust,

A mural across a land.

 

A relic, a forgotten piece of art,

Of some empire of lore,

Awaiting its fate,

By the travellers ignored.

 

Waiting, watching eagerly,

The ever-changing art of dust,

For the day when it’s blown away,

By a swift desert gust.

 

Offered before me

Are two lies;

And I must choose one

If I am to survive.

 

One easier to swallow,

The other sweeter;

One would wound me

The other make me a dreamer.

 

The dream, though fair,

Would, in time, cause me pain.

But that I would gladly risk,

For the moment of peace I would gain.

 

The nightmare, on the other hand,

Would shatter my faith,

And I would once more,

Seek the life of a wraith.

 

But when the night ends

And a new day I start,

The nightmare would leave me whole,

But the dream would break my heart.

 

These are not choices

That any man ought make.

To see his future as an illusion,

Or his past as a great mistake.

 

In one path I close my eyes,

And walk blindly,

Until I fall off a cliff,

When I face reality.

 

But the other is to look in the mirror

As I tell myself a lie,

That I love not whom I love,

And my feelings I deny.

 

There are others lies, of course,

Other fantasies.

But in all I lose my soul,

And forgo my identity.

 

The truth, however

Is the hardest to bear;

For it binds me here,

In this pit of darkness and despair.

 

And so I must decide,

Pick my own hell.

Whether one made of nightmares,

Or dreams, only time can tell.

 

The choice, I suppose,

I’ve known all along.

I cannot walk a path,

I know to be wrong.

 

And so, I choose,

And thus I decide,

To remain as I am:

The man who does not die.

 

For this is the last right

Of a man of action:

The right to believe

His own lies,

And the right to choose,

His own hell.

 

A silent song,

A wistful word,

For an empire of stars.

 

A gentle slope,

A gleam of hope,

For an empire of stars.

 

A lonely knight,

Sets his sight,

Upon the road,

To the Empire of Stars.

 

In a suit of steel,

He rides with zeal,

To look once more,

Upon his love – the Empire of Stars.

 

On a night pitch black,

His steed he pulls back,

As he comes to the valley,

Of the river alive.

 

To his shock,

He finds no lock,

Not a guard, nor watch set atop a tower,

By the road, at this doubtful hour.

 

A shining blade,

He draws, unafraid,

As he ventures forth,

Into the City alone.

 

To his dismay,

He finds only decay,

In the ancient heart,

Of his Empire of Stars.

 

As he roams the streets,

He hears a beat,

Of a song sung long ago,

In the Empire of Stars.

 

He comes upon,

A spectre alone,

A wraith, a shade,

In darkness arrayed.

 

The ghost sings songs,

Of things long gone,

As the knight looks on,

At his empire lost.

 

With a great big sigh,

He climbs on high,

For one last glance,

Of this empire long gone.

 

In silent tears,

His steed he steers,

Towards the great door,

To forsake his home –

And to look upon her nevermore.

 

And as he rode away,

You could hear him say,

“Farewell, my love, my heart and home,

My Empire of Stars.”

No Ends

There shall be no end,

Not now, my friend,

For this field we must contend,

Till the night ends,

And a new dawn comes around the bend.

 

There shall be no end,

Not now, my friend,

The puzzle we will, some day, comprehend,

But until then, this fort we must defend.

 

There can be no end,

Not to our stories, nor to our songs, my friend.

Though shrouds of darkness upon us descend,

Our will shall never falter,

Nor to fate shall we relent.

 

There will be no end,

Not here, not now, my friend.

There are still wounds to attend,

Hearts to heal, souls to free,

And broken spirits to mend.

 

There ought be no end,

Not for the dreamers, nor for the dreams, my friend.

If we are indeed who we pretend,

Then we can, the burnt bridges, amend.

 

There will not be an end,

For as long as you stand by me, my friend.

And if, in my hour of need,

A hand you would lend,

Then no foe can – our friendship – break nor bend.

 

This is not the end,

Not for the likes of us, no, my friend.

Not on our knees, with our backs bent,

But on our feet, sword in hand,

And with our dreams, to the last breath, content.

For the first time in nearly a decade, I'm redrawing the basic layout of my room.

This is, however, painful. Not so much because I'm particularly attached to the original design, but because some of the pieces of furniture are attached - by years of dust and Coke - to the floor and to other pieces of furniture! The cabling alone required nearly four hours of attention - and I have to redo that again!

I am, hopefully, nearly done. All I have to do is wreck a perfectly good table, shift every piece of electronic equipment in my room left by a meter, install and set up the arm-chair/TV stand area, and... find the appropriate spot for the fridge.

While I'm at it, I might as well take a crack at solving the world's hunger problem. Seems relatively easy compared to what I have to do over the next few days.

I'm afraid that the growing pain in my back is only going to get worse.

I'm fairly certain I'm not going to die on my bike.

Mainly because I'm also certain I'll die hitting the ground after an impact makes me fly off my bike. If the impact doesn't kill me the oncoming traffic will.

Boy, I love biking!

"This is my journal. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My journal is certainly not my best friend. It is also not my life. I do not have to master it as I must master my life.

My journal, without me, is useless. Without my journal, however, I am not useless. I must write my journal true, except for those occasions when I feel like lying through my fingers. Also, every other Wednesday..."

Well, you get the picture.