On calm, nights, where even praying mantis mouths are shy of words for God, on a frequency where they are missing too many prayers, watched over by purple moons that rain grey ash into souls broken in half, cool breezes born in cemeteries seek blue corners to die with all the leaves they have rattled, behind unyielding facades in the hearts of many far from any light that can give sight, life is lived.
Life is lived in mortuaries were youth lies wasted, dreams lie unclaimed with their owners haunted by the lingering stench, stench of regret not easily ferried by the wind made worse by the appearance of silver strands of hair, the way of pendulums of life saying you're way past thine prime.
The casualties of life, arms and legs amputated, heads held with band-aids and tape like broken Chinese ceramics, crutches to mimic lost limbs, dragging dead weight of dreams aborted by the realities of life, stagger on and dive into the fray.
Life is lived at the noon of night, where aureate egos are shed like snake skins, where silence is a god that gives life to the Lazarus of your truth & you stand judgement before self, where souls stand like Lazarus resurrected from the death of day: naked in your face like in front of mirrors and demand to be seen like reflections in still water that stare back without blinking: where your flaws stare with loquacious eyes and refuse to be looked upon as filth but demand to be gazed upon like sunrise embellishing your soul in drapes of light.
Life is lived here.
Life is lived here, where that audience that you perform for that doesn't watch dissipates with day like mirages with distance, gone, and you have to perform for an astute director: self, where all the facades have fallen away and you are the star to see with your demons seated in the corner smug: where every action ceases to be a performance but an act of being, a stroke on the canvas that is your life.
Life is lived here, questions escape your being through crevices like atter in cracked vials and soil faith: where were you when it all came undone and I was sitting by the sidewalk alone & as if that were not enough the wind blew all the pieces to the four ends of the earth and I was left there poor? I thought you buried these dreams in the earth of my soul, so why do they keep falling apart one after the other?
It is on calm nights where the darkness reigns as if the sun is yet to be born were souls either fall into the abyss or crawl from the edge to keep on pushing, were courage and determination are birthed through excruciating birth pains deep inside of men where God resides, will power forged like iron tools by blacksmiths in the hearts of men.
Here life is lived,
if you can make it till dawn,
on a calm night.