A solitary star
Distant and cold
Amid a universe of shadows
It shines alone
Small and white
It glows alight
Clean and bright
On its own tonight
Near the horizon
Resting between heaven and earth
The dream
Always the same dream
A sun covered in blood
Over a field of grey
Lifeless thousands
Innocents where Death took them
Now waiting for judgement
Waiting to judge
Blackness with a red star
Shining down on the aftermath
Death has a large appetite
Its jaws bite down on all
Gnawing on their inanimate bodies
The dying are crying out against it
But their life is but a candle in a breeze
Soon to extinguish
They were but innocents
Caught in the crossfire
But not I
Too long have I fought this war
Come Hades, come quickly old friend
My time is near
And I am tired
Take me
What's the purpose in this life of mine
To keep swimming in an ocean without end
The tide pulling me far from shore
They say I'm fine
That I'll survive
But I'm only human
My strength is leaving fast
How long can I stay afloat?
I sink into nothing
A world where I can't breathe
Fire within but water without
Suffocating
Floating
Flying
In poisoned air
Finally a dream come true
A never ending dream
Isn't life beautiful?
It is now...
If your life was a song,
what would it sing?
Would it's lyrics edify?
Will it speak of the many people who's
lives were touched by your existence?
Is it going to show that you stood for something?
Compose a motif that others will want to replicate.
Lost in this moment
The warmth of our bodies make us sweat
The stiffness from what we have just accomplished
You and I,
A miracle
Your breath invites me in
Into your heart
Into your mind
Into your very soul
As our bodies mesh into one
As our souls embrace each other
You sigh as I touch you
Ectasy as we unite
Swirlling vortex of pleasure
Both of us lose sight
As life is created within you
As death is passed on through me
A miracle is created
A mirror of that moment
When we came together as one
Ghost House
by Robert Frost
I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;
The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.
It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me—
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad—
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
-- By ROBERT FROST.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast
That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.
Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end!
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.
(By John Keats).
Clean:
Classical music
embellished
crispt
clean
minor is sad
major goes
either way.
It ends.
It starts
Can repeat.
It's specific.
It's stylized
specifically.
Classical music
is clean.
Dirty:
Jazz music
is emotion
slow
fast
dirty
covers all
leaves none.
It never ends.
It continues.
Improv is
never the same.
It's unique
purposefully.
Jazz is beautifully
dirty.