The Anvil of Atlas

The crucible upon our crucifix, a parable in which we alone digress.

In the shadows and certainly within the light, these two atmospheres release different aspects in which we revel in delight.

In turn we also choose to postpone our fate or ultimately follow it through.

As we alone know what is due, for this life of ours seemingly must be nothing new, unless of course we decide to be crude rather than pure.

Pure, that is a rarity without a doubt, for we live in a mundane world and it can feel as though our senses have stumbled upon a drought.

So we must choose to invigorate our life as of late.

For within the wilderness of eternity, this infinite chance is repeated nefariously, even if it is what we know shall sate that which demonstrates our innermost core.

As what was before?

Nothing but a menial bore.

A simple chore to settle the score.

One that typically leaves us confused and torn.

Scorn, something that we learn, although without a doubt it is a trait in which some of the creators children are naturally born.

We ridicule that which we do not understand, for the grand mystery incarnate pushes aside those whom are unwilling to take a stand.

Here it is, the ancient tome within my hand.

A piece of literature that was selected and subjected to understanding amidst the terrors of a paradise long forgotten, scattered and lost throughout our reality.

Only divulged to the remnants of humanity that no longer adhere to the dream state that chaotically scrambles the collective sanity.

For that is profanity!

Believing in the phantom that was buried in the sand.

For we are the angel and the demon upon each shoulder, pondering upon each calculation that soothingly or beseechingly dictates our path.

For the elements of the four always implore upon the selective spirit.

You are destruction, I am creation, the same goes both ways, why is it then, that we believe throughout the fabricated concept of time, that some of us are saved while others are damned?

For that is a mere perspective that is selected to teach us that our separate illusion only furthermore proves that our individual growth has been neglected.

As always, that seemingly is the case.

For why else would some choose to berate, rape and betray, while others choose to save, heal and morally behave?

That is our vicious cycle, denial or acceptance, your choice determines if you should move forward within this cycle.

As I have never been an aspect that seeks nirvana, release in the form of forgiveness or further pursuing the same trauma.

I am but the wind.

Manifest in the moment, my mask is either a sneer or grin.

For my soul is gold yet my body is tin.

I am infinite finite, so why should I pursue understanding of the totality when every single situation divides upon the dual concepts of grace or sin?

For it is no lie that we delve rather low into the depths only to rise ever so high.

Or we simply lay within the middle spectrum, and allow life itself to painfully pass us by.

That is why at the very least, we owe it to ourselves, to try and defy the lies that we plant inside, as truth is a matter of perspective that can be plastered over, deified or if we are present, ever so simplified.

Words spoken vessel to vessel, there is no hassle, why should there be a battle?

As we are no cattle, although we allow ourselves to be lead and herded, by shadows that dance in the flames clearly that always shy away from the light, utilizing the magic of distractions and propaganda so that our attention is constantly averted.

Diverted, our energy is when we no longer allow our hearts to truly bellow.

For laughter is medicine and distance from love is nothing but cancer waiting to manifest, creeping like the tick and tock upon my great grandfather’s clock that to this day pounds within my chest.

Certainly, rest would be for the best but never would I alter, nor would I falter, nor would I trade an ounce of my essence for any other.

As I am but man with a million faces, some that are beautiful, proud and daunting, others that are haunting, bloodthirsty and in the thrill of the hunt, certainly unrelenting.

Alas for the moment allow us to simply give thanks for what was and what is, as that is the gift, is it not, to have been a human that until their final breath knew that without a doubt, they had lived.

It is a choice that is chastised or pushed forward by the chorus of our inner voice, to burn like the stars or to gleam like a rough pebble, in the end they are without a doubt the same, the only difference is that one recognized its potential.

Enjoy your light or twilight. Please support my work by following the blog and in turn sharing it among your friends and family, it is truly appreciated.

Sending you Light through Love,

Brandon

My original music is below, please check it out if you have a moment,

https://open.spotify.com/artist/583XCmeMnslZqznxiu0fro?si=L6ZrvnRJSvmwtlx4vW5eBg

Categories creative writing, poetry, storyTags , , ,

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