There was a boy. Not so mighty a boy, brave heart, timid body. The essence of purpose sprinkled in flakes like dry snow melting on temperate earth. Undefiable was the nature of the earth until the change of season. It was upon this point that the sun diffused through the icy crystals to illuminate meaning—a light that had not shown through a timid body but longed for this eager soul. Once enveloped, the boy knew not what he had suddenly taken a part. The quest had begun.
He now rules over the game from humility, seeking more, contentlessly enraptured by progress and the illustrious glamor of light. He was gifted a seed to grow within him until its definition was no longer beneath his name. A mighty undertaking in which the child consumes the parent and becomes something only new. Demons strike the most legendary of heroes for the fact that humanity is cursed. This boy is rooted in humanity, the world of endless delight yet at a cost. This cost might be more than his existence can afford. Indebted, his brave heart never sleeps. It senselessly ventures through the body. Only shame will it be privilege to here. Maybe, only if the wind blows north, his mind will surrender to the heart’s intention and obey peacefully. Maybe then, only when the wind blows south, can the heart skip a beat.
This is a boy. Perhaps someone you know. Someone who lurks in your mind’s eye like a lost spirit. If you reach out far enough your fingers can catch a glimpse, but he shall remain faceless. Since he is pure imagination, to give him an image would be to give him form. To give him form would be to lock him down and define him for eternity. He is limitless in thought alone. He has a body which bleeds through two eyes as do you. With too, his eyes will berate his body down to the cell–a relentlessness toward what uniquely he sees. When the red tears drop, they never dry. The pool that light shines grows deeper. He sees so many broken, sad, hopeless, human. If he has a reflection, what do you see? He will not let you. Looking through the peephole of time subjugates us to no image. He is on the other side melting into light.
Give him a sword and he will manifest the digits to wield and the skill to maneuver. Give him purpose and he will reshape the ecosystem of his life to produce the results and affirm destiny. Chains now guide the brain. The heart has won. The warm rays of spring shine. The marionette opens his two eyes to see that the destruction of the world is only a twitch away. Rays shine through every doll occasionally as the marionette sleeps. Send nails through every finger and tie him up in twine. Everything burns when the light reaches both.
Let’s begin the play! The boy has seen the rain and knows how wet pain remains. Tears are wiped away to dry. If we can sacrifice the unbroken mind it too will see red. No more will the boy’s body soak lifelessly. How uplifting are the shackles of the heart to produce a determination. He would be nothing without the heart he holds in his hand. Shy, it stays concealed. It looks shiny and wet when it rains. Truth versus reality: two eyes make one image. Put the heart to rest, the boy’s body becomes black. Noir excellence in its purest most decrepit. With day comes night, to live in a twilight means to never see the stars. The dark remains so cold when alone.
Improvements are made. The third eye looms around to find you in darkness. Slay the assumption pressed by those that are hungry. In darkness the bait of light makes everyone singular. Ignite and transcend like the ashes off the phoenix’s back to be softly carried by the wind. Where ashes rest will be the tomb that we share as the boy matures into a young man. Unburn the body daily with the flicker of morning light. This is the light we hold in a crystal jar. Turn around and it will be gone, so put it away, and no one will see. Let both sides of the scale amass light and dark until the boy breaks or the young man finds his tomb. Thank the producer for making this show possible and cringe for the cries of the third eyes. The third eye lives in fiction but longs to gain the wisdom only his eyes can see–his view. Wisdom is aroused by loss. The others are not impelled to turn to ash. They do not have enough to lose, but wind will blow. Gently guided, pray it be to the north. Salvation finds us all, for the south is our only hope.
We return to the boy. He is my sole obsession and thought. He clouds me with light. He has given darkness to my sight. The infectious heart has dominance over the timid body. Fragility only takes the form that we give it. Will what we have been given sprout an eternal garden. The boy has tried fruit from every tree. The Garden of Eden was so wonderful. Maybe next time if the wind finds its courage all eyes can see the same image, the young man can take form, and the fixed flow of light will keep him dry; however, he knows when the pressure drops rain falls. Ultimately we can only dream of his two eyes. I will keep watching him from this special place, extraneous to the desires of the heart. This is __ ____.