ain’t it just like the night to play tricks when you’re trying to be so quiet?
When the night haunts you like a phantom,
like an an uninvited foe;
surely this time you’ll admit it,
you’re scared to be alone.
Because you know what still lingers
in the deep furrows of your mind.
You know what you buried,
and the phantom knows it too.
It’s never been so easy
to play it safe in your daylight facade.
Because the appeal of safety
is that it’s oh so safe…
“but from honest conversation”,
he never fails to remind you,
“there’s no escaping when you’re asleep.”
The nighttime seeker
plagues the quiet dreamers,
silently laying in wait.
The conscience mind stands guard
as you lie beneath the sun,
speaking in half truths and
gently hoarding the rest.
‘Till the sun goes down,
to her grave of darkness,
and the conscience minds daily shift ends.
He force feeds truth by the dream load
and inflicts upon you the wrath of emotion.
Ghost of the night let me hold your hands,
let me weep my sodden dreams into them.
In your company
I have to feel what I feel,
and fear what I fear,
I’m afraid the answer is honestly,
more afraid the question is really?
and it’s because of you I’m still afraid of the dark.
Midnight feeder you let me hold your hands,
as I weep hidden truths by the dream load.
Until my emotions run dry,
and you cast my dreams aside,
leaving me a child asleep in waves of peaceful slumber.
And when the sun is resurrected
my soul feels still and rested.
Dream giver,
It’s for healing you are
for healing…
But sometimes I feel I’d rather be a liar unto my own heart,
than to go through the hurt of admitting;
It’s me I’m afraid of
alot of the time,
and the suppressed half truth
only betrays my weakness of character,
I know
that even in daylight
I am not a good liar.
Even in daylight
I’m a dreamer.
Nighttime phantom of disillusion
even in daylight
you find me.
(title: lyrics by Bob Dylan)
Secrets are whispered amongst the trees,
but the trees keep their wisdom to themselves.
We are too young here on the dying earth.
We are too young.
The oldest trees have witnessed what our forefathers could not;
the aging of the earth and the generations that surpassed them.
The distance between the ancient trees
and the dead stones scattered at their feet,
mark the difference between something that is quiet
and something that belongs to silence.
Don’t be fooled; the latter remains only in the mercy of pain.
Don’t be fooled young one;
pain alone is not enough to create something worth creating.
The human soul is the keeper of a secret hope.
Something that was built into us from the beginning.
Undiscovered, it feels like great sacrifice.
Discovered, it feels like home.
For we were created in the image of love
and in love, through grace, we are kept…
So don’t be fooled by the stones in your heart young one,
pain alone is not enough.
And what is it you feel your soul owes to silence?
…
You put your left hand to my brow,
you put your right to my womb.
I feel ashamed to ask;
but are you really where life is found?
are you really?
The ancient trees stand and await the day we come to join them;
becoming once more, dust of the earth
and the substance of secrets whispered amongst their lofty branches.
They stand and await patiently for the day we come to understand;
outside the boundary of a truth we are only half aware of.
You put your left hand to my brow,
your right to my womb.
And as the sun rises from her silent grave,
light is birthed in my body.
You are bigger than my shame.
There is life coursing through the veins of all that grows.
All that has breath,
All that weeps,
that bleeds.
The ancient willow weeps for the nature of our condition.
She knows more of true heartache than the stones that belong
only to pain.
For we were created in the image of love
and in love, through grace we are kept…
So I pray, let me not be fool in the mercy of pain.
My soul owes nothing to silence.
To Whom The Earth Is Bountiful
At the dawn of chaos you created me. From the rib of another, from the dust of the earth, you molded me with strong, steady hands.
My fragile mind you made round so that my thoughts may change direction.
My soul you painted white so that the colours of all emotion would refract in the light.
We are not more than a glass house in which are grown the stories of our experience.
Upon first refraction, you held my weeping, infantile body. You allowed my tears to stream down your chest, knowing even before you knit me together that the gift of life is both a blessing and a curse.
You wept alongside me and rested your gentle hand on my back. You whispered to me, “I know… I know.”
With the paint on your hands, you created the sky.
You took the tears I cried out upon your chest and cast them up to the vast blue where forevermore she would, like us, be burdened with the weight of life and lament our secrets to the sea.
My hands you crafted in the likeness of your own, my hands you covered in paint. You held them tight and the world fell quiet around us as the colours of all emotion were created between our fingers.
What was birthed from my rib at the dawn of chaos were the stories of man to be poured out.
But now as the seventh day approaches, I have grown weary.
I defied the paint on your hands, I denied the paint on mine and what joyous gift that once made the world quiet around me has dried to ash on my fingers.
You weep alongside me and rest your gentle hand on my back; you know… you know.
But I can’t suppress a shudder.
The world has taught me to be wary of your love because I did nothing to deserve it and my mind can’t understand why. There’s no such thing as a good man.
The worlds bitter root has been planted in the glass house of me and as you refract through dirty glass walls, the emotions in my soul are brown.
I can no longer hear you over the noise in my mind; the dissonant clanging of fears and rationalizations that endlessly reverberate off the walls…
We are so small here on the earth and I have forgotten where you are.
Tell me…
who are we to you?
We are so small here on the earth and I have forgotten you are good.
Tell me…
what now is the paint on my hands worth?
are we really capable of love?
With the paint on your hands you created the earth and from the earth you formed me.
But as the seventh day approaches I pray; return me home. To young soil, return me.
I have grown old and sorrow isn’t enough anymore to keep the paint from drying on my fingers.
So Father, if you’re still listening;
please don’t give up on me.
We are so small here on the earth and I’m afraid every generation is a lost one.
Father… find me.
If you’re still listening;
saturate me with clean colours, get me out of me.
If you’re still listening;
please…
Nobody Sleeps At The Beach No More
I was lost on an island,
I was searching for home.
I knew my mother was cooking,
but I was too far away to smell.
I remember once she told me,
and at the time she was crying too;
that nobody sleeps at the beach no more,
and nobody stops to climb trees.
Nobody remembers the dreams of children,
were all too important in our shoes.
So when you grow up child,
don’t forget the big trees,
and the birds that flooded your youth.
Don’t worry ‘bout having clean shoes,
and don’t worry ‘bout tearing your dress.
Sleep at the beach with your children,
‘cause those other things won’t matter in the end.
I was lost on an island,
an old woman searching for home.
As the sun sank into the ocean,
I stood alone upon the white sandy shore.
I fell to my knees and I started to weep,
as I remembered all my mother had said,
because I never sleep at the beach no more,
and the birds have been trampled by my feet…
I have forgotten about the big trees,
and the colours of my dreams,
and you can’t find home on an island,
if you’re shoes are more important than what you seek.
