Flash Poet

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Mental Stitch Work

Here is a word to my liking; and over there, I like how that one sounds. I collect and combine to make my own phrase. Every letter has been defined, every combination Imaginable already exists. So what do I really create? I create interpretation that’s what. Just like an interpretation of dreams. No one knows what exactly it means. Some of the best can only get a broad understanding. Whilst everyone else don’t have the slightest farthing as to what it meant. This is where I come in. I lead people inside their own minds with words that send them reeling. They are all under my spell of fantasy whether it was for a minute or a second that they wanted to read. Everyone imagines what they will but imagine it they must. The power of words is great indeed, so steeped in mystery. I don’t harness it, just point it in a certain direction, but only a siren can identify a like sound. I like to think that the words I write are from my alternate personalities, venting themselves into my work so as to make my outlook of innocent happiness all the more justifiable. I write my works in concrete form and then go back and add the structure later. I write best in the middle of the night when the world is sleeping, allowing alternate universes to be created in serenity and explosive imagery. These works are my favorites because they really twist your expectations into something that strikes a nerve with raw intensity and never lets go. You will be drawn into their core and get lost amongst all of the things that are there to see and to be. Time will slip past, letting you linger a bit more before finally leading you back. But be warned, they will haunt your dreaming and waking thoughts all the same, beckoning you back again and again. Are you prepared to enter my worlds of mystery, to let it capture you mind, heart and soul? Will you go willingly, or will they come for you of their own accord, to enrapture you and persuade you? I would say it’s up to you, but we both know you will be back one day, even if not today. We welcome you. I could lead those, that so wish it, in circles all the day long and they would be none the wiser. Have you ever stared at one of those mosaics and sworn it moved? Now you are imaging the mosaic and how certain parts of it seemed to be facing your direction no matter what stance you take around it. I gently stole you away and on the outer fringes of sublimity let you play. I am returning you now, fore I am about to take you again. No matter how you prepare, there are no guards you can take against it. You will remain lost until I say you can leave, and only when I release my hold can you actually walk away though you will never be rid of my influence wherever you may go. So let us begin. The ink on a page seems to fade away the farther you write without dipping the quill into the pot; whilst the words continue to grow in depth and their meanings carry all the more impact. Then as if suddenly remembering to breathe, the writer dips it into the inkwell. Alas, those few seconds in between the dying strokes of abated ink and the reinvigorating symbols of a fresh coating make all the difference. It is those precious moments in time that are stolen away, encroaching upon the writer’s’ intent, causing the rants-to-be to slowly die on the tips of their tongues. Even a little at a time, and far in between, these said beings never came into being. They passed before the blink of an eye, before a crack of the whip, faster than the speed of light. The unnoticed, but deeply felt absence of those fragments ultimately lead to the end of what was a writer’s tirade. Sending him to be hushed. The pen and parchment to be forbade. So in ancient practices must he turn, the power of words to accomplish each of his tasks. His fingers were too slow, but his tongue will have to make do. To delve deep down into the core of things, make people stop and second guess some things. Turn them around in circles and make them ponder for such a yonder great while. Even a practitioner’s manipulation is no match for the silver tongue of one such as they. It is one thing to speak, another to write; but seldom few can harness the flow to truly become one with their words. A type of mastery, it is not. One questions not where it came from or how long it will stay. Identification stands not with its observance or manifestations, but that of its essence. Fellow embodiments of these works of words acknowledge the extent of its origins in full, though they are alone in that aspect. Others absorb only partialities, unable to grasp every single different form it comes in. Some versions, if you will, sail right over the head; other versions are too simplistic or complex in nature for them to take at face value. Then there are the versions that are hidden in plain sight, those hidden by great means, and those just misplaced. If asked to explain or pose an interpretation, one of three things will happen. One, they will reply that the meaning of the work is entirely dependent upon the observer; that is to say you perceive it as you were meant to. Two, they can’t really say fore it changes from day to day; it means something different now than when they first started it and will most likely mean something entirely different the next time asked to explain it. Or three, they don’t even rightly know themselves; If they could explain it any other way what need they for the representation it emerged as? I myself experience each reason, it’s not entirely uncommon. There is that saying “a picture of a thousand words” or something like that, if you know what I mean. Let me leave you with this, if I speak any further I would surely be amiss. If we just so happen to meet in another time, in another place. I will once again your thoughtful reasonings misplace. Now I must bid you adieu, and a warm farewell. Because thanks to you, in your subconscious I now dwell.
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