(granted, this is most probably a skewed perception, but it is the only one I have, and it inspired me thus)

he’s just a quiet boy

quietly toying with word plays and catch phrases. deftly manipulating the clay minds that fall into his open hands. he attempts to build a tower of refuge for his lost ghost princesses or whatever it is he possesses //inside// he raises an articulative scaffolding to hold up all the childhood dreams that children always play at. Except, construction has been put on hold because he no longer understands like a child; the building plans are now too complicated and wild

Yet, the intuition is plain to see as he spins his tales. Every word carefully carved into his soul with the tapping of the keys or pen, or whatever he uses to hit the nail on the head, and knock some sense into whatever is left of his mind as his heart //beats// carry on toward the tribal moon casting it’s light on the apparition of ruins where the unfinished buildings lie in wait for their architect to wake them

because it’s said that the quiet ones always have the most to say and pled that the quiet ones have the most to pay for trying to keep that inner calm. and it is plain to see that cryptic crying and trying of //his// secrets dig deeper with every monumental commemoration of his place in love and life’s ancestral history. That’s why everyone wants to know his story. the tall tell whispers behind his eyes and sometimes forced twitching smile

they want to know what makes a man like him work this hard. to create such memorable muses. to sweat over the lyrical fuses of imagination and consciousness. and most of all, to live… we might even surmise about what keeps his handhold //steady// experience in matters of life and death. and sometimes, just which pair of socks to get: striped or plain? memories of a first time for just about anything to do with living. and I just wonder

but he just keeps on constructing, gathering sentiments and other materials for a time when words are needed only as cement instead of hardcore foundations. instead of evidence for high tower condemnations, they’ll be the returns of his investments. and set hidden desires //trembling// inspired by the things that we all hold cherished as fundamental to existence, to hope, to love, to life: the concrete structures of human purpose… which we all search for, but often don’t realize that we’ve found

I can’t help but admire the genius adroit arches as they curve around every feeling and thought, to capture human essence, sheltered from a sense of the world, and interruptus realities. painted everyday colored emotions that give a lived in look which more than suits his //heart// felt wonder lies at the reasoning for all these high vaulted towers of refuge. casually hand selected, not for any deemed comfort, but for inherently valuable meaning. There are lessons for us all.

so let’s all just sit at his feet and listen. and maybe a few tears will glisten with the passion born of reflections. Then we’ll be able to see ourselves and feel more alive, especially with every intermittent //thumpthump// says his ever constant proof that silence is sometimes worth every missed word. that hushed tones are heard clearer, and soft touches are dearer than any finally woven speech or a roguish manner. proof that it’s the best way to be

...just a quiet boy

Pieces scattered to the darkness

Leave something of yourself in my book
(if you'd like)